Page 14

Eight

M y doorbell rings. And rings. And rings some more.

I give up and open the door. The marauders have crossed the moat and are storming into the castle.

Spoiler alert: my midnight guest is Ozzy.

He shakes his head, looking disappointed. Take a number, I want to tell him. You are not the first person I’ve disappointed. “You should check before you open your door.”

“Right. Because it could be the Big Bad Wolf. Or a political campaigner. Are you here because you’re concerned about my soul?”

The corner of his mouth kicks up. Sweet mamaloosa, is he ever hot.

He leans against my door frame, which may lean right back.

It’s the smartest door frame ever. His broad shoulders stretch the limits of a T-shirt with a cartoon fish on the front, and he hasn’t shaved in days.

Golden scruff roughens his rugged jaw. I am unaffected.

Liar.

He holds out a handful of yellow and green plant life that I take automatically; identification eludes me.

Weeds? Flowers? They’re all the same to me, although these look suspiciously like something I’ve seen growing on the curb out front.

On the other hand, I’ve been working non-stop since Bob greenlit my TripFriendz rewrite two days ago. It’s possible I’m hallucinating.

“I come in peace. Permission to come aboard?” He’s all warm eyes and wicked smile. He’s buttering me up. Coming in for the kill. I try to resist but I’m weak.

“Why would I ever let you in?”

He contemplates his weed offering. “To set a good example? As an overture of goodwill?”

Oh, sure. He can’t expect me to lay down my arms just because he asks, can he?

I tap a finger against my lower lip ostentatiously. “Your diplomatic skills are lacking, Wylder.”

“Let’s declare a truce,” he proposes, dropping to one knee dramatically. He produces a Ring Pop from somewhere and holds it out. “Will you be mine?”

I toss the weeds in his face. “No, thank you. Can you go home now?”

“Maybe.”

“Have a good—” I don’t get any further because Ozzy’s moved faster than anyone should be able to and is now kneel-lying in my doorway.

“I’m suing for peace, woman.”

I don’t believe him for a moment, but I’m a busy woman and I can make this work to my advantage. If I let him in, I’ll lull him into a false sense of security, and he’ll never see my next move coming. I examine this new plan for holes but decide it’s logical enough for dark o’clock.

“If you come in, will you shut up?”

He mimes zipping his lips. Whatever. I turn and walk away from the door. Settle back into my pillow fortress on the couch.

He’s not really here to hook up with me. My past experience with dating confirms that this is a solid data point. He’s bored and I’m fun to torment.

He throws himself into the mound of pillows enthusiastically.

I peek at him from the corner of my eye. He looks as if the silence is killing him, and it’s only been three seconds. This is more fun than I expected.

He spreads his arms, petting my pillows. He’s a pasha reclining on a divan. His bare feet draw my attention down his muscled, blue-jeans-wrapped legs. The dark waistband of his boxer briefs tease me when he briefly jackknifes up to grab a throw and tuck it around us.

I grab my laptop. “Make yourself at home.”

Not really, but dear Lord, the silence mocks me.

His gaze dips down, returning my wardrobe inventory. I’m wearing a fifteen-year-old Mathlete T-shirt with a suspicious stain on the hem, no bra, and a pair of fuzzy socks that have more pills than a pharmacy. Both my hair and my pits are unwashed and unloved. He is the beauty queen here.

I am working. Manifesting that it be so. Frowning at my screen. I tap a line of garbage characters, delete it, and start over.

Ozzy jackknifes upward. He reads over my shoulder. I should make him sign an NDA, because my promotion is riding on this project, and I am a deeply suspicious person. Except he’s warm. It’s kind of nice.

Plus, we’ve already spent more mostly clothed time together than my last hookup. He raises his hand for me to call on him.

“What?”

He rests his chin on my shoulder. “Permission to speak?”

“Dude. You just did. I could sue you for breach of contract.”

He waits. Breathes too loudly. His breath on my ear is fantastic. I still count to ten before I answer him because I’m mean.

“Granted.”

“Oh thank God. What are you doing?”

The words pour out of him. He does not remove himself from my person. He is draped against me like my favorite throw blanket.

“Data collection.”

“Are you using statistical modeling for your data analysis?”

I twist away from him so I can see his face.

“OMG. Are you smart, too?” He grins. Question answered. “That’s so unfair.” I mean this with all my heart. “How can you look like that and be athletic and smart? Are you personal friends with God? Have you unethically enslaved a wish-granting genie?”

His grin widens. “I’m hearing that you think I’m hot, smart, and talented. Please continue.”

I make a scoffing sound. “And an asshole.”

Hazel eyes twinkle at me. He’s so stinking beautiful. He’s also so right here next to me on my couch. There are mere inches between us, no pillows, and our legs are in imminent danger of brushing.

Fortunately for my chastity, my ticket queue fires off lasers. INCOMING , Darth Vader intones, signaling the imminent demise of my night.

“You like outer space?”

I am so not telling him that I like to mine for space crystals. I settle for nodding and aggressively typing on my keyboard. There. I’ve communicated.

“That’s cool. I wanted to be an astronaut as a kid.” He presses his hand over his heart. “Scout’s honor. Not that I was a Scout, but I respect their principles. I had a NASA-themed birthday party twice, mostly so I could eat freeze-dried ice cream.”

“So you’re food motivated.”

He nods enthusiastically. He’s adorable. “But I was also a big fan of zero gravity.”

“Oh.” My typing slows. Coding with an audience is difficult. “So how did you end up surfing?”

“Physics, with a practical application. Spaceships are too theoretical, plus I’m not a fan of sitting still.” Big, warm fingers play with my hair, tucking wispy escapees back into my messy bun. “And a surfboard’s way cheaper and easier to build than a spaceship.”

“Got it.” I really need to get on that AI conversation app. I desperately need a robot to hold up my end of the conversation for me. “Not to mention there’s more money, more dating opportunities, and fewer chances of imploding in a fiery ball when you reenter the atmosphere.”

Ozzy throws himself backward on the sofa. Pillows scatter. His head is now by my hip. “You’re a ray of sunshine.”

I think that might be his job. His skin is definitely sun-kissed.

He glows like a golden god. Alternatively, it’s possible he’s spent too much time outside and all that sun exposure has fried his brain.

He has the tiniest sun lines by his eyes, but that imperfection makes his beautiful face seem lived in, alive.

I catalog a freckle on his cheekbone. He’s tousled.

It’s attractive, in an I-just-had-sex way.

I have sex on the brain.

“I call it like I see it.” I start my unit tests. These are a thousand tiny blocks of code that each verify that a smaller, isolated block functions. The goal is to be perfect, but my test suite fails five tests in. Damn it.

I need air. Space. A miracle. To curse my coworkers. That last part comes out of my mouth and Ozzy laughs.

“You don’t like people much, do you?”

Hatred doesn’t compute in Ozzytopia.

“I like people. I’m just highly selective.”

His eyes laugh harder. “Do I make your short list?”

“Nope. Not a chance.”

He decides to interpret this as sarcasm. “What are you coding?”

My brain requires a reboot. We are different species. He is a lion and I am an aardvark.

“I’m working on a VIP project for work.” I don’t tell him about the promotion. I don’t want to jinx it. “Travel software for booking adventure vacations and the like.”

He taps a spot on my screen.

“You’ll get a NullPointerException there.”

He’s right, but I may growl. “Do you want my job?”

“Are you taking applications for friendship? Do you have openings?” He’s bright-eyed, charming, made for lounging on sofas and beds. The laughter in his eyes grows; he’s having far too much fun. I return my attention to my screen, face burning.

He frowns. “My butt is buzzing.”

He reaches beneath him and pulls out my phone. It’s imitating a personal pleasure device and vibrating hard.

His brow crinkles as he holds it out to me. “Rosie needs to talk with you, Panda. Also, you have a new match on your dating app.”

It could be residual embarrassment—and the Sahara Desert that is my dating life—but I don’t yell at him for reading the notifications on my phone. I just take the phone from him, silence it, and shove it under a different pillow. There, problem solved.

Ozzy looks at me expectantly. “Are you on the market?”

“The dating app is for research purposes. The app assesses two people for compatibility, and that’s something my travel algorithm also needs to do.”

“Uh-huh.” The corner of his mouth curls up. His eyes warm. He is 10,000 percent unconvinced.

I glare at him. “So?”

“No judgment.” He stretches out an arm. His fingers brush my shoulders. “Everyone does it. But—”

“But, what?”

I really need to work on my conversational skills.

“I’m right here.”

He is, indeed. “And?”

“So research me.”

What? “Is that a euphemism?”

I look at him, debating. He can’t possibly be hitting on me. Can he? For reasons unknown, I don’t shove him off the couch. I look, he looks back, and here we are in the land of Awkward.

“Sure,” he says. I’m no less confused.

“Are you trying to hook up with me?” I finally blurt out.

I value clarity.

“Yes.” He grins at me.

“Is this some kind of joke? Why?”

The dimple in his cheek flashes. “I love helping.”

I bet he does. I bet he doesn’t realize how tired I am of being the joke, the punch line.

I snap. I do something that’s not on my to-do list. It will not write a single line of code, close a bug, or advance my career. I’m not even sure it will make me feel good (I am such a liar).

I lean down into him and fit my body against his.

It’s not enough, so I slap a hand down on either side of his head. I am pulling him in like a fisherman landing a prize-winning fish. He wants to help? Have at it, big guy.

“Yes?” I ask.

He bats aside an errant pillow, his naughty grin deepening. “You bet.”

Permission granted, I cover his mouth with mine.

His mouth is firm and soft. I can feel his lips curving up in a smile, and I try to kiss it off his beautiful, irritating face.

One second I’m plotting his demise, and the next I have my tongue in his mouth, learning his taste, probing for a weak point.

I want inside him. I want inside him now .

He must like this not-plan of mine because he opens up with a groan, his tongue tangling with mine, warm and wet and soft. The rest of him is hard, and I approve.

He cups the back of my head with one large, calloused hand, tugging me closer.

We do some rearranging. We lust after each other’s mouths.

We’re two puzzle pieces that unexpectedly almost fit.

He’s all strength and male power, and I shift…

like that… and feel the incontrovertible proof that Ozzy Wylder enjoys kissing me.

He’s sporting a massive hard-on that I would dismiss as absolutely improbable except that of course he’s got a jumbo-sized, XXXXXL dick.

And he kisses…he kisses like I remember, except somehow even better because it’s happening now, and I’ve thought about it happening since the first time on the beach.

He knows who I am, and his hands are holding me close.

We’re weightless, floating in this space that holds just the two of us.

He maps my mouth with his, and we just work together.

Mint and cinnamon are the taste of poor choices.

Oh God. Why am I kissing Ozzy? And why is he so good at it?

Having spent most of my adult life surrounded by engineering nerds, the answer is obvious.

Engineers are unshowered, unkempt, and perpetually distracted.

We think in process diagrams and whiteboards.

Our diet is disproportionately full of Mountain Dew and Sugar Babies.

That makes it hard not to jump on a man who smells like sunshine and the outdoors.

He’s the closest I’ve been to nature in weeks.

One moment we’re kissing, the next lasers fire on my laptop. “The bugs are with you,” Darth Vader intones.

I startle, and Ozzy breaks our kiss. We’ve been kissing for forever and only a second. I want to be one of those people who documents every moment of her life with her phone because this Ozzy, this lazy, sprawled-beneath-me, tousled, sexy-eyed Ozzy needs to be remembered.

He shifts his hips beneath me. “Do you want to go to my place?”

Is that a trick question?

My brain reboots. I frown. “I’m not having sex with you.”

We both look at the spot where my vagina is glued to his monster dick. So literally we’re not having actual, penetrative sex. At this precise moment. But the option is clearly on the table (or my sofa).

“Okay,” he says.

Just like that.

“Great.” Holy shitballs, this is awkward.

He grins up at me. “But you thought about it.”

I remove myself from his dick. My stores of dignity are exhausted and need recharging. I don’t miss the feel of his skin beneath me at all.

Ozzy jumps to his feet with far more grace. He doesn’t have to use his hands. He’s all muscles. Pectorals, triceps, biceps. I didn’t even get to put my hands on his lats. Oblivious to my disappointment, he shoves a hand into his jeans and shamelessly rearranges himself.

“Don’t touch my doorknob on your way out.”

“You know where I live when you change your mind.”

He said when .

I grab my laptop. I’m so screwed , and not in the deliciously, post-orgasmic way. There’d better be a new apartment in my future.

Unbothered by my silent rejection, Ozzy wanders off. He grabs my pink Sharpie and scrawls something on the whiteboard hanging on my fridge. I think it might be a panda bear. Or a cockroach.

“That’s permanent marker.”

“You’ve got my number! Call me, maybe,” he carols.

And then he’s gone.

It’s the worst prank of all.