Page 99 of The Friends and Rivals Collection

PERRI

I’m obviously an asshole.

But still.

Am I truly supposed to rent the room above my garage to this . . . specimen?

Yes, that’s exactly the word I was searching for.

Derek is an exemplary specimen of a man. All inked, muscled, tall, dark, and handsome, crooked-grinned man. With a square jaw to boot, deliciously covered in a neat, trim beard I want to feel against my inner thighs.

Fuck.

I am a dirty girl.

A bad, naughty vixen who objectifies too-hot-for-words men.

But seriously. The man radiates sex appeal. I bet cats everywhere rub their faces against his legs to mark him. The man was built for sex. He’s the stuff of panty-melting ovary explosions.

Which means this is a predicament, since I have a bit of cat in me and I’d like to rub up against him.

Derek glances at the sidewalk, and for the first time since our encounter on the side of the road, his cocky veneer is stripped off. “Why don’t I hit the road? I’ll go back to my sister’s house. This was obviously some sort of misunderstanding.”

“Obviously,” I say, but a sliver of guilt festers under my skin. “Because it’s weird. Right? It would be weird if you were my housemate.”

He nods quickly, reaching to pick up his bag. “Totally weird.”

Then I recall Shaw’s words. My brother actually said Derek and I could practice kissing.

That means Derek doesn’t simply know I mentioned him to Shaw—he knows I told Shaw about our kiss.

Red spots of embarrassment flame across my cheeks.

“Wait, Derek.” I grab his arm before he picks up the bag.

“I didn’t tell him to find you and rent it to you.

I didn’t know you guys knew each other. Please don’t think I was trying to trap you or anything. ”

He chuckles lightly. “You mean you aren’t trying to trap me?”

“I’m so not trying to trap you. I’m trying to kick you out,” I say, laughing, then I let go of his arm.

“I don’t feel trapped, for what it’s worth.” He doesn’t reach for the bag.

“I said something about entering a kissing contest with a guy who had sunburst tattoos,” I say, my eyes straying to his arms. Dear God, his arms. I want to feel them pinning me down, to stare at them as he moves above me.

I shake my head, trying to snap out of it.

“You like my ink?” he asks.

“I do.”

“I have more where that came from,” he says in that low, deep voice that’s an injection of pure liquid pleasure.

So is the vision he’s painted—the idea that art covers his body in places I can’t see right now. I try to wave off the wild images of his hips, his lower back, his abdomen. “Anyway, sorry about the misunderstanding. There wasn’t a trap or plan. Shaw was just being Shaw.”

“It’s all good. I’ll head back to Jodie’s. There’s a couch there calling my name.” This time, he grabs his duffel and slings it over his shoulder. It looks like it weighs three hundred pounds.

I peer around for his bike, but don’t see it. “You’re going to walk back with all your stuff?”

“It’s no big deal. It’s good training for work.”

I point to the bag. “Is that all you have?”

“Yeah, but listen, it’s all good.”

But it’s not all good. It’s all . . . weird. It’s all awkward. And it’s all so uncomfortable—for him.

The man is living on his sister’s couch, out of a duffel.

I’m not heartless enough to kick him completely to the curb. “Why don’t you come in, and we can talk. I’ll try to help you figure something out. Do you like wine?”

His lips curve up. “Am I in trouble if I say no?”

I give him my best staring-down-perps stare. “It’s illegal to dislike wine in wine country. You might, in fact, be banished from the town limits. By me.”

He smiles. “Just messing with you, officer. Of course I like wine.”

“Good answer, Mr. Trouble.”

Winking, he enters and drops his bag on the floor in the entryway.

I head to the kitchen, gesturing for him to follow.

As I glance quickly at my mostly neat living room, I’m reminded I wasn’t expecting a man tonight.

If I had known he was coming, I’d have done the Swiffer-duster dance, cleaning every surface, spraying the bathroom mirrors, putting away every container of deodorant or bottle of Midol to make sure he never knew I might possibly sweat or have PMS.

I’d have sidled up to the door, a touch of gloss on and something casual but sexy framing my figure.

Instead, I’m in jammies and wearing no face paint. There’s no cosmetic artifice, but what do I have to hide anyway?

In the kitchen, he scans my collection of fridge magnets, which covers almost every square inch of the appliance. They’re nearly all vintage-style pictures of women saying sarcastic things, courtesy of my retro-loving friend, Vanessa.

Yoga class? I thought you said pour another glass.

And I thought I wanted a career. Turns out I just wanted paychecks.

You piqued my indifference.

He smirks, tapping the last one. “Very you.”

“Is it?”

“Full of sass and spark.”

I smile. “You’ve got me there.” I grab a bottle of chardonnay and a wine opener.

“Let me.” He reaches for the bottle before I can say I am woman, I can do it all .

Watching him open the bottle also feeds my inner vixen. Is it my imagination or do those tattoos ripple when his muscles move?

I grab wineglasses and give them to him.

He pours and hands me a glass, raising his own. “Should we drink to good witches? Or bad witches?”

I look down at the ridiculous pattern on the pants. “We’ll drink to Monday night laundry.”

“And to simple misunderstandings?”

My heart pangs with guilt again as I take a sip. “I’m sorry. I can’t believe he really thought that made sense to rent it to you.”

“Don’t think twice about it.”

“You agree, right?”

“Of course.”

“So we’re on the same page,” I say, pressing.

“Let me make one thing clear.” He meets my gaze, his dark-brown eyes holding mine intently.

“I had every intention of meeting you on Thursday night, kissing you senseless until your knees wobbled and your panties were so damn wet you had to come home to change. I’d have gotten you so goddamn riled up, you’d be squirming on your bed that night, aching and wet again, and call me, begging me to talk dirty to you till you came hard with your fingers. ”

Oh. My. God.

I’m officially a melted puddle of lust. Grab a mop, swab me up. I’m liquid, molten desire seeping across my kitchen floor.

I part my lips to speak, but a moan traitorously escapes instead.

A fucking moan.

I clamp my lips shut.

He arches a brow, his eyes saying he likes that sound. “And I still want that. Do you?”

I test my jaw to see if it works. Oh hey, it does. “Sure. That’s why living together would be a bad idea.”

“Absolutely. Besides, I’m sure I can get the money back from him.”

My shoulders fall. “You already paid for the room?”

“First month’s rent. It’s not a big deal, and we’ll clear it up. I’ll get the money back.”

The knife of guilt slices deeper. “Of course he’ll give you the money back. Did you sign an agreement too?”

“Yes, but we’re all adults here. If you want out, that’s cool.”

I take a drink of wine, noodling on his dilemma. If I’m kicking him out of a deal, I need to find a place for him. I need to understand, too, what he’s looking for and why. “Why don’t you have a place to stay?”

“I’ve been staying at my sister’s house, as I said. Her husband was called overseas shortly after the baby was born, and the timing worked out with me looking for a new job. I took one here so I could be near Jodie while he’s in Afghanistan.”

My heart lurches with sympathy. That’s precisely what he told me when I pulled him over, minus the Afghanistan part. I can’t imagine how hard that must be for his sister—and for his brother-in-law, to have to leave his family.

“How is she managing without him?”

“She’s a tough cookie. It’s not his first time having to go, so she’s accustomed to it. But it’s not easy, especially since she’s a working mom.”

“What does she do?”

“She’s a baker. She sells the best walnut blue cheese bread at the farmers market.”

Pride suffuses his voice as he talks about his sister. Hunger rumbles in my belly when he mentions the bread. “Jodie?”

His chocolate-brown eyes light up. “That’s her. You know her?”

“I know of her. Her bread is legendary, and I might have been known to indulge in a loaf or two.”

His smile spreads across his face. “That’s awesome. I’ll have to let her know. Seems like she’s heard of you too.”

This intel intrigues me. I take a drink of wine. “Is that so?”

His eyes travel along my body. “She might have mentioned yesterday that there was a pretty cop who worked at the market.”

I might love Jodie even more, this baked goods goddess I hardly know. “Pretty cop? I’m flattered.”

He takes another swallow, his eyes never looking away. “And I might have mentioned to her that I’d been pulled over by the prettiest cop in the entire universe.”

Laughing, I roll my eyes. “And now you’re just trying to butter me up to get me to let you stay.”

“If I were trying to butter you up, I’d have brought some of the bread. Anyway, it’s the God’s honest truth. What can I say? I wanted you from the second you pulled me over.”

Is there any word sexier than want ? My skin tingles, and my bones hum from the boldness with which he owns his desire.

But this predicament isn’t about desire.

It’s about choices and circumstance, and, well, those pesky things known as bills. I sidestep his comment. “And it’s not working out staying with her?”

“She’s got three kids, and there are no extra rooms. I’ve been sleeping on the couch, so I’m looking for a place somewhere else to stay.”