“You could come inside,” Simone says from the passenger seat as I pull my car into her driveway. “I know I could use a cock-tail.” Her ruby-red lips pop the sound of an extra-long cock.
Subtle.
The length of my coworker’s auburn hair drapes seductively over her shoulders, and her gaze drops to my lap. She licks her lips, then looks me up and down like she’s seconds away from tearing off my shirt and good behavior with her teeth.
Despite the incessant throbbing of my dick, and its readiness to punch a hole right through my jeans and between her ripe, full, smiling lips, I settle into my decision. It’s not happening.
“I’ve got an early day tomorrow,” I say, meeting her seductive gaze with my impatient one.
I’m polite, not wanting to cause a rift at the office. True, I’m not there all the time. And truer, I couldn’t give a shit what she thinks. But Liam Cooper is not only my boss, he’s my cousin, and holds my allegiance way more than this woman ever could.
Being a human lie detector is a double-edged sword. I’d love to sink balls deep into just about anyone at this point, but not her. It’s a little hypocritical, being a heaping pile of half-truths myself. But I try to justify it by knowing all my little white lies are there to protect all the people who mean anything to me. I’m pretty sure hers are in the service of just herself.
I keep everything professional and polite because this was arranged by Coop, and I’d never make things awkward for him. Coop and I are close. Like brothers. He built the Valor Group from a small, mostly family business into a colossal Fortune 100 empire overnight. Or maybe it just feels that way, with him hustling around the clock, and me on one deployment or another for eleven years, until he brought me into his business this past year.
Still, no matter how she slinks around, breasts held high and lust on her sleeve, there are at least a dozen red flags that say she’s not the one. The biggest of which is that no matter how I try to shut off the voices of my training, I know this woman is a smoking-hot pile of suspicious shit that lures the remnants of my former life right to the surface. A life I need to leave.
“You sure?” she asks, trailing her finger up and down my jeans like some sadistic female version of water torture, and now I’m even more certain than before. The pulse in her neck is relaxed. The dilation of her pupils normal. Any desire behind them nonexistent.
Fuck me.
“I’m sure,” I say, sad to take my hard, throbbing toy and go home.
My words are convincing as my balls ache against the seam of my jeans. She studies me for only a second, reading my unchanged expression that’s a one-eighty from my throbbing cock. It’s enough that she lets herself out of the car.
I don’t walk her to the door, and not because she’s a liar or I’m an ass—which, for the record, I am. But because at the moment, my rod is painfully jammed against my zipper, and I can barely move without it rubbing the damn thing off.
Note to self: invest in briefs for once.
As she leans in through the open passenger door, the perfect weight of her bosom gives me a gorgeous show as her breasts seem to be losing their war with gravity, seconds from spilling out and begging for the rescue of my hands.
The delectable eyeful makes me regret the words before I say them. “Good night, Simone.”
“Suit yourself.”
Dragging herself away, she heads into her house—a boxy contemporary with hard lines set in cool gray stone that suit her expensive purse and ice-cold persona to a T. It’s set in a gated community that’s a suburban paradise of security alarm signs and luxury cars. Not unlike my own.
Between my rushed departure from the Army a year ago and not exactly having a Plan B, I’ve settled into a humdrum life that’s good enough for the moment. And managing the construction of Coop’s new high-rise headquarters is the best of both worlds. I get to do what I do best. I manage the line-by-line inventory of exhaustive details required to raise a multimillion-dollar skyscraper in the heart of a city where bigger is better, while managing to give Coop shit on a twice-daily basis. Win-win.
I watch Simone slink through her door. She blows me a kiss from her fingers, and half of me wants to rush through that door, tear off that tailored dress, take her from behind until I don’t know where my dick ends and she begins, and teach that vixen a lesson. Be the total fuck ’em-and forget ’em of my youth.
Best behavior, I remind myself with a mantra that continues to settle me into a state of catatonic boredom.
I back out of her driveway and take the long way back to my place, passing by the beginnings of a skyscraper that, for the moment, holds my heart and soul. Up and down every sleek side of her are my fingerprints.
Sixty days ago, this was an uninteresting city block comprised of a dying gas station, abandoned frame and design shop, and the lost hopes and dreams of tenants who couldn’t afford five dollars more per square foot in rent. Today, it’s the site of the expansion of the Valor Group. A Byrne family legacy. And a tether keeping me strapped to perhaps not the life I want, but the one I need.
Looking at my creation, I marvel at how she’s something I can see and touch, knowing deep down in my soul that she’s mine. I built her. And as much as I have claim to another she in the universe, this is the only one within reach.
Enough pride and common sense have sunk into me that I convince myself this is the life I was meant for. Stable. Secure. Not remotely close to the life of missions and mind-fucks I half believed was normal. But it’ll do.
Determined to make this version of life work, I head home, becoming a little too accustomed to the level of luxury my own gated community gives.
Coop thought this life would be good for me, as well as anyone else who came along to enjoy it with me. The house. The neighborhood with restricted access, a country club, and golf-course views. Diverse social events for all the Stepford moms and the two-point-four kids they’re apt to have in tow.
For the most part, I ignore the Italian marble tile, vaulted ceilings, and 5,800 square feet of my home, which is roughly 5,000 square feet more than I’d prefer.
Out of habit, I live a sparse life of necessity, always ready to head out at a moment’s notice. Half my shit’s still in boxes, even though it’s been months since I moved in, because leaving is always an option. One I consider almost daily.
I call it home, but the name is fleeting. Coop knows it would only take one word to make me ditch it and him faster than a diet at the Cheesecake Factory.
Gaby.
By the time I pull into the garage and head inside, it’s closing in on midnight. I’m sure it’s way too late for a certain someone to be baking. Yet, there she is.
The woman across the street. The one who should be sleeping. Or dating. Or fucking, for that matter. Having more of a life than her steady workload, chardonnay, and midnight bake-offs affords. A homebody wrapped up in wavy blond locks, seductive lips, and whatever recipe has captured her attention at this hour draws me in. Like every time I see her, I stand there and stare.
As she sips from her glass and wipes an errant drop from her lush lower lip, then sucks her finger clean, I wonder why such a gorgeous girl is always alone, never sleeps, and not once has thought to close her kitchen shutters from the prying eyes of nutjobs like me.
The neighborhood is filled with quaint upscale homes that take middle America, flip it on its ass, and pump it full of steroids. The result is a housewife’s paradise known for its contemporary Mediterranean entries, high-end finishes, and three-car garages that no one ever uses to capacity.
The homeowners’ association keeps the lawns and shrubs trimmed, bright yellow-and-purple flowers replanted on six-week cycles, which always makes me feel like I’ve walked into a mashup of Norman Rockwell and the Twilight Zone.
I look down the street, seeing all the other houses are dimly lit. Their garage lights are on timers with any floodlights on motion sensors, but otherwise the line of Park Place and Boardwalk houses remain pitch black as their occupants sleep inside.
But not this house. The one across the street. The one Betty Crocker frequents when she’s not away at work or with her nose buried in a book.
I’d like to think I could take or leave the pastime of studying her, but that would be a lie. She’s too easy to look at. To watch. And if there’s one thing I know, she’s usually awake at this hour. What she’s not usually doing is diving into a late-night bout of compulsive baking.
I don’t know her name. Haven’t bothered to get to know her. But I know she keeps long hours, drives an expensive vintage car that suits both her style and her petite frame, prefers nude lipstick for her angelic pouty lips, and wouldn’t be a one-night fuck in any man’s world.
That last reason keeps me a world away from the girl too good to be mine.
Her hair changes shades every five weeks or so, and I’m always surprised how the deep brunettes and dark auburns suit her as well as the lighter hues. Today, her strands are a cascade of honey that’s shoved to the top of her head like a tousled nest, and the messy bun has my dick’s seal of approval. She’s the total package, managing to make herself sweet and sexy, probably without the slightest inclination in either direction.
The smudges of flour on her cheeks and forehead make me wonder just how much effort she’s put into whatever it is she’s making, a concoction I’m sure she’s taking to work, which she’ll leave for in about five and a half hours.
For whatever reason, her sudden proud smile makes me smile back from the darkness, and I inwardly applaud whatever triumph has managed to make her happy.
Don’t think I haven’t thought about it. Googling her. Or taking the guesswork out of the equation and checking the community roster. Let’s face it. Looking her up isn’t exactly rocket science.
But seeing her from this far away satiates and settles me without the pressure of peeling back an onion, only to find disappointment and dissatisfaction in a girl not living up to my fantasies.
Or worse, finding the girl of my dreams has a heart of pure gold that I’ll only end up crushing.
My only option is to keep life simple. Excruciatingly boring but simple, straightforward, and realistic. And in a tired moment like this, I let myself believe the illusion. She’s as sweet as honey, feisty enough to keep me interested, sexual in imaginative and scandalous ways, and while I’m adding to my Christmas wish list, as sharp as a tack to keep me on my toes.
And no denying the woman is sexy as hell. Look at her. She bakes.
Having kneaded the dough to within an inch of its life, she takes a giddy amount of joy plopping it into a pan and covering it with a cloth. Something called proving.
Hey, just because I didn’t google her doesn’t mean finding out what the hell she’s doing is off-limits. She checks the time, and I do the same. It’s now well past midnight.
The other loaves usually take an hour before she moves them to the oven, a ritual I know because I’m used to watching. Observing. Seeing habits. Pinpointing patterns. And narrowing in on enough weaknesses and strengths to know who’s an adversary and who’s a friend.
Her bread-baking skills are a definite strength, striking right to the heart of one of my greatest weaknesses and tempting me with her evil ways. She started late for bread, and no doubt will be up long after I’ve nodded off.
Unable to stifle a yawn, I stretch and head off to bed, but not before taking one last look at a life not meant for me. Softly, I say, “Good night, little baker girl.”