Starfire (Erotic Romance) (Peaches Monroe) (4 page)

“Is Gordon Junior coming?” (Gordon is the reluctant owner of Peachtree Books. He inherited the business with the building, and he spends most of his time next door with his true love, the wine store.)

Adrian smirked and said sarcastically, “Of course Gordie’s coming. He’s
very
concerned about all the details.” He smirked some more. “I have some information about Black Sheep Books.”

“Those sheep-fuckers?” I quickly covered my mouth in embarrassment, since there were customers all around. My filters weren’t working well, due to the hangover.*

*Sure, we’ll blame the hangover.

“Seven,” he said with authority, then he dashed off to help a vertically-challenged customer pull down a book from the top shelf. With his height, he could actually reach everything in the store without needing a stepladder. He was really good at the job, and he seemed so comfortable and friendly with the customers, too. And now he wanted to call a staff meeting? Was he trying to take over my job as manager?

I didn’t like any of these new developments, but that didn’t mean I wasn’t excited about seven o’clock.

CHAPTER 4

We left the bookstore and walked Golden over to her car, still parked at Cougar Town from the night before. She didn’t seem to want to say goodbye to us, so we let her drive us back to the house.

At the house, she seemed like she wanted to talk to me some more about Adrian. Naturally, I bolted from the vehicle like it was on fire, without looking back.

Back at home, I started looking through my closet for something perfect to wear to my first-ever staff meeting.

A few times, I did get the tugging sense I was forgetting something important. I’d forgotten all about the Dalton stuff on the internet, and whatever Shayla had uncovered.

By the time I remembered to ask Shayla for my laptop battery back, she’d already left for her shift at the restaurant, and I didn’t dare search her room for it. The last thing I wanted was to reach under her mattress or open a drawer and come face to face with her vibrator, currently named The Assassin.*

*Possible marketing slogans for a vibrator named The Assassin:

1. The Assassin. Because he gets in and does the job.

2. The Assassin doesn’t ask questions before, and he doesn’t demand cuddles after.

3. When you need to slay a dangerous ladyboner, call in The Assassin.

4. Service with a smile. Just kidding. The Assassin never smiles.

5. The only bridal shower “gag gift” that will have her gagging for more.

6. Deluxe personal massager. Dishwasher safe, top rack only.

7. Fifty shades of… that’s all we can say, due to trademark laws regarding copyright infringement, but you know what we mean, wink wink.

8. Girlfriend, this is a vibrator. Put it on your clit. If you don’t know where your clit is, you’re about to find out.

9. Every night is Date Night. Vibrating bow-tie and tuxedo accessories sold separately.

10. Your ass looks so fucking good in those sweatpants. Girl, you’re making me crazy horny. Now step away from that rum raisin ice cream you inexplicably like so much, put on some Justin Timberlake, and get ready to have your sweet pussy annihilated by The Assassin.

(That last one may have been a little specific, but you get the idea.)

~

My clingy wrap dress, Creamsicle orange, made me look delicious.

I stared at myself in the mirror, turning from side to side, letting the fabric swing out then fall back down to graze my thighs. The dress was one of my scores from my trip to LA. It came from a designer boutique, and the cut and quality was so good, I didn’t even consider wrestling on a pair of Spanx underneath. Tight undergarments would ruin the sensory experience of such a gorgeous dress.

What point is there to beautiful, soft fabric, if you can’t feel it against your skin? Skin is for more than holding your spleen inside your body and all that stuff your learn in science class. Skin is a canvas for personal art, a medium for piercing, and a damn handy place to keep your body glitter. It’s also nice for licking, sucking, and spanking.

At 7:05, Adrian knocked on the front door.

My cheeks reddened at my naughty thoughts while I ran to answer.

I passed one more mirror along the way and thought of that quote by style icon Coco Chanel: “Before you leave the house, look in the mirror and remove one accessory.”

My bracelet with the turquoise beads was one of my favorite pieces, but I probably didn’t need sparkling clip-on earrings
and
a necklace, did I?

The shadow of Adrian on the other side of the privacy glass shifted, and a butterfly flitted around my belly. He knocked again, louder, and I grinned deviously over keeping him waiting. Hands shaking, I took off the pendant necklace and dropped it in the bowl next to the spare keys.

I opened the door to find Adrian’s back to me. He looked even taller from behind, and he wore grown-up clothing rather than his usual jeans and black T-shirt. Gray trousers made his legs look long, but not too skinny, and his butt looked (dare I say it?) perky. Completing his date outfit was a fitted dress shirt, black with gray pinstripes, rolled up at to the elbows for a casual look. His blond hair looked crisp and recently-trimmed.

A summer breeze shifted, and a fresh scent with a hint of citrus hit me just as he turned around.

“Wow,” he said, staring down at my dress, his blue eyes open wide. “You look like a girl.”

“I am a girl.”

“So people keep telling me.”

“What people?”

“My mother, for one.”

“How is your mother?” I asked.

He stared down at my peaches, mouth slightly open.

I held my hand in front of my cleavage and moved my fingers like a hand puppet. In a silly voice, I said, “Tell your mother my sweater puppies say
hello
.”

He stepped backward on the porch and looked down at his feet, shuffling them as he stuffed his hands in his pockets.

“You look nice, too,” I said in the ensuing awkward silence. “Is that how you used to dress when you were a high-powered real estate mogul?”

He coughed. “Mogul?”

“That’s the right word, isn’t it? Mogul. Or am I thinking of those ski bumps?
Mogul
. Mogul?”

“Mogul.” He looked up thoughtfully, avoiding my eyes.

“Mogul. Hmm. Now it just sounds made up.”

Adrian pulled out his phone. “We can solve this dilemma in two shakes.”

After a few seconds, he glanced up at me, cocked his head to the side, and put the phone back in his pocket. “Interesting,” he said.

“Are you going to tell me?”

“Are you going to invite me in off your porch? Or did you mean what you said last night? That if I walked out, I wouldn’t walk back in again, or something to that effect.”

To avoid answering him and talking about my humiliation the night before, I pulled my phone out of my purse and looked up the word. FYI, mogul can describe an influential person, and it also can be a bump on a ski hill, or a member of the dynasty that ruled India until 1857.

As I put away my phone, I said, “We were pretty drunk last night. I’m sorry for trying to take advantage of you, but you’re just SO handsome and desirable. Honestly, you’d better stay out on that porch, because heaven help you if you set foot inside my lair again.”

“I knew I should have brought my bear spray.”

He made a show of coming right up to the door frame, resting his forearms high on the frame, and looking around but not coming in. For an instant, I was reminded of the first time Dalton Deangelo came to visit, and how he’d lurked on the porch before trying to scare me with his vampire character’s fangs.

“You’re not invited in,” I said coldly.

“Why not? Where’s Shayla?”

“It’s Saturday night, and I’m wearing a designer dress from a boutique in LA. Look at my toes, peeking out from my dressy sandals. That’s a fresh pedicure, and fresh pedicures always need to go out, so, no, you’re not invited in to eat potato chips and feel me up on my secondhand sofa.”

Grinning, he said, “That’s good, because I have reservations for us at DeNirro’s.”

I pulled my purse strap up my shoulder and grabbed my keys. “Now we’re talking.”

~

On the short drive to the restaurant, I tried to pry out of him whatever information he had on Black Sheep Books, but he refused to give it up so easily.
Typical Adrian, playing hard to get.

He really did have restaurant reservations, which was a good thing, because the little Italian restaurant with the red-checked tablecloths was full of people. The air was rich with that gorgeous Saturday night aroma of perfume, wine, and fresh bread. Absolute heaven. And the gorgeous man sitting across from me didn’t hurt, either.

“You shaved,” I said once we were seated.

He leaned in across the table and patted his cheek. “Feel.”

I reached across the table tentatively and stroked his cheek. “Smooth as a freshly-powdered baby’s bottom.”

He took my hand, and—to my surprise—popped my thumb into his mouth. He made eye contact with me as he sucked my thumb in his hot mouth. My nipples went BA-WANG. He licked the tip of his tongue along my thumb. All the other parts of me also went BA-WANG.

Chuckling, he withdrew my thumb and gave me a wink. “Couldn’t resist,” he said.

My cheeks flushed with heat as I looked around the crowded restaurant. It didn’t seem like anyone had noticed, but ever since I’d become an Internet-Famous Person, I’d gotten a touch paranoid about photographers and evil reporters—not that they’re typically found in a small town like Beaverdale, Washington.

I grimaced and pretended to be disgusted by Adrian’s saliva on my thumb. I rubbed off my thumb with a cloth napkin. I whisper-yelled, “How dare you fellate my thumb in public.”

“You don’t enjoy a little pre-dinner thumb fellatio?” he asked, feigning innocence.

The waitress, who thankfully wasn’t anyone I knew, came up to take our drinks order. She gave me a knowing smile and said, “Pitcher of sangria again?”

Adrian laughed. I didn’t know the waitress, but she sure knew me. I kicked him under the table, then ordered a Diet Coke. He ordered a root beer float.

“That was my favorite drink in high school,” he explained. “I’d rather have beer, but I’m not drinking if you aren’t. You already outsmart and outwit me too easily when I’m sober. You always did.”

I laughed, shaking my head at his attempt to flatter me.

Did I outsmart him all the time? Of course I did. I knew that.

His flattery washed over me repeatedly, and I did feel myself glowing from the compliment. I always have been a smart girl, even though I’ve done insanely stupid things (like not realize I was pregnant, until I was giving birth at fifteen, alone and unprepared).

He said a few more flattering things, but I didn’t catch all the words. Instead of hearing him, I shuddered at the memory of nearly dying alone because of my stupidity. Why could I never just enjoy someone saying something good about me without torturing myself with my mistakes?

Perhaps it was an internal fail-safe to keep me from getting a big ego. For the last few days, acquaintances had been coming out of the woodwork, complimenting me on scoring an underwear line endorsement and being the model for the ad campaign. To most of those people, I’d blurted out, “Yeah, but it’s a plus-size line, so they wanted a regular girl, not a model.” Even though I
was
a model, part of me still rejected the notion.

The waitress brought our drinks, and we ordered dinner. I sipped my Diet Coke as I eyed Adrian’s root beer float, which was foaming over like a science fair volcano.

He offered me a taste, but I demurred.

“Shouldn’t we start the staff meeting?” I asked.

“Totally. It begins with thumb fellatio. I already did yours, so it’s your turn.”

I snorted, but he held his thumb out to me in a very flirty manner.

I snorted again. “You’re messing with me. Why can’t you just be normal? Why do you have to look things up on your phone and not tell me? Why the teasing?”

“Anticipation is the best part. When I was a real estate—“ he grinned “—
mogul…
the most fun I had on any project was the startup. Pushing hard to get a piece of land rezoned. Tearing the architectural drawings in half and telling the team we could do better.” His blue eyes glinted with a ferocity I’d never seen before.

“You sound excited.”

“I used to get so keyed up, I couldn’t sleep. I was like a degenerate gambler, except the socially acceptable kind.”

“What the hell are you doing here, working entry-level part-time jobs?”

“I could ask you the same thing. You were the smartest girl in school, and you would have been valedictorian, if Brie Harrison hadn’t…
you know
.”

“Know what?” My heart started to race. Even after five years, it still nauseated me to think of Brie Harrison smugly taking the stage for the valedictorian address. She gave a terrible speech, too. She started off by quoting lyrics from a Britney Spears song. I think she meant to be ironic, but it was just insincere.

Adrian explained, “Well, you do know her dad paid off some people with a generous donation to the school’s expansion fund, right?”

I gasped. “No!”

“Anywhere there’s power and money, there’s corruption.”

“How do you know this?”

“I have no hard evidence, but most of the students actually voted for you. Samples don’t lie.”

“I didn’t think people liked me that much.”

He grinned. “People liked you a lot more than you thought, but more importantly, they knew you were the smartest girl—or boy—in the class.”

“I’m reeling, Adrian. I’m totally sober, but the restaurant is spinning around me. I’m literally reeling from this information! I should have been the valedictorian.” I patted my cheeks with both hands, making a light slapping sound. “My whole life could have been different.”

“As shitty as it seems, she may have done you a favor. Brie went off to New York with all these expectations hanging over her. I bet every time she stumbled, she got that Impostor Syndrome thing. Where you feel like a fraud, and they’re going to catch on to you.”