Buch lesen: «Getting It Right!»
Praise for Rhonda Nelson’s
Chicks in Charge…
On Getting It!
“Rhonda Nelson will have readers chuckling and sighing with Getting It! (4.5), a witty, sensual tale featuring a completely unforgettable pair of lovers. Very, very hot!”
—Romantic Times
“Rhonda Nelson takes you on quite an adventure in Getting It! She gives the reader everything—hilarious scenes, passionate and tender love and a serious message as well. The reader is in for quite a ride with this one.”
—Cataromance
“Getting It! demonstrates how much fun falling in love can be when it is between the right two people. Pick it up and enjoy.”
—The Romance Reader
On Getting It Good!
“With exciting, believable characters and hot passion, Rhonda Nelson has created an exciting series. I can’t wait to see who will be getting it next.”
—A Romance Review
“Getting It Good! (4) by Rhonda Nelson has humor and great characters, which make for a fun read.”
—Romantic Times
“The latest Chicks in Charge tale, Getting It Good! is a delightfully amusing contemporary romance starring two likable combatants.”
—The Best Reviews
Dear Reader,
I hope that you’re enjoying my CHICKS IN CHARGE series. If you missed the first two books, please be sure to check them out. (Getting It! Harlequin Temptation January 2005 and Getting It Good! Harlequin Blaze February 2005). I’ve had a ball writing these feisty heroines and finding the perfect guys for them.
Since the debut book I’ve been asked many times where I got the idea for this series. It was funny, really. I was sitting in my office, absently listening to a panel of “experts” talk about why The Bachelorette had been more of a success than The Bachelor. One of the women shrugged and said, “It’s because a chick’s in charge.” Something about the girl power in that phrase really appealed to me and I started playing the “What if…” game. The result was this series of books with smart, determined women who know their own worth. Pairing them with guys who figure it out as well has been a very fun and fulfilling experience.
Don’t miss the final book in my CHICKS IN CHARGE series—Getting It Now!—available next month. I’d love to know what you think. Be sure to swing by my Web site—www.booksbyRhondaNelson.com and let me know how you’re enjoying the ride.
Happy reading!
Rhonda Nelson
Getting It Right!
Rhonda Nelson
MILLS & BOON
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This book is dedicated to one of the nicest people
I have ever known, my good friend Pam Farris. PTO,
sons and daughters, Girl Scouts, midnight movies, countless
lunches, hair days and pool days, your unfailing friendship
has been a source of great joy for me
over the years and I look forward to many more.
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Epilogue
Prologue
UNDER ORDINARY circumstances, April Wilson was just vain enough to appreciate a hot stare from an equally hot guy. What woman didn’t like a lingering appreciative look? One that somehow managed to validate those extra minutes spent in front of the mirror, that additional time rifling through the closet to find the perfect outfit, or taking those few seconds to repair a chipped nail?
Usually one flicker of interest from a pair of intrigued masculine eyes was enough to make her inwardly preen with satisfaction because it meant she hadn’t wasted her time, that her somewhat manic attention to detail had paid off.
Unfortunately, in this case, it was the particular source of interest that was causing her…discomfort.
Looking equally relaxed and dangerous, Ben Hayes sat sprawled on a chair at the end of the bar. The Blue Monkey Pub on the edge of New Orleans’ famed French Quarter was technically her haunt, but over the past few months Ben had been showing up with disconcerting regularity and had easily made it his preferred hang out, as well. It was unnerving to say the least. Her gaze was inexplicably drawn to him once more, causing a flutter of awareness to skim up her spine.
Mercy.
A navy-blue designer T-shirt clung to his broad shoulders and muscled chest, serving as both a testament to his casual style and the pricey label, a silent affirmation that he’d arrived. April swallowed.
That, she knew, was important to him.
Worn denim clung to his hardened thighs and a pair of ridiculously expensive boots rounded out the ensemble. Dark brown hair just a shade shy of black hung in loose waves around a face that held more character than beauty and, though she couldn’t see them clearly from here—and she refused to look—memory painted an accurate picture of his eyes. Pale golden brown, the shade of light arcing off a crystal tumbler of good Kentucky bourbon.
Occasionally he’d hoist the longneck held carelessly between his fingers to that insanely carnal mouth and, though she seriously doubted he was even aware of it, every move he made exuded an effortless, sexy sort of grace that was essentially mesmerizing to every female—attached and unattached—in the room.
Simply put, Ben Hayes was sex on a stick…and from the time she was old enough to feel the first quickening of awareness in her belly, licking him all over had been a fantasy she’d explored repeatedly in her dreams.
Frankie Salvaterra—soon to be Hartford, April reminded herself—and a fellow Chicks In Charge buddy, leaned over and nudged her shoulder. Her dark brown eyes glittered with perception and just the smallest hint of pity. “It’s getting to you, isn’t it?”
“What?” April asked, knowing full well what her friend meant. When it came to sexual matters, as CHiC’s Carnal Contessa, Frankie was the go-to girl for advice.
“That stare.” She cocked her head toward the bar. “Ben’s been boring a hole through you for the past fifteen minutes.” Her lips curled. “My guess is that he’s mentally stripped you naked and committed carnal acts upon your person on every available surface in this room, ones that would undoubtedly end your suffering,” she said, needling April significantly, then sipped her drink and sighed. “If only you’d let him.”
April closed her eyes and let go a shuddering breath as Frankie’s graphic description too readily materialized behind her lids. Her friend was right, she knew.
And she was suffering.
Without warning and for no apparent discernable reason, her Big O had vanished. Or at the very least headed for higher ground. For the past eighteen months—eighteen miserable, excruciatingly frustrating months—and despite multiple attempts, self-inflicted and otherwise, she’d been unable to climax. It was as though whatever tripped her trigger had been unwittingly put on safety.
At first, April had chalked her unhappy malady up to stress. With the creation of Chicks In Charge—a brainchild born in this very pub and an organization designed for the express purpose of empowering women everywhere—as the Webmistress of the movement, she’d been too busy to think about whether or not her hot button was disengaged.
Between building the original site, then pulling the CHiC e-zine together, not to mention maintaining sites for previous customers and working on prior contracted work, she’d been burning her candle at both ends.
Luckily, she was at her best under pressure and, though she was tired, it was the pleasant sort of exhaustion brought about by a job well-done. It was only in the past month when things had slowed to a more comfortable pace that the absence of a sex life and, more importantly, the melting pleasure of a hard, mind-numbing orgasm, had begun to wear on her.
And seeing Ben Hayes on a weekly basis—a six-and-a-half-foot, rock-hard and irreverent reminder of what she was missing—certainly wasn’t helping matters. Hell, he wasn’t dubbed The Vagina Whisperer for nothing, April thought with a small smile, wondering if he knew about the nickname.
Ben was a quintessential bad boy, a guy from the so-called wrong side of the tracks who thumbed his nose at the middle class, hated the idle rich and showed his disdain by competently seducing any girl he supposedly couldn’t have, usually one already attached or engaged to a guy belonging to one of the aforementioned groups. He was a legendary lover, one of those fix-me males, and had left more than one broken heart in his wake…and, April thought as she took another sip of her beer, had her mother not intervened at a timely moment in her midteens, she would have undoubtedly ended up as one of them, as well.
“I know you said that Ben’s father worked for your family while the two of you were growing up,” Frankie said casually as the rest of the little group around their table continued to chat. “But to be honest, April, I’ve always suspected a deeper acquaintance. Something more than just childhood friends.”
As usual, Frankie’s perceptive intuition was dead-on. They had been more than friends, at least until her mother had forbidden Ben to come near her. Funny thing, that, April thought now. Ben—her rebel—had been willing to fight for everything. Her lips twisted with bitter humor.
Everything, that is, except her.
Honestly, she’d never expected him to give in so easily. She’d been convinced of his affection, so certain of his love. Teenage fancy, she thought now. They hadn’t been in love. She’d merely suffered from an extreme crush and he’d…Well, evidently, he’d just been horny. Furthermore, he’d changed after that encounter. Her good-hearted bad boy had become bewilderingly embittered. Angry, even.
“There was nothing more,” April lied, the fib souring on her tongue. “We were friends. Our fathers served in Vietnam together. Ben’s dad was injured while under my father’s command, and couldn’t keep steady work when they came home.” She shrugged. “Dad hired him, gave his family a place to live.”
Frankie quirked a dark brow. “He felt responsible then?”
April nodded. “Yeah. Still does, I think.” He’d never told her why—and given the fact that she’d unwittingly forced him out of the closet a couple of years ago, their once-close relationship had become slightly…strained of late. April resisted the urge to roll her eyes. As if she cared about his sexual preference. She just wanted her father back.
Granted, having a father who was just as adept as she was at spotting a good-looking guy was a little unnerving, but in all honestly, after twenty years with her mother—The Great Emasculator—April was just glad that he’d found someone to make him happy. She only wished that her father would share that special someone with her.
Despite her attempts to wheedle an introduction, her father maddeningly continued to keep his companion’s identity a secret. Her father was a good man, though, and deserved a bit of belated joy. As for her mother, well…She wouldn’t go into what she deserved, April thought ominously.
“Why don’t you just go talk to him?” Frankie said, once again bringing the subject back to Ben, or more accurately, April having sex with Ben.
April hesitated, then gave her head a small shake. “I don’t think it’s a good idea.”
“And I think you’re overthinking it.” She shrugged. “He’s obviously interested.”
Yeah, now, April thought, after years of being distantly polite. It didn’t make any sense. She briefly tuned into the conversation currently occupying the residents at their table. Zora and Tate were still arguing over who’d ultimately gotten Frankie and Ross together, and Carrie, the fourth and final member of their Chicks In Charge board, was looking on with an indulgent though tired smile.
Poor Carrie, April thought. She might have lost her orgasm, but Carrie was the only member of their little group who was still in a miserable job, beholden to a bastard employer. Carrie was a fantastic chef, though, and they were all convinced that good things were bound to be coming her way. In fact, the producers at Let’s Cook, New Orleans!—a nationally syndicated program—were supposedly looking at their friend as a possible host and, in April’s opinion, the show couldn’t come soon enough.
Satisfied that she wasn’t missing any new gossip, she summoned a wry smile and shifted against her bar stool. “We’re supposed to be celebrating your impending nuptials, not worrying over my little problem,” she said, hoping to change the subject. She knew Ben was the answer to her problem, she just wasn’t looking forward to the conversation that would have to precede the cure.
Frankie shot a fond look at her husband-to-be. “Believe me, Ross and I have our own special brand of celebrating.”
Unable to help herself, April grinned and determinedly ignored the prick of envy in her chest. She could just imagine. It was nice to see two of her best friends find their perfect mate. Zora and Tate had already tied the knot and Frankie and Ross weren’t too far behind.
“And you don’t have a little problem,” Frankie continued doggedly. “After a year and a half, it’s a big problem, babe.” She cocked her head. “If Ben can’t cure what ails you, then I think you need to seriously consider seeing a doctor. Something’s not right. It’s…” She frowned thoughtfully. “It’s unnatural. Seriously. For the love of Mike, just go talk to him,” Frankie ordered with an exaggerated huff. “What have you got to lose?”
Logic told her nothing, but intuition begged to differ. That’s why she’d been dragging her heels and refused to seek out Ben’s particular brand of expertise. Honestly, hearing about his sexual forays—and there’d been too many satisfied women singing his praises to avoid it—April grimly suspected even a casual encounter would cost her more than she could pay.
A beat slid into three, then Frankie arched a shrewd brow. “Oh, my,” she said knowingly. “So it’s like that.”
April’s beer stalled halfway to her mouth and she shot Frankie an annoyed look. “No it’s not. There’s nothing wrong with being cautious.”
Frankie snorted. “You’re beyond cautious. It’s time to take the bull by the horns. Hell, even hot, sweaty sex without an orgasm is better than no sex at all, April.” She chewed the corner of her bottom lip and grinned. “If nothing else, do him for the foreplay. His name has come up quite frequently in my line of work and from what I hear, Ben’s got a master’s in tongue massage.”
And just like that, April cast Ben in the starring role of her own mental porn movie. Warm hands and warmer skin, a hot greedy mouth… Her thighs tensed and the slightest buzz of a tingle pinged her sex. And it was that little ray of hope that ultimately pushed her over the edge, conquered reason and thwarted doubt.
She wanted.
And she’d always wanted him.
“Go on,” Frankie cajoled, evidently sensing victory. “Go talk to him.”
“Fine,” April finally relented. “But not tonight.”
“But—”
“Not tonight,” she repeated firmly. “What?” she said grimly under her breath. “You want me to walk up to him and tell him that I’m in need of some of his whispering skills?” She rolled her eyes. “Hardly. I need a plan first. I’ve got to have something to offer in return.” What, she didn’t know. Ben was a top-notch and well-paid photographer whose work had been featured in prominent glossies all over the globe. Money wasn’t going to cut it. He didn’t need it anymore.
Frankie’s eyes bugged. “You mean sleeping with you isn’t going to be payment enough? He wants you. You are what he gets.”
“No,” April said, lost in her own thoughts. “That’s not how I want to handle this.”
Frankie harrumphed and looked at her as though she’d grown a second head. “You’re insane.”
“Yeah, well, you try going without an orgasm for eighteen months and see how rational you are.”
Her friend made a moue of understanding and conceded the point. “There is that.” She paused. “But you are going to ask him for help, right? Promise me,” she insisted.
April nodded and let go a pent-up breath. She sought Ben out once more and the hair on the back of her neck prickled when her gaze unexpectedly tangled with his. That hot, familiar stare and the faint crook of his ultra-sexy lips seemingly pinned her to her seat. Without warning, the air thinned in her lungs, her skin instantly warmed and tightened, and that woeful tingle below her navel issued another faint buzz of desperation.
“I promise,” she said breathlessly.
And she secretly hoped like hell she didn’t live to regret it.
1
“YOU’VE GOT A CALL on line one and a visitor in the parlor.”
Ben Hayes wearily set the loupe aside he’d been using to study yesterday’s negatives and rubbed his eyes. Shit, he thought as he leaned back in his chair. Complete and total shit. None of it even worth developing.
“Who’s on the phone?”
Claudette’s proud Cajun-French chin lifted into a stubborn, I-dare-you angle, one that Ben recognized all too well. It was reserved for one caller, in particular. “Your father.”
Though he’d expected it, Ben felt himself tense, nonetheless, then had to force himself to relax. “Tell him I’m not here.” His tone was flat, emotionless, and in no way hinted at the anger, hopelessness and regret that twisted his insides.
“Too late,” his meddling secretary replied. “I’ve already told him you are.”
“Then tell him I’m in a meeting.”
Her thin nostrils flared as she pulled in a breath. Of patience, no doubt. Apparently running interference between him and his father was beginning to wear on her otherwise steely nerves. “He’s already asked if you were in a meeting and I said no.” The merest hint of a smile caught the corner of her compressed lips. “Looks like he’s onto all of your excuses.”
“Fine. You can tell him the truth.” He shrugged. “Tell him I don’t want to talk to him.” Another lie. He’d love to talk to his father. Tell him how things were going. Basically shoot the shit and share a beer. Perks he knew other men enjoyed with their dads. But, despite his best attempts to get past the…complexities of his father’s character, he simply couldn’t do it. He’d tried…and he’d failed. And since failure was such an uncommon and unpleasant experience, he’d rather avoid it.
“Oh, for Pete’s sake,” Claudette finally snapped. “I’ll tell him no such thing. He’s your father. You should talk to him.”
He did talk to him. On birthdays and holidays. “Claudette,” he began warningly.
“Oh, fine,” she begrudgingly relented. “I’ll make up another excuse, tell the dear man another lie.” She aimed a hard stare at him, one that seemed particularly intense considering she wore a tiny brooch with a picture of her beloved dog on her collar. “But this is the last time, Ben.” She exhaled mightily. “Now what do you want me to do about the girl in the parlor? Tell her you’re not in, as well?” she asked sarcastically.
Relief melted the tension out of his muscles, causing him to slouch back in his tufted leather chair. He arched a brow. “Depends,” he said. “Who is she and what does she want?”
“Her name is April Wilson and, as for what she wants, you’ll have to ask her yourself. She said it was personal.”
Ben blinked, certain he’d misunderstood. “April Wilson?”
“Yes,” Claudette replied cautiously, obviously sensing his surprise. “Do you know her?”
Ben felt a grim smile catch the corner of his mouth. Oh, yeah. He knew her. He could identify every freckle on her face, knew the exact curve of her brow, the varying shades of green that made up those wide expressive eyes of hers. He knew that purple was her favorite color, black-eyed Susans her favorite flower, and that when she was nervous or tense, she had a tendency to chew the corner of her plump bottom lip. He knew that she liked to wear her hair up, that as a teenager she had a huge crush on Rick Springfield and that she was missing a nail on her left pinkie toe. A biking accident, if memory served, and admittedly, his rarely failed where April was concerned.
In fact, he’d probably be a lot happier if it would.
Despite years of separation and countless substitutes, despite time, distance, a complicated family history—Ha! he thought darkly—and more sex than any man had a right to in a lifetime, April Wilson still remained, and he grimly suspected would always remain, the girl for him.
She’d unwittingly set the standard, and was the one woman every other he’d crossed paths with was compared to. For more than a decade he’d been trying to recreate the magic, to find the same sort of chemistry he’d had with her. The mind-numbing, soul-shattering attraction that made a man want to climb out of his own skin and into hers.
He’d never found it.
Hell, he’d never even come close to capturing that same sort of feeling, that awesome, unbelievable high. In fact, he’d all but convinced himself that it hadn’t really existed, that his teenage über-hormones had somehow magnified and distorted the memory until it couldn’t possibly be real.
But one chance meeting at the Blue Monkey Pub eighteen months ago had soon proved otherwise, and over the past year and a half, he’d made a concerted effort to be there on Friday nights just to look at her, share the same air, feel the buzz of her presence.
Pathetic, he knew, but he couldn’t seem to help himself. Though he was no longer the green, easily intimidated boy he’d been when her cruel bitch of a mother had banned him from her life, Ben had nevertheless resisted the almost overwhelming urge to seduce her. To see if she could still make the bottom drop out of his stomach with a mere smile.
He’d learned that she could, even when that smile wasn’t directed at him.
Which was why, over the past couple of weeks, he’d been wrestling with the idea of seducing her anyway. Quite frankly, the idea of thumbing his nose at her parents—both of them, but for different reasons—was intensely appealing.
Her mother had robbed him of April, deemed him unworthy of her daughter. Ben smiled bitterly. Oh, but that hadn’t been enough. She’d wanted to really wound him, to really hurt him and, as a result, she’d ultimately stolen his father, as well. Or at the very least, any respect he’d had for his dad. Until Morgana Wilson had spewed her poison, he’d enjoyed the ignorant bliss of thinking his father was perfect. The man had had problems, Ben knew. War had a way of ruining the best soldiers, and Davy Hayes had been no exception. But Ben had never doubted his father’s character…until Morgana had taken that from him.
As for April’s father…His lips twisted. Well, it was hard to pigeonhole his sins.
In the end, her parents had both directly and indirectly hurt him and, though he knew the best way to repay that sentiment would be to hurt their daughter, Ben had been unable to follow through. He wanted her more than he’d ever wanted anyone, but between the personal issues attached to her family and the taint of revenge attached to having her, he’d been unable to come to terms with the cost.
Both hers and his.
“Do you want me to send her in?” Claudette asked.
Still somewhat distracted, Ben nodded. Unfortunately, there was only one reason why April would come to see him—one he sure as hell wasn’t interested in discussing—but he could hardly turn her away. It was April, after all, and just knowing that she was in the next room made his heart kick into an irregular rhythm.
With an expression of extreme curiosity Claudette gave him an odd look, then turned on her heel and walked out. Less than thirty seconds later she returned with April in tow, ushered her into the room, then with another blatantly interested look, once again made a reluctant exit.
If he’d had any manners at all, Ben would have stood when she came in, but for some reason his legs had turned to lead. Only years of pretending to be indifferent kept his mouth from breaking into a wide grin and fortunately the careless smile he’d mastered slid easily into place. Words momentarily failed him—he had absolutely no idea what to say—but in the end, he settled for a weak, “Er…This is a surprise.”
April’s small hand tightened around her purse strap and she cast an uneasy look around his office. “I hope I’m not intruding.”
“Not at all.” He finally found his feet and gestured toward a chair. “Please. Come sit.”
Clad in a brown cable-knit sweater that ably hugged her curves and a pair of tailored cream wool slacks, April traveled the short distance to one of the walnut demi-marquise chairs that flanked his antique desk. Her mink curls were loose and tousled and the sting from the cold wind had colored her cheeks. A pair of diamond studs winked from her delicate lobes and the matching pendant lay nestled between her breasts, suspended from a fine gold chain. He caught the crisp scent of winter and the smallest whiff of jasmine as she settled into her seat.
As always, she looked chic, polished and approachable, a combination one didn’t always see among those who were accustomed to money. Now that he moved within her circle, he could appreciate the difference.
She glanced around his office, her keen gaze inspecting a few of his more accomplished frames. “Beautiful work,” she said softly. She gestured toward a sepia print behind his credenza. “Isn’t that the staircase in the old Belle Fontaine mansion?”
Ben nodded. “It is.”
In fact, it had been featured in Southern Living last month. He started to tell her, but managed to just stop himself. He didn’t have to validate his work, dammit—it spoke for itself.
Regardless, old habits died hard and while she’d never intentionally made him feel like the parasite poaching a living off her family the way her mother had, Ben nevertheless had a hard time shaking the need to showcase his own successes. Successes which had been hard-won, self-motivated and earned without so much as a favor from the Wilson family.
He’d take care of himself, by God. He’d be damned before he’d ever take a handout or become, as Morgana Wilson had so eloquently put it all those years ago, another man’s whore. To this day he couldn’t decide what was worse—learning that his father was gay, or realizing that the quiet gentle man he’d loved and respected had simply been too weak to support his family.
A prick of guilt for the uncharitable assessment surfaced, but Ben determinedly shook it off, squashed the happy memories that arose. As an adult he could appreciate another person’s sexual orientation—he wasn’t ashamed of his father for being gay. Unnerved? Yes. But not ashamed. He even understood that Vietnam had changed him—could process, sort and compartmentalize every rational argument for the reasons his father had returned to American soil a little less stable than when he’d left.
But the one thing that Ben couldn’t rationalize away, the one thing he couldn’t let go of or forgive was the second-class citizenship his father had foisted upon his family by moving onto his lover’s property. It cheapened his father and thereby, as far as he was concerned, lessened Ben’s own value.
Since the moment he moved out of his father’s house, Ben had set the standard for his self-worth and, while he missed his dad, being around him was a painful reminder of a past he could no longer be proud of. It was simply easier to avoid him. He didn’t have to worry about avoiding his mother. She’d cut and run shortly after he’d asked her if Morgana’s accusations were true. He hadn’t heard from her since. God, he hated this, hated thinking about any of it.
“So,” Ben said expectantly, both equally eager and reluctant to get this over with. “What can I do for you?”
IT’S NOT WHAT YOU CAN DO for me, but what you can do to me, April thought, silently agonizing over making the decision to come here.
What the hell had she been thinking? Why in God’s name had she let Frankie talk her into this ridiculous plan? Yes, she desperately needed an orgasm, and yes, if there was any man capable of doing it for her on the planet, then it was the one sitting in front of her. Sweet mercy, but he was gorgeous. Every bit as perfect—and then some—as what she remembered. If Ben Hayes was sexy in the smoky low light of a semicrowded pub, it was nothing compared to the hot-factor he emitted in the natural morning luminance of his own element.
Creamy plaster walls, detailed oak molding and hardwood floors, heavy antiques dressed in rich fabrics and silky fringe, and beautiful framed artwork—his own, of course—rounded out a room that bespoke moneyed New Orleans style, mysterious, seductive and alluring. Seated behind a beautiful inlaid mahogany twin-pedestal desk, Ben looked every bit as mysterious, seductive and alluring as the city he called home. Even the sensual curve of his wicked mouth echoed the Big Easy’s dark charm.
His almost-black hair was tousled, pushed carelessly away from his face and guarded golden eyes studied her with a calmness that was as arousing as it was unsettling. April let go of a shaky breath.
Quite honestly, she hadn’t thought past coming here. If she had, she knew she would have never made the journey to his office, would have never found the nerve to cross his threshold. The question was, where the hell was she going to find the nerve to ask for his help? Or should she even ask for that matter? As Frankie had so keenly pointed out last week, he’d been staring a hole through her for months, silently seducing her with those mesmerizing heavy-lidded eyes. She smothered a snort. Short of marking his territory by peeing on her bar stool, he couldn’t have possibly made his interest any more plain. And yet, here he sat, seemingly bemused by her presence.
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