Squeeze Play Read online

  Ugh. I can’t fathom a twenty-something guy being capable of being romantic and swoony, let alone having the feels, and if I listen to any more of this I’ll get nauseated.

  “Okay, fine. If you will stop talking, I promise I’ll have hot meaningless sex with a stranger. In public. In assorted positions with a cornucopia of sex toys. Would that make you happy?”

  As soon as I finish speaking, I realize what I’ve just said.

  Aloud.

  In public.

  At a crowded coffeehouse.

  Shit.

  I look around. The lady at the table next to me is knitting and has earbuds in. The guy in a power suit directly in front of me is on the phone, speaking in French. Two other guys within earshot are on laptops, busily typing away.

  I glance over my shoulder and see people studying phones and talking to each other. Okay, good. Nobody–

  Then I freeze.

  Right behind me, leaning against the countertop, is a young man in his twenties. He’s well over six feet tall with a broad chest and tanned skin, which I can see peeking out from beneath his charcoal V-neck sweater. His hair is wavy and messy, a dirty-blond shade that has golden highlights. The stubble shading his jawline is also a golden shade of blond.

  My gaze drifts upward, into vivid blue eyes the color of faded denim.

  He’s hot.

  And he’s staring straight back at me.

  Did he hear me?

  I feel mortification building inside me.

  Did he hear me talking about meaningless sex and sex toys, and oh, God, please no.

  I furrow my brow.

  His face expresses nothing. With relief, I assume he didn’t hear a word I said.

  Of course, he didn’t. No. No way. He’s next to that hissing machine and this guitar music is loud.

  Whew. Because that would have been all kinds of embarrassing.

  I hear Katie yelling in my ear, and I realize I was so distracted by Hot Guy I forgot I was on the phone.

  “Uh-huh,” I say, turning sideways in my chair and trying to steal a sideways glance at him.

  “What? You aren’t even listening,” Katie says.

  Hot Guy pushes back the sleeve of his sweater to check the huge platinum watch adorning his wrist.

  Oh, my.

  The sexy stranger has a tattoo sleeve that goes down to his wrist. I try to make out the designs, and I see what looks like pages and books entwined with vines. Interesting.

  And hot.

  “Excuse me,” a woman says, squeezing between the tables with a huge purse. It’s bigger than a diaper bag, and it’s slung awkwardly over her shoulder. Good lord, I wonder what she is carrying in there. I think she could easily fit my breakfast burrito maker in there and have room to spare.

  As she passes me, her tote smashes into my iced coffee, knocking it from my hand to the floor.

  I quickly drop the phone and scoop up the cup. Some of the coffee has sloshed out, but at least I prevented most it from spilling on the hardwood.

  I exhale. Obviously, I wasn’t meant to drink straight-up iced coffee.

  I reach for my phone.

  “Hey, Katie, I need to go,” I say. “I’ll text you when I get a chance to let you know how it’s going.”

  “Okay, can’t wait. If I don’t answer, you know I’m studying.”

  Katie is finishing her last semester at Georgetown, and most of her time is spent studying. I’m so excited she’s taking the summer off to work and decompress before she begins law school next fall.

  “Talk to you later,” I say.

  I end the call and stand up. The trash can is next to Hot Guy, so I move a few feet forward and toss my nearly full cup toward it so I can quickly get on my way.

  Except the cup hits the edge of the trash can instead of going in. The lid shoots off, and I watch in slow motion horror as the coffee and ice shoot over the top of the can and explode straight onto Hot Guy.

  On his crotch.

  “Oh, my God!” I cry, my hand flying to my mouth.

  Hot Guy doesn’t even flinch. How is he not flinching? He’s soaked!

  On his crotch.

  Oh my God, I want to die.

  Dieeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee.

  “I am so, so sorry!” I reach across the counter next to him and grab a huge wad of brown napkins, immediately handing them to him. “Here. Please. I’m mortified by this. I’ll pay for your dry cleaning. I’m very sorry.”

  Hot Guy takes the napkins and sets them aside for a moment.

  He still hasn’t moved. Or spoken.

  My heart is pounding anxiously inside my chest as I watch him. I’m waiting for him to get mad. To yell at me.

  Anything.

  Finally, he clears his throat.

  “If you wanted an introduction for hot meaningless sex,” he says in a voice that is deliciously scratchy, “you just had to ask. No need to throw your drink on my jeans for an intro.”

  My face is an inferno. My mouth pops open. I’m desperately trying to think of something to say when he does something that completely disarms me.

  He flashes me the most beautiful smile I’ve ever seen.

  I’ve made him smile.

  My guidebook flashes through my head.

  This was supposed to happen today.

  As my heart flutters in my chest, I realize I want to analyze this smile.

  And see what the result is.

  Chapter Two

  “Do you honestly think I’d purposely miss the trash can and throw coffee on your pants in the hopes you’d introduce yourself and want hot meaningless sex?” I ask Hot Guy.

  His eyebrows shoot up.

  As do those of the barista, who has just placed Hot Guy’s cup of coffee on the countertop.

  Good lord, did I actually say that?

  And where is this kick-ass bravado coming from?

  I hate being a stream of consciousness thinker.

  “There’s validity in that statement,” he says, as he continues to blot his jeans with a brown paper napkin. “I could have gone psycho on you for making it look like I peed in my pants rather than ask you what is in your collection of sex toys. So, I suppose you would have had to weigh out your odds of my response before tossing your drink at me.”

  My face rages with heat from that comment, and as I feel it growing hotter, a smirk plays at the corner of his full lips.

  “I lied about the sex toys. I was trying to get my roommate to shut up.”

  “So, no handcuffs? Whips?”

  I furrow my brow. I wonder if Hot Guy likes being handcuffed.

  WHAT AM I EVEN THINKING?

  “No and no.”

  “That doesn’t sound like a cornucopia to me,” he says, his smirk growing into a mischievous grin as he moves around a café worker, who has come to the rescue with a mop.

  Hot Guy moves closer to me as a result.

  “I told you it was a lie,” I say, dying all over again.

  “What about a trapeze over the bed?” he says, easily carrying on his torture of me.

  A trapeze?

  I furrow my brow. I don’t know how that would even work. I’d probably fall off or hit myself with it. Now that I could easily see.

  “No,” I say.

  I wonder if Hot Guy has one over his bed.

  Wait. Why do I care if Hot Guy has one over his bed? We’re forced into talking due to my coffee exploding on his jeans. Period. I study his face again. I concede he’s smoking hot, but he’s also in his twenties.

  He probably not only has a trapeze over his bed, but leftover red Solo cups from the weekend stashed on his nightstand and a ton of texts calling him ‘dude’ or ‘bro’ on his phone.

  Normally, this is enough to have me look away, think “eew,” and see if I can find a more mature guy in a suit.

  But for reasons I can’t explain, I find myself studying his handsome face instead.

  “You hesitated before answering,” he says as he continues to blot.

 
“Wouldn’t that be an apparatus, not a toy?” I say, ignoring his last comment.

  He lifts his head and his eyes lock on mine. “It can’t be both?”

  I furrow my brow. He does have a point.

  Suddenly, he begins laughing. “I’m sorry. I’m teasing you. I shouldn’t do this. I don’t want to offend you in any way.”

  I begin laughing in relief, and I feel a tingle in my stomach when I see a dimple pop out of his left cheek.

  “I’m really sorry about your clothes,” I say again.

  “It’s okay. I’m running to an office to sign some papers, so no big deal. Of course, I do look like I pissed myself and I get to walk around DC like this and ride the Metro back. Which I’m sure will be on Instagram shortly.”

  “Ugh,” I say, putting my face in my hands.

  “No, no, it’s fine,” he says again, and I once again notice how raspy his voice is, almost like he has a sore throat.

  I wonder if he does have a sore throat, or if that’s his natural voice.

  Either way, it’s rather sexy.

  Not that it matters.

  That is merely an observation because his voice is unique.

  “I still feel horrible.”

  “Don’t. I have to change for work this afternoon anyway,” he says easily.

  “Well, here,” I say, digging into my purse and retrieving the Leuchtturm1917 notebook that I use as a bullet journal. “I don’t have business cards yet, but I can give you my email, and I insist, please send me the dry cleaning bill so I can PayPal you the money.”

  “No, please don’t,” he insists, throwing his wad of crumpled napkins into the trash. “And note the successful execution of delivery into the trash can I made here.”

  I pause from ripping out a page of my journal.

  He’s clever.

  I love clever.

  I clear my throat and tear the page out. “I don’t care for sports, which is obviously why my aim is bad. I was picked last for everything in PE.” I screw up my nose at the memory, as horrific flashbacks of the middle school gym flood my mind. I was short, uncoordinated, and slow.

  First round draft material right there.

  “So my aim for the trash can was destined to be poor,” I continue.

  “Obviously,” Hot Guy says in mock gravity.

  “And yeah, sports are great and all, but nothing is more boring than watching a game on TV. Ugh. Torture.”

  He nods slowly. “So, I imagine you’d rather have bamboo under your fingernails than go to a live sporting event, am I right?”

  I roll my eyes. “Or a manicure in hot sauce. At least that would have some spice.”

  He takes a sip of his beverage.

  I wonder what he’s drinking.

  “In your mind, there’s no excitement in a Hail Mary touchdown scored in the last few seconds of a game? A breakaway goal in hockey? Or a catcher gunning a man down in the bottom of the ninth to get the final out?”

  “No,” I say matter-of-factly.

  He stares at me, a crease in his brow.

  I stare back at him.

  I’m pretty sure this is where I’ve lost him, as most guys in America are obsessed with professional sports. Ugh. I can’t imagine sitting next to a guy and having to suffer through endless hours of sports highlight shows.

  Yet as I look at Hot Guy, I think I could make a solid attempt at this for him.

  CRAP! WHAT AM I THINKING?

  “So that’s a hard no,” he says, interrupting my thoughts.

  To my surprise, his eyes are shining at me, as if to say he’s amused by my sentiment.

  I clear my throat and remove the pen I have on the outside of my notebook. I scrawl my first name and email address on the torn piece of paper. After all, I’m not going to give him my cell number as I don’t give that to strangers.

  No matter how cute and clever they are.

  “Here,” I say, putting the piece of paper down on the countertop next to his mystery drink.

  He glances down at my neat handwriting. “Your email?” he asks, lifting his eyes to meet mine.

  “Yes. Please don’t argue with me and send me the bill for getting the jeans and sweater cleaned. I insist.”

  “I know you’re legit; there’s no phone number here,” he says, cocking an eyebrow up. “If you wanted hot meaningless sex, you’d simply leave me digits.”

  “If I wanted hot meaningless sex, I’d ask for your number and take control of my destiny instead of waiting for you to call.”

  I NEED TO SHUT UP WHO AM I OH MY GOD.

  The barista drops her milk pitcher. The business woman who has just picked up her coffee stares at me with an open mouth.

  And I’ve decided I’m done with my one-woman stand-up crazy show this morning.

  “I’ve got to go,” I say abruptly, as my cheeks are growing hotter by the second.

  “Coincidence, so do I,” he says, sweeping up the paper with my email on it. He folds it and slips it into the front pocket of his jeans.

  Oh!

  Hot Guy walks to the door with me, and I get a whiff of the cologne lingering on his tanned skin. It’s crisp and fresh, like citrus and cedar.

  Nice.

  Now I feel butterflies in my stomach. I have no idea why. He’s not my type.

  So far from my type, I must be distracted by his amazing good looks.

  His mischievous teasing.

  The fact that he was so laid back and gracious about the whole exploding coffee bit.

  Yes. All of these unique traits are causing me to respond out of character.

  He opens the door for me as we both enter the streets of DC, pausing next to the iron railing of the coffeehouse’s outdoor patio.

  “I’m going this way,” Hot Guy says, inclining his head in the opposite direction of my new office.

  “And I’m going that way,” I say, copying him and inclining my head in the other direction.

  He smiles.

  My heart skips a beat.

  Silence.

  I can’t stand silence, whether it’s in my own head or conversation, so I speak again.

  “I’m really sorry about ruining your clothing. Please make sure you send me the bill.”

  “Hayley, stop worrying. I’m good.”

  Hayley.

  He said my name.

  Now electricity shoots through me, nothing that I’ve ever felt before. The way my name sounded coming from his lips is making me feel alive.

  A feeling no man has ever evoked in me before.

  “I don’t know your name,” I say, flirting back with him.

  He grins. “You gave me yours. I never said I’d give you mine.”

  Flirt game on point with this one.

  “What if I ask?”

  “Nah. You don’t need to know it. Yet.”

  “What?” I say, laughing. “I’m not even asking for your full name.”

  “Perhaps you’ll find out when I send you my bill.”

  Then he turns around and walks away, disappearing into a sea of people.

  ***

  I get home and open the door after a long first day at work. I’m greeted by the rich aroma of red sauce cooking and the sounds of sports coming from the TV.

  I shut the door behind me, and Katie glances up from the pot she’s stirring on the stove.

  “Hey, working girl, welcome home! I’ve been dying for a full report. How was your day? Leave nothing out.”

  I debate where to begin with Katie.

  Do I start with the job? How I was stuffed into a cubicle all day, ignored for most of it because, even though my new boss Belinda hired me two weeks ago and knew I’d be starting today, she seemed frazzled, overwhelmed, and completely uninterested in showing me anything? Not even where the breakroom and restroom are? And her only point of instruction was to study the website and social media platforms? How the only contact I had with coworkers was when the human resources director, Dave, dropped a huge packet off and told me to sign where i
t said “sign” and to select what medical plan I wanted?

  It wasn’t even close to a Mary Richards day.

  But it was the first day, and now that it’s done, I can prepare for a better working day tomorrow.

  Or do I start with the fact that I met a guy by accidentally blasting him in the crotch with iced coffee? Do I confess to giving him my email and hoping he might use it? Oh, and that on top of it he’s young and probably not my type?

  I sigh as my fluffy grey kitten, affectionately nicknamed Pissy because she hates everyone except for me, bounds up to me and rubs affectionately around my legs.

  I scoop her up and she purrs against my chest. Once I had time to analyze what happened this morning, I realized it’s stupid to hope Hot Guy emails me. I’ve never connected with younger guys, ever. Come on, I’m a girl who watches Mary Tyler Moore. I don’t like parties, unless you count a dinner party, then I’m all in. I like the comforts of childhood cereal and enjoy grocery shopping. I can spend hours looking at kitchen gadgets in Target or Bed, Bath and Beyond.

  I’m not normal.

  I love that about myself. I’m confident in who I am, but I recognize the fact guys my own age want to go out and have a different kind of fun other than eating a bowl of Trix and studying As Seen On TV products on Amazon.com.

  Normal twenty-something people go out, take part in the vivid DC night scene. Enjoy bars. Nightclubs. Hangout with loads of friends and party.

  I sigh as I put little Pissy down. No. It’s for the best that Hot Guy never contacts me. Odds are favorable he won’t. In all likelihood, my email address will end up being washed with his jeans because he forgot he had it in his pocket.

  “Hello? First day? Was it so awful you can’t speak? Which means you must be really traumatized because you are always talking,” Katie says.

  I blink. Katie is assessing me, but I don’t want to talk about any of it at the moment.

  “It was good,” I say vaguely, setting my purse and HR paperwork on the countertop.

  “Good?” Katie asks, sweeping a stray lock of her dark, curly brown hair away from her face. “What kind of description is that?”