Pickup Lessons (Awkward Arrangements Book 3) Read online

  “Do you have any Dark Horse comics?”

  The guy grins at me. “You’re going to have to be more specific than that. What’s your taste?”

  “Something with clean lines.” I rub my chin, considering. “Bold colors. Determined characters.”

  His eyebrows raise, and appreciation glints in his eyes. “Ah. Lots of times people come in here looking for a storyline or a character they’ve seen in a movie.” He shakes his head and points a finger at me. “But not you. You’re thinking like an artist.”

  I nod. “Guilty as charged.”

  His face splits into a smile. “You draw?”

  “I do.”

  “You know Dark Horse accepts open submissions.”

  A smile curves my own lips. “I heard that rumor. Hoping to submit to them myself.” Hoping my inside connection helps me stand out.

  “You got any art I can look at? Maybe I can help you find a match.”

  The tips of my ears feel hot as I reach into my bag and produce my sketchbook. I hand it to him, and he spreads it open on top of the cardboard boxes. He flips through carefully, studying each picture without rushing.

  “Nice style,” he says, tapping the picture of the foodie I drew in the coffee shop last week. The respect in his eyes makes me feel like anything’s possible. Like I might actually have a chance.

  He pages all the way through the notebook, then flips back to a specific page. “This is your hero right here.”

  I squint at the picture pinned under his pointer finger.

  It’s Eden.

  Of course it is.

  My stomach flips and I find myself holding my breath, but the guy continues. “You draw her like she’s a superhero,” he says. “Strong, but clever, too. See the light in her eyes?” He taps his temple. “More than just a pretty girl.”

  The observation reveals more about me and my desire than feels fair. I swallow down a longing that threatens to consume me.

  The smart, clever hero of my story is on a date with someone else. So far, I’m not doing anything about it except for running from the truth. But if I can get my shit together and be my own hero, too, maybe I can change where this story goes.

  “Thanks,” I tell the guy. I stuff the sketchbook back in my bag and pull the first comic I can reach out of the stack in front of me. “I’ll take this one.”

  He raises his eyebrows again but doesn’t comment on how I’ve picked a Marvel story rather than one from Dark Horse. He rings up my order and slips a button bearing Wonder Woman’s face into the bag along with it.

  “I hope you found what you’re looking for,” he says, waving two fingers in a salute.

  “Yeah,” I say. “I think so.” I step out the door and back into the night, then lift my phone to my ear.

  11

  Eden

  “What are you doing right now?” Dash’s voice curls in my ear, an echo of earlier with none of the anger.

  Honestly? I’m sitting on my couch in my pajamas, decompressing from my evening, slightly woozy from margaritas and the buzz of a first date. But I can’t resist the temptation to fuck with Dash, especially after his empty threat of crashing tonight’s dinner.

  I run a hand over Princess Diana’s back, and she arches into my touch with a satisfied purr. Now that I’m thinking about it…

  “Just petting my pussy,” I say.

  “Eden!” he growls.

  There it is.

  I clamp a hand over my mouth to stifle my laugh, my grin so huge I’m glad he can’t see it.

  My cat makes a loud complaining noise at the lack of continued petting, and I return to lavishing her with attention. “Jealous, Dash?”

  He makes a strangled sound. “I’m thinking I need a damn drink.”

  “Mmm,” I muse. “That sounds nice.”

  “Glad you agree.”

  A knock comes at my door, and my pulse spikes.

  No way. It couldn’t be—could it?

  I stand, boosting Princess Diana from my lap. She gives a disapproving yowl and flees the living room, leaving me alone in the quiet apartment.

  Another knock.

  My stomach swoops as I stalk across the room and pull open the front door. Dash stands outside wearing a casual, shit-eating grin that makes me want to poke him in his irritatingly distracting dimple. Cold air seeps in through my open door, and before I think about the consequences, I reach for the front of his jacket and tug him inside.

  Dash kicks the door closed behind him, and then he’s standing there in front of me, chest heaving like he just ran down the block. Grinning at me, he lowers the phone from his ear.

  I end our phone call and gape at him. “Don’t tell me,” I say, crossing my arms and gripping my phone like it’s a life raft. “You were in the neighborhood.”

  Dash’s eyes light up. “I was in the neighborhood.”

  I frown back and drop a hand to brush cat hair from my pajama pants. “But not in the neighborhood for my date?”

  He shrugs, unaffected by the accusation that he didn’t show his face. As much as I tried to be present during my dinner tonight, the knowledge that Dash could show at any moment distracted me. Part of me—a tiny part I tried to squash—kept waiting for him to show up. A smaller, even more irritating part was disappointed he never came.

  “I’m here, now,” he says, and it feels like a promise. His lopsided grin slides into my stomach, and I don’t know how to look away from the warmth in his eyes. “You don’t have to miss me anymore.”

  His words rumble in my chest and make themselves at home. The smart thing to do would be to tell him I missed him as much as someone misses heat rash, but we’d both know I was lying. Anyway, if I’m staying on-brand, it’s honesty or nothing.

  I like being alone with Dash.

  I like being with him, period.

  Somehow with him, I’ve laughed more than I have in ages. He unlocks that playful side of me that usually hides behind appearances and what everyone else thinks about me. With him, I’m having too much fun to care.

  I lose the stalemate, dropping my gaze even though I can still feel his scrutiny on my face. At least I’m wearing my cute pajamas.

  “About that drink,” I mutter and spin on my heel.

  Behind me, Dash kicks off his shoes. Then he slips off his coat, hangs it by the collar on the doorknob, and follows me toward my kitchen. It feels strange and comfortable to have him in my home. We don’t talk about how Titus isn’t here, and we definitely, definitely don’t talk about how we each spent the day with other people. We don’t talk about how he has a second date, and about how I landed a second date too, for tomorrow.

  This, of course, is the problem. This thing that we don’t acknowledge. The lines that we’ve crossed.

  I agreed to this whole bet partly to convince myself to stay away from Dash, but all it’s done is draw me closer to him. And when he’s here, smelling like sin and wearing a white dress shirt that begs to be ripped from his shoulders, every thought I should be thinking about my next date evaporates. All I’m left with is a vision of Dash turning those gorgeous lips to mine.

  Damn. What is it about a guy wearing a button-down shirt rolled to show off his forearms that’s my absolute catnip?

  Blowing out a breath to scatter my thoughts, I lift onto my toes to open the cabinet above my stove. I pretend to be very busy assessing the drink options. Mostly, I try not to let Dash see how much he’s affecting me simply by being here.

  “What’ll it be, champ? Whiskey, vodka, bourbon…?”

  He takes too long to answer, and I spin to find him studying me with a hint of a smirk on his lips.

  “What?” I demand.

  “You keep your liquor in a cabinet like the rest of us heathens? I would have thought you’d have a bar cart or something fancy to put the rest of us to shame.”

  How am I supposed to take that? As a compliment or an insult?

  “Oh, I have a bar cart,” I snort. “Just not for alcohol.” I take pleasu
re in the way his eyes narrow in confusion. “It’s for organizing my photography gear,” I clarify. “Don’t underestimate me, Dash.”

  “Never.” He says it so softly I barely catch the word, but it’s uttered with absolute reverence.

  I swallow hard and feel my pulse flutter. “So?” I whisper.

  He snaps back to his senses and says, “Whatever you’re having.”

  I grin back at him. “Rosé, it is. From the fridge.”

  I rock onto my toes again to close the cabinet door, but my finger bumps the base of a vodka bottle and sends it reeling. The glass pitches in my direction, and I scramble trying to catch it before it lands on my head.

  “Shit!” I gasp as the bottle of Belvedere slips from my fingertips and crashes to the floor.

  The explosion is instant and loud.

  Glass shatters and scatters in every direction, and cool liquid seeps into my socks. Before I can react, Dash grabs me by the waist and lifts me into the air, setting me down gently on the countertop.

  A whiff of his cologne mingles with the astringent scent of spilled vodka, and heat rushes through my body at our proximity. Embarrassment, desire. The room throbs with tension, and Dash’s hands stay on my thighs. His touch burns through my thin cotton leggings as if there’s no fabric between us, and he draws in an unsteady breath. My pussy—and I don’t mean my cat—aches to be touched.

  “You okay?” Dash asks, searching my eyes.

  He’s so close, his body solid between my legs, his shoulders broad and safe and unsafe all at once.

  I’m holding onto him, I realize. I loosen my grip on his shirt and blow out a breath, then give a shaky nod. “I’m okay.”

  “You sure?”

  Yes. No. Who the hell knows?

  I want to bury my hands in his hair and bite his pouty bottom lip. When did that happen?

  “We’re making a mess,” I whisper. I don’t know if I’m talking about the floor and the vodka or the way everything I want’s been turned upside down. The way something shifted between us the moment he rushed into a sea of glass to save me before he even thought about himself.

  “No such thing.” Dash draws his hands from my thighs almost reluctantly, and I wonder if he kept the picture I sent him. “Dustpan?”

  “Under the sink.” I make a move to hop off the counter, but Dash shoots me an assertive look.

  “Don’t move.”

  Yes, sir, I want to retort like a spoiled brat. God, I can imagine Dash rolling up those shirtsleeves and pulling some Christian Grey moves with those large, capable hands. He’s a nice guy, but the more I test his patience, the more I wonder if he wouldn’t seriously take charge in bed.

  I push away the vision, too afraid to think about whether he’d be the type. About whether I’d like it.

  Dash steps carefully through the glass and retrieves the dustpan, then busies himself sweeping up the mess. “Tell me about your photography,” he says as he cleans. “Is that for the blog?”

  “Yeah.” I’m glad for the interruption from my naughty train of thought. Talking about the blog feels like showing him a piece of what makes me tick, but despite all his teasing, he seems interested to learn. “I shoot a mixture of content, like staged photos of me with my desk, my tech, tools that work for me. But then there’s lifestyle stuff too, like outfits and coffee and things that make me happy.” I can’t help the proud smile on my face as I talk about doing what I love. “It’s all about finding the tools to empower you to live your best life, whether that’s a new app or new shoes to wear as you stomp around the world.”

  He looks up at me with understanding in his eyes. “You do a lot, then, don’t you? The photography, the words, the styling.”

  Hearing him talk about it makes me feel seen. I’m proud of what I do, and, yeah, it takes wearing a lot of different hats to make it all come together.

  “I grew up with a brother who was so good at so many things,” I say. “I’m still not genius-level talented like Titus, but I work hard.”

  “Hey,” Dash cuts in. “Don’t compare yourself to anyone else. And don’t downplay your talents.”

  I wrinkle my nose at his assessment even though he’s more spot-on than I’d like to admit. “To be fair, no one else put those expectations on me. I put them on myself. Another way to get attention for being good and talented. For doing the right thing.” I groan and sink my face into my hands. “God, that sounds so lame of me. I promise I’m not always such an overachiever.”

  “Eden,” he sighs. “We just talked about this. Don’t apologize for who you are.”

  I have to laugh at the irony. “Now you sound like my blog.”

  He looks up and flashes me a panty-melting grin. “It’s a good blog.”

  “You’ve read it?” My heart skips a beat as I think about the implications. I share so much of myself on my blog that it’s like another way to know me. Is it possible Dash has been paying me way more attention than I thought?

  “Is it a good or bad thing if I say I have it bookmarked?”

  A giggle bursts out of me. “I’ll take it as a compliment.”

  “Good.” His voice goes serious again. “You know what deserves attention? Your heart. How much you care about helping other people.”

  The statement feels so big—so intimate—that my mouth falls open and my heart lurches with want.

  I want you to take care of my heart, Dash. I’d give it to you in an instant.

  But reality comes crashing in, and I give myself a mental shake. He’s not mine to want, and gaping at him like a fool’s only going to turn him away that much faster.

  I force myself to keep my voice light as I respond. “How about you? What secret talents are you hiding?”

  To my relief, he lets me hide behind the question, lightening his tone to match mine. “Boat-naming,” he deadpans without blinking an eye.

  “Boat-naming?” I repeat skeptically, finding solid ground.

  “Oh, yeah.” He winks at me. “If I had a boat, I’d call it Unsinkable Two.”

  A groan escapes my lips, but all he seems is proud. “I don’t even know what to say to that.”

  “Say you’re glad you’re not on Unsinkable One.”

  I shake my head, but his corny joke coaxes a smile on my lips. “Seriously, though. Are you still doing your art?”

  Dash freezes for a hair of a second, the brush in his hands hovering over a pile of broken glass. “Yeah, E. Still trying to make that work.” His face goes funny, and he wrinkles his nose. “Do you smell that?”

  “Vodka? The smell of dreams in the evening?”

  “No.” Dash shakes his head and stands, dumping broken glass into my trash can and brushing off the knees of his pants. “Worse.” He sets the dustpan on the counter beside me. “Don’t move,” he warns again, then paces down the hallway sniffing like a basset hound.

  This can’t be good.

  “Holy shit,” he groans from somewhere near the front door, followed by incoherent swearing. He reappears in the kitchen a second later and grabs a roll of paper towels off my countertop. “I hate your cat.”

  “What did Princess Diana ever do to you?” I ask, keeping my voice light even though I dread the response.

  Dash spins to face me, shoving a hand through his messy hair. “Princess Diana pissed in my shoes.”

  I blanch in shock, unable to appreciate the last sentence rolling off his tongue. Princess Diana pissed in my shoes. “What?” I gulp. Please don’t let it be true. “No, she didn’t.” But even as the desperate words leave my lips, I can smell the distinct odor of cat urine wafting through the air.

  “She did,” he confirms.

  “Oh, shit.” I swing my legs over the far edge of the counter, away from the mess, and jump down. I run across the room, slipping slightly in my socks, and follow him toward the front door.

  The stench of cat pee coming from Dash’s shoes is overpowering and undeniable, and I can’t help but gag.

  “Bad kitty,” I call w
eakly, but Princess Diana is a smart bitch who knows when to flee the scene of a crime.

  I drop to my knees beside Dash, who’s using paper towels to dab cat pee from his shoes. “Dash, I’m so sorry,” I cry.

  “Maybe you didn’t pet your pussy enough,” he mutters.

  My cheeks fill with heat. I don’t dream of telling him that now, after he’s shown up here, the only thing that will satisfy me is something only he can give. “My pussy is plenty happy, thank you very much.”

  He lifts his eyes to mine, and electricity zings between us in a hot arc of connection. “Are you sure?” he asks quietly, and suddenly we’re not talking about cats.

  My palms feel sweaty, and my heart stutters in my chest. I need to hold my cards close to the vest, but it’s so damn hard to tamp down my feelings when Dash is this close and this touchable. Another minute like this, and I might combust or give in or spill how I can’t even remember my date’s name right now because all I can think about is Dash. And what good’s that going to do? We are both literally dating other people.

  Anyway, even if Dash were to like me like that, us choosing each other over Titus would crush my brother. And if Titus felt like anything went wrong between me and Dash, it could jeopardize the business—and the friendship—they’ve worked so hard to build.

  Not going to happen.

  It’s not worth the risk.

  I bite out a snappy reply just to ease the tension in the room. I can’t see how answering honestly can do anything but hurt. “Maybe that’s just the effect you have on females.” I offer Dash a pointed look. “They lose their bladders around you.”

  “Trust me, Eden,” he says with a voice like gravel, “that’s not the effect I have at all.”

  A shiver of something—desire? flat-out arousal?—rolls through me, but I refuse to pay attention. There’s no better mood-killer than cat pee, right?

  I reach for the roll of paper towels and rip off a few squares, then busy myself with cleaning up Dash’s shoes.

  After a few minutes, it becomes clear it’s a hopeless mission. Beside me, Dash sighs and pushes to his feet, soggy paper towels in one hand. “Here,” he says, holding out his other hand.