Page 24 of Flirty Thirty

He tilts his head, studying my jittery movements. “Why agree to go out with me at all?” he asks, his voice light.

“Curiosity, mostly.” I shrug. “You also caught me in a weak moment.”

His brow pulls in briefly before the memory returns to him. A wicked glint flickers in the deep blues of his eyes, and he shoves from the car door and closes the distance between us. His strong fingers run through my hair and grip at the back of my head, stealing the breath from my lungs. His lips come down on mine, anxious and hungry, erasing any confusion settling in the corners of my mind.

“Go out with me again.” His request comes out in a breathless grunt between our lips. I can’t seem to string two thoughts together. The stars have been plucked from the sky and placed behind my eyes, and the thought of saying no seems ludicrous; why would I ever turn away the possibility of another moment like this one?

“You are evil,” I tell him with a grin, catching onto his game.

“Is that a yes?”

“It won’t change my mind.”

He taps a kiss to my nose and steps back, the smile lines creasing his cheeks. “I like you, Maya. I’m not looking to change your mind. I want to know what’s inside of it.”

10

Agree to Disagree

This place is ginormous. I feel like an itty bitty ant as I stretch up to ring the bell. I half expect a tuxedo-donning butler to answer the big wooden door and offer to take my coat… well, if I were wearing one.

When Cooper sent me the address and told me to come over ready to eat, I waited a full hour before agreeing. I hardly ever say yes to second dates—mostly because I rarely get asked on them—but Cooper has discovered the key to my stubbornness, and it’s not just his kissing skills.

I do a quick check of the ladies to make sure they’re not popping out of the deeply cut, heart-shaped bodice of my only little black dress. It’s been a while since I pulled this number out, the last guy I thought worthy of it I dated when I was twenty-six. It’s a little tight around the middle, but I think it’ll still do the trick.

The lock on the door clicks, and my stomach flutters up to the sky, pulling the corners of my mouth with it on the trip. Cooper greets my clown-ish grin with one of his own, his eyes staying on mine for a good three seconds before taking a detour up and down my dress. I do a slow spin for him just for fun.

“You approve?”

“Hang on.” He braces himself using the doorframe. “Trying to find the right word.”

“That bad?”

“You’re gorgeous.” His foot falls onto the porch as he takes a step toward me, and I glance down just enough to notice he’s barefoot. “It’s good to see you.”

My gaze roams over his face, down to his shoulders and chest that’s covered in a deep blue, long-sleeved Henley, his muscular forearms peeking out from the rolled up sleeves. He’s in a pair of khaki cargos that hug him quite nicely, a pen hooked onto one of the side pockets. I’m in danger of throwing myself at him; khakis are my weakness, and I’d never ever admit that to anyone, even my cats.

“Likewise,” I say, wishing that my breathless voice sounded more flirty than it did flighty, but by the look on his face, he seems to like getting me all hot and bothered.

“Hungry?”

“Starving.”

He slides his fingers between mine, leads me inside the mansion, and grins wide at the gasp that slips through my teeth.

I’m a realtor; I’ve seen million dollar homes and foreclosed P.O.S’s. I’ve seen everything from horribly painted walls and half-eaten carpets to marble staircases and ten-thousand dollar rugs. When you see a house like the outside of this one, there’s an expectation of the inside. This one defies them all.

“Surprised?”

“You could say that,” I tell him with a laugh, glancing around at the very… well, there’s no other way to describe it…family-eskdécor. To our left is a parlor area, but it looks more like a playroom for a daycare. Toys in colorful buckets on organized shelves, one wall painted in chalkboard paint, drawings of stick figures and undefined swirls faded as if they tried to erase them, but they had a faulty eraser.

To our right is the dining and kitchen area, both of those looking more like what I’d expect from a million-dollar home, except in place of a dining room table, a checkered picnic blanket is spread across the fluffy carpet. Battery-operated tea lights line the edges, a couple of plates covered with sterling silver lids sit on either side, and a bucket with a bottle of champagne rests just off the blanket.

“Aww,” I say, slipping my shoes off, grateful that he’s decided to go casual for the night. “You cooked?”

“I’m trying to impress you… so no. I left the cooking to the professionals.” He laughs. “At least for now. Home cooking will be on date five.”

“Ambitious.” I take my spot on the pillow soft blanket, tucking my legs under me and controlling the relaxing moan in the back of my throat. “What makes you so sure we’ll get to a date five?”

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