Page 65 of Love Complicated

You remember the kiss last weekend. . . right? The one against the wall?

Guess who has yet to stop thinking about it?

This girl.

So—with that in mind—what do you think I’m thinking about when Ridge once again waits until I’m in the parking lot loading up the kids?

Nasty, dirty thoughts that involve us naked and my legs up around my ears like the porn I may or may not have watched in the last six months while putting my phone on private browsing.

Well that’s certainly detailed enough to be true, isn’t it?

Regardless,focus, Ridge is in front of me.

Amusement dances in his dark irises, as if he knows my thoughts are constantly in the gutter. He tips his head, looking inside the back of the van and waving to the boys, but then he notes in my ear, “There’s a lot more room in the back of your van than I thought.”

“The seats fold down too,” I breath, organizing the gear bags so they’re nice and neat and not strung all over the place. I fight the urge to slap my hand over my mouth after saying that. I glance at the boys.

They didn’t hear me, nor would they have understood anyway.

Ridge leans into the side of the van with his shoulder, ducking his head so he doesn’t hit it on the rear hatch. “Are you gonna bring the boys by the track today? It’s race night.”

Zipping up the bags, I glance over at him. “I’m beginning to think you like them better than me.”

“I think it’s a good thing they don’t know all the things I want to do to their mom.”

The way he watches me, his dark eyes undressing me, it makes me want to throw myself at him like all those shameless girls in high school did. Sorry, Tori, you’re one of them. Which, by the way, I do not hate my cousin for sleeping with Ridge. I’m jealous, but I don’t hate her because she didn’t do it to hurt me. They actually dated for a week.

I’m not sure where the thoughts come from, but I ask before I can take it back, “What kind of things?”

He reaches up and scratches the back of his head, then turns his hat around backward. His dark hair spills out from the front and loops around the snap of the trucker-style hat he’s wearing. “I can’t tell you. I’m more of a hands-on teacher. I like involving students.”

Alyson, your kids are in the car. You have to stop this now. “I have to go.”

“No, you don’t.”

I close the back hatch. “Yes, I do. I’ll bring them by the track around two.”

“Wear something tight,” he tells me, watching me walk away.

“It’s been six months. . .it’sfucking tight.”

He groans and hangs his head. “You’ll pay for that later.”

“Two can play your little game, Ridge.”

What the fuck am I doing leading him on like this? I should know better. Leading Ridge Lucas on is like tossing stones at the devil and not expecting him to turn the motherfuckers into grenades and fire them right back at you. Metaphorically speaking of course.

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