Page 19 of Well, Actually
I will if you ask nicely;)
Oh, this fucker. I throw my phone to the side as my pulse pounds, sinuous warmth unfurling through my body. No. Absolutelynot. I refuse to be aroused by that Neanderthal.
He’s an asshole, I tell myself as I drag my palms over my stiff nipples, the sharp lines of his jaw flashing in my head.A total fucking prick, I scream internally as I fumble through my bedside drawer, then shove my vibrator below the elastic of my pajama bottoms, picturing those heavy-lidded eyes looking up at me as his mouth dips between my legs.I hate him so much, I chant over and over as I touch myself, imagining his shoulders pushing my thighs further apart, his stupid, gorgeous, annoying face as he licks me to completion.He won’t get the best of me, I promise through the shaking waves of pleasure, seeing his dark eyelashes kissing the tops of his cheeks as he savors everyminute of my taste.And what I just did willneverhappen again, I swear to myself through the aftershocks.
My phone harmonizes with my vibrator, and I reluctantly glance at the screen.First date on Saturday?Cooper asks.I’d be more demanding and tell you to block out the morning but I don’t think that’d win me any favors.
Maybe you aren’t as clueless as I thought, I respond, a shiver tracing down my spine.
He sends me a series of disco dancer emojis in response. Then adds,see you at 7:30am on Saturday, Evil Kitten. Have fun with the Antichrist in the meantime <3
I read the text over and over, red bleeding into my vision.
Who in their right fucking mind schedules a date for that early in the morning and doesn’t anticipate violence?
Chapter 6
“You hired a chauffeur?” I say, squinting at the shiny black SUV Cooper’s leaning against in front of my apartment. I make out the silhouette of a driver in the front seat as the early (way too damn early) Saturday sun glints off the chrome trim in sharp slices. “Are you fucking joking?”
He shoves his hands in the pockets of his (over-the-top and tragically stunning) suit pants, lazily shrugging as his dimple flashes. Thank god I’d rather shave my head before showing up anywhere in an outfit that could be deemed casual, because clearly Cooper has some plans that require more than a kitschy crewneck, not that he bothered to give me a heads-up on the dress code.
Doing a quick assessment, I determine that my black, ass-worshiping pants and silk-lace top under my oversized peacoatstill have me looking better than him, but the margin is closer than I’d care to admit.
Not that I dressed nice for him or anything like that…
“Believe it or not, Eva, I picked up on a few subtle hints that maybe you weren’t impressed with my PT Cruiser.” Cooper taps the side of his nose. “I’m extremely perceptive.”
I shift my frown from his beautiful suit to the large car behind him. “The only way this could be more obnoxious is if you showed up on a pubcycle.”
“I love a pubcycle,” he says, smile star bright.
“Jesus fucking Christ.” I march forward, and Cooper opens the car door with a flourish. I flash him a glare before ducking in. Two rows of seats face each other, a glass partition separating us from the driver up front. A massive bouquet of lilies is plopped on the smooth leather across from where I sit. The floral scent is so pungent my eyes instantly water.
“For you,” Cooper says, following me in and shutting the door behind him. He picks up the bundle of flowers and holds them out to me.
His expression is so damn earnest and warm—his glasses slipping down his nose, cheeks glowing with a soft pink—that I suddenly don’t have the heart to tell him I’m allergic to the lilies he’s holding right under my nose. Instead, a series of body-wracking sneezes arrest me. I endure about seven of them before I lean back, lifting the toe of my stiletto-capped foot to push against his wrist and create some distance between me and the bouquet.
With a crestfallen expression, Cooper takes the hint. Fumbling, he finds a hidden button and lowers the partition. “I’llleave these up there, then,” he mumbles, tossing the flowers through the open window to the front passenger seat. “We’re ready,” he adds to the driver, who nods.
Cooper raises the dark sheet of glass, our equally horrified eyes meeting in the reflection in a taut moment of silence. He turns to me as the car rumbles to life and pulls into traffic.
We carefully avoid each other’s gazes for a few seconds, and I wonder if I’m the only one realizing that this is the first time we’ve been alone together since six years ago when we were.…together. Then he blinks, good humor flooding his features.
“Mimosa?” Cooper asks, digging around a darkened corner of the car before holding up a chilled bottle of sparkling wine and a small jug of orange juice.
I balk, eyes flicking between the sweating, dark bottle and his radiant smile. I open my mouth to tell him that while, generally, I’m a slut for champagne, it’s also seven thirty in the morning and all I really care about is locating the nearest reservoir of coffee, but he doesn’t wait for my response.
Instead, Cooper thumbs the top of the bottle, the loudpoperupting through the car. The noise in the small space slows down time, allowing me to take in everything in fine detail.
The cork whizzes like a bullet in my direction, colliding into the window before ricocheting off the glass with a bang. It changes course, hitting me with startling force in the throat. The direct hit scares me so badly I throw my arms up in delayed defense, subsequently punching my fists against the roof. The noise of fear that retches out of me isn’t a cutelittle yelp or squeak. It’s a prolonged, full, bloody-murder scream of terror.
The car jerks as the driver slams on the brakes, my seat belt digging into my chest and gut, turning my scream into a wheeze.
The world is still for half a second—my body slumped forward like a rag doll, my pulse pounding from the hefty dose of adrenaline from almost being slain by a stray cork—then another car bashes into us from behind, my head bouncing around my neck like a bobblehead. In the chaos, my eyes somehow catch Cooper’s alarmed gaze, his glasses askew and mouth gaping.
He sums the past twenty seconds up pretty succinctly with a whispered, “Oh fuck.”
Everything picks up speed after that. The driver’s side door opens, then slams; people on the street start arguing with raised voices; Cooper opens the back door and scrambles out, ducking back in and awkwardly gathering me in his arms like I’m an overstuffed laundry basket.
