Kristen Ashley - Mystery Man

“That I’ll allow,” he allowed.

Serious to God, he could not be believed.

“All right, I know you have selective hearing and block out entire sections of what I say but really, pay attention. First, tell your boys to stop their work. Dad is fixing my window and I don’t want a security system from you. Second, I don’t know what went down in that huddle but clearly you won and that makes you think you can waltz over here and boss me around but you are way wrong. Not only because I’m not your woman but also because I do not like to be bossed around, at all, ever. And last, honest to God, honest to God, we… are… over.”

I barely got out the word “over” when he yanked off his shades, then he yanked off mine, then he tossed both of them on the hood of my car. I was so surprised by this maneuver I was frozen stiff so he was able to execute his next maneuver without resistance. Therefore, I found my body flat against his, one of his arms was tight around me, the other hand was cupping the back of my head, he tilted it and his mouth slammed down on mine.

This was a problem.

There was a reason I never kicked Hawk out of my bed and that was because, usually before I could speak, he was kissing me.

And he was an excellent kisser. He could do a lot of things with his hands, his mouth and other parts of his anatomy that were mind-blowing but even if he only ever kissed me it was highly likely I would be ruined for any other man.

Yes, he was that good. Really.

Therefore, when he finally lifted his head (and as humiliating as it was, he took his time and I let him), I had one arm tight around his back and one hand curled on the side of his neck both in order just to hold on. When his tongue was working my mouth, that was all I could ever do, just hold on.

“We over, Sweet Pea?” he whispered to me.

“I do not like you,” I whispered back, still holding on.

He did that deep, amused, manly chuckle again, his hand moved out of my hair and became an arm wrapped around my shoulders before both his arms tightened, bringing me even closer. “Got things to do now, the boys’ll be workin’ here but I’ll come back, take you to lunch.”

Take me to lunch? We’d never even had a date and now he was casually telling me he was going to take me to lunch?

“I can’t go to lunch. I have three deadlines and I only worked for a few hours yesterday. I have to go flat out if I’m going to make them. I’m eating lunch at my desk.”

“I’ll bring something. What do you want?”

God! What was with this guy?

“I have food in my fridge.”

“Tom Yung Goong and Pad Thai, J’s Noodles,” he said and I stared.

Two of my favorites. I had many but Tom Yung Goong soup and Pad Thai noodles from J’s were very high on the top of that long list. And I usually bought them takeout to eat at my desk when I had a marathon workday going.

Then I stopped staring and I felt my eyes get squinty.

“How do you know everything about me?”

He didn’t answer my question but it was unnecessary for him to do so since evidence was suggesting he watched me like… well, a hawk.

Instead, he asked his own question. “You didn’t sleep last night?”

“My house got broken into,” I reminded him.

“Thought you went to your Dad’s to feel safe,” he replied.

“I can feel safe and still toss and turn because I’m obsessing about watching a man’s hand push open my bedroom door at the same time worrying if I’d break my happy kitty snow globe when I had to clock him.”

His arms gave me a squeeze. “That was last night, babe, this is today. You’re good. It’s over. Get it out of your head.”

Was he high? Did he seriously think I could do that? Did he seriously think any woman could do that? I had at least twenty-five years of obsessing about last night left before I could get it out of my head.

“It’s not that easy,” I informed him.

“It’s just that easy,” he informed me.

I glared up at him.

He smiled down at me, with dimples and shit, I liked those dimples.

Time to get to work.

“I need coffee and I need to fire up my computer and get to work.”

“Yeah,” he murmured, dropped his head and before I could avoid it, he brushed his lips against mine. Then, murmuring again, he said, “Later,” let me go but leaned into me to grab his shades then he prowled to his Camaro, all badass cool, on his way tipping his chin to the commandos. Then he folded into his kickass car and purred off.

I stood by my car for awhile watching the street where I’d last seen him thinking one word.

Shit.

Then I grabbed my shades, avoided busy commandos, made my way inside, set a big pot of coffee to brew and when it was done I poured out about five mugs for various hardworking commandos.

Then, finally, I went to my office to fire up my computer.

I’d hit my zone and was able to focus even with a bunch of commandos banging around in my house when I suddenly felt my hair shifted off one shoulder, swept across my neck and over my other shoulder.

Then I felt lips at the skin at the back of my ear.

A delicious tremble radiated from my ear going up, down and out and my eyes on the computer screen unfocused as I came crashing headlong out of my zone and careened happily into an entirely different zone. The lips left my ear and, dazedly, I saw a brown paper bag accompanied by a white plastic bag hit the desk by my keyboard. I looked at the bottom right of my computer screen to see the time was twelve forty-seven.

Lunchtime.

I swiveled in my chair and looked up to see Hawk standing there, tearing open the folded over and stapled top of the bag.

I didn’t say anything because I was too busy freaking out because this was the subject matter of a daydream. When I said that I meant I had actually daydreamed this and now I was living it.

Okay, not the Thai food but, many a time, I’d drifted off and dreamed about what it would be like if my Mystery Man showed in the light of day, coming up to me silently while I did the dishes in the kitchen and he slid his arms around me. Or while I was in the shower and he joined me.

Or while I was working and he snuck up on me and kissed my neck.

Just like I liked in the spot that I liked.

Exactly like he’d just snuck up on me and kissed my neck.

Just like I liked in the spot that I liked.

And it was better than a daydream and not only because J’s Noodles was a welcome addition but because it was real.

Damn.

He started pulling food from the bag as I struggled to pull myself together. I saw him reveal a lidded cardboard cup of soup and another container of noodles, both of which I knew, from experience with J’s takeout, were for me. Next came chopsticks in paper and then he took out another container for him. Then he picked up the bag, dropped it on the floor and rifled through the other bag that had familiar red, orange and green logo on it. He took out a bottled water which I knew was for him when he set a can of diet grape soda by my food.

I stared at the soda. Then I looked back up at him.

“What? Do you follow me?” I asked.

“Sometimes,” he answered and I felt my eyes get squinty. “Sometimes my boys do it.”

He turned away from me and went to my couch, sat down, set his water on a side table and opened the top of his food container.

“So do you have a big, fat file on me at your base?” I asked, tearing the paper off my chopsticks then picking up my soup and pulling the lid off.

“Nope,” he replied, “verbal reports. ‘She went to J’s, got soup and noodles, then to 7-Eleven for a diet grape.’ Shit like that.”

Unreal.

“Why?” I asked.

“Why?” he repeated.

“Why did you and your boys follow me?”

“Babe,” he replied then he dug into his noodles with his chopsticks as if this was nothing, him and his boys following me, sharing reports about my food and beverage preferences, intruding into my life without my knowledge. Then my eyes dropped to his food and his noodles looked like nothing but noodles and veggies. No sauce. No cashews. No peanut bits. No succulent shrimp. None of the good stuff. Nothing. Just noodles and veg.

This reminded me of the first time I saw him when we were at a restaurant. He had a steak, baked potato and steamed vegetables. I remembered noting then, somewhat drunkenly, that he didn’t have anything on his potato. Not sour cream. Not bacon bits. Not cheese. Not even butter.

“What are you eating?” I asked.

“Noodles and veg,” he pointed out the obvious then shoved some into his mouth with his chopsticks.

“Just noodles and veg?”

He chewed, swallowed and said, “Yep,” then shoved more noodles in his mouth.

“No sauce?” I pushed.

More chewing then swallowing then, “Babe, I ate like you, I’d get a gut. In my work, you can’t have a gut.”

I felt my blood pressure rise. “Are you saying I’m fat?”

The double dimple threat popped out and, chopsticks loaded with noodles and veg halfway to his mouth, he replied, “Sweet Pea, the way you eat means you got tits and ass. This is good because I like tits and ass. This is bad because Tack and Lawson like ‘em just as much as me.” Then he shoved his noodles and veg into his mouth and said with his mouth full, “Tack maybe more.”

Shit.

“I need to focus on work,” I announced.

He stretched his long legs out in front of him, crossed his feet at the ankles, clearly planning to stay awhile, and replied, “Then focus.”