Surprise Me.... Isabel Sharpe

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СКАЧАТЬ they had started anything last night.

      Had they?

      He wasn’t the kind of guy she usually went for, which was the understatement of the millennium. That fact could work in his favor now. Because he didn’t fit any of her hot-guy criteria, maybe she’d been after more than a quick lay. Maybe she was even open to that most terrifying of all things as far as Melanie was concerned—A Relationship.

      Down, boy. He couldn’t get ahead of himself like this; he’d only drive himself crazy with tantalizing hope, and in the process set himself up for a huge and potentially castrating fall. He needed to prepare to hear from Melanie that last night was a nutty aberration, both a beginning and an end.

      Or she could come through the office door with a special secret smile meant only for him.

      God, he was going to have to jerk off if he thought about that any more.

      He went into the spare room where he kept his treadmill and weights, and spent an hour trying to calm himself down with exhaustion. It didn’t work. He could have spent the rest of the day lifting and running and still have enough nervous energy left over to power a rocketship.

      Out of the shower, he made himself eggs, whole-grain toast and a banana yogurt shake, sat at the breakfast nook and could barely eat.

      Damn. He was a wreck. A geeky pathetic wreck in love with a woman who went through men like doctors went through latex gloves.

      But he was also a geeky pathetic wreck in love with a woman who’d slipped into his bed and allowed him to show her every bit of that love, who’d responded, trembled in his arms, climaxed twice, and gone to sleep calmer and more relaxed than he’d ever known her to be, as if she understood as clearly as he did that she’d come home.

      If only she’d stayed.

      The apartment door burst open, making him jump, but for once he was glad Stoner forgot to lock up when he left, or Melanie wouldn’t have been able to get in last night and surprise him, practically to the point of cardiac arrest.

      “Hey.” His brother looked like hell, cheeks stubbled, skin pale, eyes ringed dark.

      “G’morning. Good time last night?”

      “The best, man.” He high-fived Edgar on his way to the refrigerator. “I’m parched this morning, though. Parched.”

      “There’s more juice in the cupboard if you want it.”

      “Thanks. How was your evening?”

      “The usual.” If he’d been with anyone but Melanie, he would have given in to his pride and told his brother what really happened, maybe gotten up for a manly, growling chest bump or two.

      But no one would know what went on with Melanie until he was damn sure all of it would happen again. Repeatedly.

      “You gotta come hear me play, dude.” Stoner finished the carton of OJ and belched impressively.

      “I’ll come to a rehearsal. I’m not into the club scene. Crowds, smoke, noise. It’s not my thing.”

      “Geez, Eddie, you gotta live.”

      Edgar didn’t bother mentioning that living the way Stoner did would make him feel half-dead most of the time. “I live. Just not your way.”

      “More like Pater and Mater.”

      “If you mean cleaning happens, yeah. If you mean I’d rather hear a symphony or jazz band than garage-band rock, again yeah. If you mean I live only to impress other people with my possessions and my good taste, then no.”

      “Boom, you got ‘em. Don’t know how they stand the charade.”

      Edgar shrugged. “They’re surrounded by it in that town. Hard to escape.”

      “No kidding. It’s like a science dish. Petri. Swarming with obscenely rich bacteria.”

      Edgar chuckled. “Stoner, that was sheer poetry.”

      “Yeah?” He narrowed his eyes thoughtfully. “There’s a song in there. Gotta think about that one later.”

      “You been in touch with Mom and Dad lately?” Edgar asked casually, but he knew they both worried when they didn’t hear.

      “I mean to. I just forget.” He tossed the juice carton into the trash. “Hey, I saw your friend Melanie last night at The Wicked Hop.”

      “Yeah?” Edgar managed not to look smug. “She goes there a lot after work.”

      “She told me. Hot chick. Great ass.”

      “Huh.” He ate toast to avoid talking about her, uh, finer points with Stoner.

      “I was going to see if she and I could hook up later, but then I got all into the party where I was.” He shoved a couple of pieces of bread in the toaster. “Tell her I said hey, and sorry last night didn’t work out.”

      “Sure.” Edgar stacked his plates, hiding a smirk. As far as he was concerned, last night had definitely worked out. “I’ll tell her.”

      “So what’s the plan today, bro?”

      Edgar set his plates and cup in the dishwasher. “I work, remember? Every day? Big office? Cubicles? Paychecks?”

      “Right, right. Have fun with that.”

      “I’m sure I will.”

      He brushed his teeth, gathered a few disks and files he’d need at the office, and glanced at the clock. Early, but he couldn’t wait to get to work and see how Melanie would react to him, whether she’d acknowledge their intense connection of the night before or whether she’d balk. Either way, she couldn’t erase what they’d shared, which gave him a better chance than ever of winning her.

      Winning Melanie. He wanted to break into a crazed dance at the mere thought.

      He pictured her waking up this morning craving more of him the same way he’d woken up craving more of her, wishing she’d conquered her fears in the middle of the night and stayed with him.

      It could happen. Miracles did.

      And if that was the case, then why not order up another, so he could be with her again tonight?

       3

      EDGAR PUSHED OPEN THE door to Caffe Coffee, his every-morning java shop on Chicago Street, halfway between his apartment and work. Melanie couldn’t live without Starbucks’ mocha frappuccino but he preferred the organic Blue Mountain here, flown from a family farm in Jamaica, roasted on the premises, brewed by his favorite barista, Kaitlin, just the way he liked it—strong enough to dissolve paint. He could make the same coffee at home, but the croissants at Caffe Coffee were nearly as good as the ones he’d loved so much in Paris, and the ritual of coming here every morning appealed to him. СКАЧАТЬ