Man Candy Page 15

  And I like them.

  Not just the sex, the crazy chemistry between us, but her. The quirky way her mind works, that sharp wit, and her sweetness, too. And I like how I can let my guard down a little with her. Usually, I have to lie through my teeth to my dates, which kind of puts a stop to any real, long-term relationships. Now, for the first time in forever, I’m not hiding my job or keeping her at arm’s length to sneak off on assignment.

  Hell, Alice finds a way to sneak right after me, too.

  It’s strange. Liberating. Like I can actually be myself. No holding back, like the way we were last night, just raw, animal connection.

  Aaaaand there goes my cock. Eager to get into her. To feel her warm, wet—

  No. I can’t lose my focus. We have a case to solve. And soon. And as much as I want to spend the next twenty-four hours locked in this hotel room, making her come in a hundred different ways, the world won’t stop.

  I step back into the room and find her awake, stretching and yawning in bed. Her hair is haloed around her head, and she looks fucking adorable.

  “Good morning.” I can’t resist sliding back into bed.

  “Mmm . . . morning.” Alice smiles against my kiss.

  I wrap my arms around her and palm a breast, lazily working her nipple until it hardens between my thumb and finger. Her breathing quickens. I cup her pussy with the other hand, pulling her so she’s even more snug against me.

  She’s already wet and squirming. Fuck, she’s hot.

  I want to grab her thigh and bring it over my hip so I can sink into her. It’s just one of the eight million ways I want to fuck her. I had her up against the door and then in the bed a few different ways last night. But something tells me I will never tire of all the ways I can have this woman.

  She pushes my shoulder until I roll onto my back. Her shyness seems to have evaporated. I almost come from the wicked gleam in her eye.

  I am at her mercy, and my pulse ratchets up as I wait for what’s next. Whatever it is, I’m game.

  She climbs over my hips and presses into me as she reaches for the condoms. My hands land on her thighs and they’re nearly shaking from how badly I want her.

  She opens the wrapper, her breasts swaying as she does. When she unrolls the condom on me I nearly lose it, feeling like a horny teenager as I watch her painted fingernails guide the latex down my cock.

  I grip her thighs.

  She looks up at me and smiles. It is one of the sexiest fucking things I’ve ever seen: Her naked over me, grinning mischievously, anticipating getting fucked really, really well. She positions herself right over my cock. My heart pounds. My whole body quivers, waiting.

  “Ready for me, Shmoopycakes?” she asks.

  I nod and prepare myself for perfection.

  She doesn’t disappoint.

  A couple hours later, we drag ourselves out of the bed—and shower—and get on the road back to San Francisco. We were going to stay for the rest of the retreat, but after reviewing some of the tape of the launch, it’s obvious we’re not going to get anything from being here. The theft of Lainey’s formula happened long before now and there’s no way the culprit would advertise it at a company-wide event.

  Still, I have to fight to keep my focus. The truth is, this case is the last thing on my mind. Which means we need a change of scene, stat. So, I made the executive decision that we head back to town and regroup. Go over the files. We must be missing something.

  Other than our clothing.

  “What’s the smile for?” I ask, heading up the coast.

  “Well, for starters,” she says, flashing that smile at me. “I didn’t have to put those awful contacts back in. It was like they disintegrated into sand in my eyes.”

  “Amen,” I say. They were effective parts of our disguises, but I’ve never been a fan of shoving my big fingers in my eyes. Also, if I’m confessing here, I like Alice with her librarian glasses. There’s something about the way she looks so bookish, like every bit of the smart woman she is. At the same time, she has that secret uninhibited side that I really love drawing out.

  “Also . . .” She pauses.

  “Mmmhmm?”

  “Those approximately four thousand orgasms you gave me are making me feel pretty damn relaxed today.”

  I nearly drive off the road.

  I laugh. “Happy to be of service.”

  Her grin widens and I suddenly make another executive decision. This relaxed vibe is too good to waste with boring casework. “Let’s play hooky today.”

  “What?”

  “You’ve been working since you got to town. I’ve been working for years. Let’s go have some fun.”

  She looks at me like I’m nuts. And maybe I am. But while this case is making me crazy, I realize that maybe what I need is some time away from it.

  With her.

  “OK,” she says slowly. “What do you want to do?”

  “That’s another story,” I smirk.

  She laughs. “Easy, tiger.” She pauses, looking thoughtful. “Let’s be tourists. I’ve seen all the sights, but I want to see your San Francisco.”

  “Your wish is my command.”

  We stop at the condo to change and drop off the car. I consider ditching the plan and just leading her to my bed. But I tell my cock to chill out and that this girl deserves some fun. Some clothed fun.

  For now.

  I have an inkling of where I’d like to take her, so we walk in the sunshine down to Fisherman’s Wharf. Along the way, as the air gets briny and I can almost feel sea spray on my face, she tells me the story of how she came to work for Olivia.

  “The fun part’s the research,” she says, “but mainly, it’s usual office stuff. Schedules, appointments, answering phones . . .”

  “Just for dashing billionaires,” I tease. I want to ask if she’s ever been involved with any clients before, but I know somehow without asking that she wouldn’t.

  It makes me feel pretty damn good to be the exception.

  We reach the Wharf and make our way past the rows of stores and cafés now housed in the tourist destination. Usually, I wouldn’t come down here, but there’s one spot I think she’ll enjoy.

  “Musée Mécanique?” she asks, looking up at the big building. There’s an old-timey looking sign, the door flanked by placards with red diamonds on them.

  Parts of my childhood come rushing back. “It used to be at North Beach, my dad would bring me when I was a kid,” I explain. “They moved it down here years ago. Want to see?”

  “Sure.” Alice beams. “But I’m warning you, if they have a Ms. Pac Man in here, you’re dead.”

  We go into the cavernous building and are hit by a cacophony of sounds that brings me right back to my childhood: kids laughing and yelling, ringing from the games, mechanical gear noises. The smells are just as nostalgia-inducing: wood, grease, mold and a certain mustiness that clings to the old machines.

  Alice squeezes my arm and looks up at me. “You look like a little boy,” she says. “Like you don’t know what to play with first.”

  I look over at her and can’t help but smile. She gets it. She gets me.

  “It’s kind of overwhelming, huh?”

  Completely. And not just because of the array of games. “It makes me miss my dad,” I’m surprised to find myself admitting. “He’s been gone nearly ten years now, but some of my best memories of him are of the two of us playing pinball or watching the Carnival diorama.”

  She squeezes my hand. I squeeze back.

  “Where do you want to start?” she asks.

  “I don’t know . . .”

  “I do.” She nods her head over toward the wall. “Change machine.”

  “So practical.” I laugh and pull her into my side, kissing the top of her head before I realize how intimate it is. I mean, we’ve been intimate. But this seems like a different level of intimate.

  Which seems crazy. She’s wearing my grandmother’s ring, so . . . Pushing that thought away, I
plug a ridiculous amount of money into the change machine, knowing I’m getting way more than my money’s worth if it makes Alice smile.

  20

  Alice

  The museum is a wonder. We play all afternoon, trying every old machine in the place as we talk about everything under the sun. Our families, exes, travel bucket lists, the merits of Red Vines vs M&M popcorn as the ultimate movie snack. After I kick his butt at a boxing game, we round a corner and find ourselves in front of the Kiss-O-Meter.

  Seriously. That’s what it’s called. It’s an old-timey game that rates your kissing ability.

  “What do you think?” Nick asks, nodding toward the machine.

  “I think it’s marketing at its finest.” I give the machine a suspicious look. “How can a machine determine how you kiss by how you handle a joystick.”

  He lifts an eyebrow. I laugh.

  “Come on.” He tugs me closer.

  I look at the machine, my gaze climbing up the thermometer-type readings that range from Ice Cold at the bottom to Hot Stuff at the very top.

  “All right,” I say. “Go to it.”

  He puts the coin in and wraps my fingers around the handle. The lights go up and down the thermometer, building tension as it works.

  “What’s it gonna be, ladies and gentlemen?” Nick says in an announcer voice. Then he leans in and says, more softly. “I mean, I already know the real answer, but . . .”

  I glance over at him and can tell he’s thinking about last night. And this morning.

  As I now am.

  If this machine works on blood pressure, pulse, or even just body heat, my reading’s going to be off the charts.

  “Ha!” Nick laughs as the machine lights up Getting Warmer. “Sloppy!”

  “Sloppy? What the?” I give him an exaggerated frown. “All right, then. Let’s see what you got.”

  He’s all swagger as he puts his coin in and takes his turn. I’m not sure what I’m hoping for as the lights flicker and travel up and down the display. I mean, I know the real answer, too, but do I want to beat him or have his score be up near the top where it belongs?

  I get my answer when the light finally lands. I erupt in laughter. “Clammy!” I exclaim. “That’s way worse than Sloppy!”

  He mock-scowls. “Only one worse. But whatever. This thing’s obviously broken.”

  “I don’t know,” I say, putting on an innocent face, bringing a finger up to my bottom lip. Maybe we’re doing it wrong.” I hold out my hand for another penny.

  “You’re going to make me go broke on this thing,” he says.

  I snort loudly. “Right.” I take the penny and put it in the slot. “We should hold it together.”

  He clues in and we interlace our hands on the joystick.

  “And we should kiss,” I suggest. “Otherwise how can it know?”

  “Obviously,” he says, giving me that lopsided smile. And then he’s kissing me.

  We are in public with a million people around, but he holds back nothing. Like he has to prove to me, the game, the entire world that we definitely rank as Hot Stuff on the Kiss-O-Meter.

  Mission accomplished.

  The machine makes a clanging noise, and we break the kiss to check.

  “WHAT?” Nick demands of the machine. “Clammy? Again?”

  “Obviously, you’re the problem,” I laugh.

  “That was not clammy,” he says. “Thing’s obviously broken.”

  An older lady carrying a crocheted purse leans close to me. “If I were you, I’d keep trying. Practice makes perfect.” She winks.

  I grab Nick and tug him closer.

  “You know, I think you’re right.”

  Eventually, my ears can’t take any more of the constant noise, so we leave the museum and wander through the crowds.

  “Hungry?” Nick asks.

  I nod. “I can always eat.” Especially as I realize it’s dinnertime. We were in that museum way longer than I realized.

  “How about Little Italy?” he asks.

  I groan. “I could inhale a pile of pasta.”

  “Perfect,” he says, taking my hand and twining my fingers in his as he signals to a cab with his free arm.

  It seems easy and casual. Like, my hand was there, so why not grab it? But it feels significant, too. Maybe it’s that casualness of him doing it that makes it feel significant.

  Or maybe I’m overthinking it and he did it so I’d keep up.

  Oh, Alice, you’re so screwed.

  I gladly collapse into the cab. We’ve been on the move all day, and even back at the hotel . . . Well, we were working up a sweat there, too.

  Nick drapes a casual arm around my shoulder. “Having a good hooky day?” he asks.

  “The best.”

  He looks at me for a long, lingering moment.

  “What?” I ask, flushing under his gaze.

  He shrugs. “Just . . . I’m having a good day, too. You’re fun to be with.” It sounds like a confession, or a surprise. At the very least, something he wouldn’t normally say.

  “Haven’t you ever had fun before?” I tease.

  “Not a lot. Rarely with a date.”

  I laugh. “That doesn’t say much about your past relationships,” I tease.

  He gives a chuckle, but there’s a hint of regret on his face. “No, you’re right. It doesn’t. I haven’t had a lot of luck with that kind of thing.”

  “You’re kidding me.” I gape. He’s hot, charming, and clearly very skilled. Plus, you know, the whole funny/kind/smart combo, to boot. I can’t believe he hasn’t had women throwing themselves at his feet for years.

  “You’d be surprised.” He gives a wry grin, but just as I’m about to ask more, we pull up to the restaurant, a cozy-looking Italian place with red-checkered tablecloths and gold script over the door.

  The minute we step inside, I’m hit with the warm, delicious aromas of tomatoes and garlic. “Mmmm,” I say. “I didn’t realize how hungry I am until just now.” My stomach gurgles in agreement.

  Nick knows the maître d’ and we wind up being escorted to a round, very private booth in the back of the restaurant, complete with dark leather upholstered seats, red tablecloths, and fresh flowers on the table. It’s worthy of a mob film set in New York or Chicago. As I look around, I expect to see some Goodfellas.

  “What’s good here?” I ask as I pick up the menu. Everything is obviously made fresh and is seasonal. My mouth waters in anticipation of what I know is going to be a good meal.

  “Everything,” Nick says with conviction, so I know he means it.

  I huff. “How am I supposed to decide? The rigatoni looks good. But, eggplant parm . . . Why do my life choices have to be so hard sometimes?” I laugh.

  I look over. He’s grinning at me.

  “What?” I flush, self-conscious.

  “Nothing. You’re just . . . unexpected.”

  “Sure,” I say, sarcastic. “Crazy, unpredictable me. It’s OK,” I add. “I know I’m boring.”

  Nick looks confused. “You are anything but boring. Why would you even think that?”

  “Because every guy I date looks like they’re about to fall asleep talking to me? It doesn’t bother me anymore,” I add quickly, before he thinks I’m throwing a pity party. “I know I’m not some wild party girl.”

  “You could have fooled me, Gina.”

  I smile, but I know that was all just an act.

  Thank God, our waiter appears then with a basket of steaming bread and a pitcher of water. He tells us about the menu in detail as he fills our glasses.

  In the end, we decide to share and order the manicotti, eggplant parm, and linguini with clams. It seems like way too much, but Nick assures me he’s hungry.

  “So, Alice Jones,” Nick begins, and I’m both eager and dreading whatever he’s about to say. “What happens next?”

  Once I finish chewing, I open my mouth, but then realize I’m not sure exactly what he’s asking. “With what?”

  S
omething flashes in his eyes, but he recovers quickly. “Your job. Once this assignment is over. Will there be more fake fiancés?”

  “Oh.” I pause. “I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

  “I turned you off pursuing fake fiancée as a viable career choice?” he asks, amused.

  “Don’t flatter yourself,” I say. “It’s . . . just that . . .”

  That Olivia was right. Staying detached is too hard. I can’t imagine falling for anyone the way I’m falling for Nick, but I’m not about to make the same mistake again. Besides, talking about what happens after this job just reminds me that it has to end sometime.

  “Still, I don’t think I can go back to just answering calls,” I finally answer. “Maybe I want something different.”

  “Like what?”

  I shrug. Mostly because I don’t know. I do know that I want more. Something different than what I’ve been doing at Olivia’s agency. The research and reporting used to be enough. Not anymore. Now that I’ve had a taste, I need more. “I don’t know.”

  “So just imagine it. Close your eyes, and picture what you’d want if there was nothing standing in your way.”

  If feels dorky, but I follow his command. An image pops into my head, of a cute little office somewhere, with Alice Jones Investigations written in neat type over the door. “I’d open a P.I. agency,” I blurt. “Do investigations. Bust insurance scammers.” I think of how much I love wearing disguises. “Maybe even catch out cheating spouses.” I open my eyes, surprised at myself, but Nick just nods.

  “That’s a lot of what many P.I.’s do,” he says. “But investigating the worst kind of people . . . it could turn you into a cynic.”

  I get the feeling he knows this first hand.

  “But you’ve got great instincts,” he continues, looking thoughtful. “You’d be an excellent P.I.”

  I want to believe him, but still . . . “You have to say that.”

  “Says who?”

  I give him a look. “The gods of getting laid?”

  I expect him to laugh at that, but he frowns. “You think I’d give you a bullshit compliment to get you into bed?”