Flirty Thirty (Nerdy Thirties Book 1)

  Copyright © 2016 by Cassie Mae

  Sale of any edition of this book is wholly unauthorized. Except for use in review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part, by any means, is forbidden without written permission from the author/publisher.

  CookieLynn Publishing Services, LLC

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  Cover design by CookieLynn Publishing Services

  Cover photo courtesy of Shutterstock

  First Edition: October 2016

  Table of Contents

  1

  Kiss and Ditch

  2

  Scream Queen

  3

  Fumble and Mumble

  4

  Backfire Hire

  5

  Wine and Dine

  6

  Lip Tryst

  7

  Blind Date Fate

  8

  Pajama Mama

  9

  Meet the Sheets

  10

  Agree to Disagree

  11

  Wack Verbal Contract

  12

  Round and Wound

  13

  Sweet Relief

  14

  Crowns and Frowns

  15

  Cruel Birth Control

  16

  We All Fall

  17

  Gas and Cats

  18

  Guarded Hearts

  19

  Love Bug

  20

  Maybe Baby

  21

  Best Buds and Hugs

  22

  Broken Woman

  23

  Goodbye Cry

  24

  Missed Kiss

  25

  Hide or Confide

  26

  Happy Family

  Epilogue

  From the desk of Robert Sterling, CEO

  Acknowledgments

  Also by Cassie Mae

  About Cassie Mae

  A Look at Doing It for Love

  Dedicated to those who found gray hairs long before they were ready for them. Solidarity, my friends.

  1

  Kiss and Ditch

  “On this day, my thirtieth birthday, I propose that every Sunday starting now will be Naked Day. All in favor?”

  I set down my steaming cup of coffee, topped with my traditional birthday whipped cream and chocolate shavings, and raise my right hand to the square. Tom and Kat sit with their legs poised in the air as they continue to lick their privates.

  “It’s unanimous!” I grin, placing my hand back on my mug. “I hereby declare this the first official Naked Sunday.”

  Tom yawns, finds the sun beam that’s strewn across my brand new area rug, and immediately crashes into his day time sleep. Kat sniffs the air, just now noticing the aroma of my morning treat. I’d let her lick the bottom of the mug, but the last time that happened she tore up my bed canopy trying to mimic Jackie Chan.

  Since my cats are my only roommates, I allow myself a tiny jump in celebration, my loosey goosey larger-than-average chest nearly knocking me over without the brazierial support. How positively freeing that feels. I let a smile tilt up on my face as I take my mug and walk buck-A naked to the plush chair I keep in front of my 70-inch.

  There are moments in life that you just know you’ve got it good. This is my moment. Thirty years old, single, living in a house I own with things that are all mine, no kids to watch me walk around naked, looking out for number one and enjoying the peace that comes with living alone. Nobody close to me understands just how perfect the scenario is.

  My phone rings on my bare thigh as I scroll through my recorded Ellens, and I hit pause to glance at the number. Ah… case in point. My sister has sent me a birthday message along with a picture of a guy who knows her husband’s co-worker’s aunt, and she just knows we are meant to be! She’s ready to set me up with him for this weekend.

  Dating I can do. Sex I can do. Fun, fun, all good. But I am not ready to strap my chain to someone else’s ball for the rest of my life. Having seen the result of falling in love up close from not only my sister and brother-in-law, but my brother and his wife, my best friend and her husband, and my partner and her husband, and their combined total of nine kids (and one on the way) of whom I’ve all babysat for, I’m quite content on spending my days alone with Tom and Kat, sitting naked and binge watching the newest Netflix craze.

  I quickly tap the picture to make it bigger and tilt my head to the side, considering. It’s been a couple months since I’ve done a one-on-one, and he’s not too bad to look at. Kind eyes, good smile, strong chin, little round in the middle, but I’ve always kind-of liked that. I snap a selfie with a squishy, funny face and send it back to her with a “Thanks!” and a “Let’s go for it!” If anything, it’ll get her off my back for a couple of weeks.

  She chimes back with, Are you naked??? And I laugh and tell her, It’s my birthday! I’m dressing accordingly. ;) When I don’t hear another chime right away, I hit play and watch Ellen, drink coffee, and plan out what other things I should do while in my birthday suit. I bet baking would be more fun without the worry of flour getting on any clothing. Cookies will be made today.

  Kat nuzzles up against the back of my hand, and I grant her request and rub her butt as she turns and sticks her tail in the air. I’ve only had her for five months, but I already know what spots she doesn’t want scratched. The faded claw marks over my wrists prove my failed attempts at cuddling.

  Tom’s my lazier roommate—granted he is nearing his fifties in cat years—so I usually get my cuddle time with him. Between the two of them and my giant family, I get all the company I could ever want or need. So I don’t think I’ll be meeting the future Mr. Maya Baker this weekend, no matter how much my sister wants it for me.

  A commercial comes on for the some kind of cologne—one that puts a spotlight on a set of gorgeous blue eyes and a sharp jawline, and I let out a gurgled “Oh” around my coffee and whipped cream and hoist up from the chair. It’s almost “Handsome Man-o’clock.” Every morning a Grecian God jogs down my street, sweating and smiling and looking very much available. While I may not be looking for a permanent companion, I am definitely up for a bit of innocent flirting. A few weeks ago, he waved at me while I was trimming my rosebushes. Just the other day he said, “Good morning,” followed by a delicious grin that had me fantasizing all through my morning appointments.

  Today, I think I’d like to say more than two words to him. It’ll be my birthday gift to me.

  Sighing at the fact that I will have to put something on to go outside on the first established Naked Sunday, I slip my arms into a ragged and worn hoodie that’s so large that it falls about mid-thigh. It belonged to an old boyfriend who, like all those who came before him, showed his true colors after only a few months of dating. Our relationship fell victim to what I’ve dubbed the Bore of More. The truth is, after the honeymoon stage, things got boring. There wasn’t much more to what we had outside of sex, and even that started to lose its appeal when there was no mystery around it.

  But his clothes were very comfortable, and after a mutual breakup, he was nice enough to let me keep something from the Big and Tall store he shopped at.

  I stuff my feet into a pair of slippers my mom uses when she stays over—the woman is never warm enough—and walk out with my hot coffee,
a little nervous at the draft around my butt since I may be showing cheek. I reach around and hold the material down, doing a very sexy waddle to my patio chair in the corner of my porch.

  My neighborhood is basically on the side of a mountain, my front door facing the valley below. The sun’s coming up behind me, casting a yellow glow on my lawn as the dew shines back at me. I probably could’ve come outside naked and no one would know—Sunday mornings are quiet and with my nearest neighbor quite a few acres away, there would be no one to call the cops with a lewd complaint. But since I know the beach blond jogging man is coming, I make sure that I’m efficiently covered as my eyes fall to my mailbox.

  “Oh!” I say, my drink spilling off the sides of the mug and splashing to the cement under me. I forgot to grab the mail yesterday, and I’m positive there’s a check in there. Oma always sends me a check for my birthday, but she’s starting to lose it so I get four a year: one for every month ending in “Y.” I only cash the real one for myself. The rest go to my brother Jim and his wife Katie because they’ve got more mouths to feed and less change to do it with.

  I bring my coffee to my lips as I make my way down my walk and dig through the mailbox, the whipped cream creating a mustache that I swipe away with the back of my hand. Junk mail, junk, junk… thank heavens I went to paperless billing because I’m almost positive those would be next. No card from Oma yet.

  The mailbox flumps as I close it back up and stretch. I’ve always loved being a Spring baby. Nine times out of ten I get a breezy 70 degrees and a great view from my front porch to greet the day. You know, before I spend it in front of the TV.

  I take a great big inhale and soak up the mountain morning scent before I go in and celebrate in my own naked way, and as the deep breath leaves my slightly parted mouth, I catch my morning jogger heading down my street.

  Speaking of great views and Spring weather, hello abdominal muscles. Haven’t seen those in a long while. Winter doesn’t exactly boast its appeal for shirtless runners, my dating record hasn’t included many cut and fit men—not complaining, of course; I enjoy men of all sizes—and my own muscles are hidden under about ten pounds of pooch.

  Happy birthday, indeed. I’m not one to deprive themselves of free eye candy, so I casually pretend to take in the morning view and sip on my chocolaty treat as he gets closer and closer.

  I wonder for the millionth time where he lives. While this neighborhood boasts itself on privacy, most of us know who lives where, but there are new plots available a few blocks on the upper side of the mountain. I’ve been selling them off to clients I feel like I can enjoy as neighbors. But from the moment he arrived a month ago, jogging and gleaming down my street, my curiosity has gotten the better of me on more than one occasion.

  He’s close now, close enough that I can hear his calculated breathing. A set of white earbuds dangle down from his ears across his chest, ending somewhere below the belt line. I lose concentration around his midsection, completely distracted by the droplets of sweat taking a ride down the cuts of his stomach. May mercy be on my soul for the thoughts that start running through my head to the soundtrack of Marvin Gaye.

  It’s getting to the point where I’m most likely standing with my tongue curled somewhere by my feet, so I shake my head and rip my eyes up to his, which—not surprisingly—are already looking at mine. I feel the cheesiest smile form on my lips and I squeak out an overly-cheerful, “Good morning!” My first words to him and they come out like a dreamy-eyed, teenage version of myself. I plan to smack my forehead when I head back inside.

  The only acknowledgment I get from him is a tilt of his lips as he passes, showing me parts of his white teeth and creasing his cheek with smile lines that indicate he is most likely in his married years with kids in school and a dog in the backyard—something else I’ve often wondered. There’s no ring on his hand, but he gives off the vibe that he’d be a killer soccer dad. Good on him for maintaining the twenty-year-old body. I lost that at twenty-two when my love for donuts became an obsessive affair.

  I let out a little laugh at myself for being so Anastasia Steele, hoping that in my three seconds of eye sex that I didn’t bite my lip, and I shake my head and take another succulent sip of my birthday treat, debating on if I should say something else to him before he jogs out of sight. There is always tomorrow, I suppose.

  He stops mid-jog at the end of my property line. I watch his back rise and fall with his labored breathing, enjoy another drop of sweat as it rolls down the line of his spine, and then suddenly he’s turning and running back toward me.

  My eyes widen and my heart jumps from quiet and steady to loud and terrified, and my feet glue to the grass underneath them. In less than a second he’s gone from attractive possible fling to scary man who can outrun me. My fingers curl around my mug, knuckles turning white.

  He stops in front of me, eyes locked on mine. The blues of his irises are so dark in color that I think they’ll be haunting my REM cycle tonight—if I make it to a REM cycle.

  He plucks the earbud from his right ear, grinning at me again, but he’s so not putting off the father-of-the-year vibe anymore, so I’m unsure of what to think. I can’t think at all with my heart pounding so loudly.

  “Good morning,” he says, his voice lighter and more cheerful than I expected, and it relaxes my heart and butterflies start to come alive in my stomach. He reaches up and I flinch, and the moment I do he pulls away.

  “Sorry… you just have…” He nods to my nose, and I blink, hurriedly swiping at it. A deep, baritone chuckle falls off his lips, and he says, “Almost got it. You mind?”

  He raises his hand again, and it takes me a couple of beats before I nod, excitement ripping up through my chest at the fact that he’ll be touching me. The pad of his thumb runs over my nose, and he pulls it back with quite a hefty dollop of whipped cream that I have no idea how I could miss.

  I let out a shaky laugh. “That’s not embarrassing.”

  He smirks as he wipes it off on the waistband of his steel jogging shorts. “I’d call it cute.”

  Okay, not married. I’m going to believe he’s not married and he’s flirting with me. I should tell him not to charge a woman before attempting a flirtatious endeavor. But before I can get a word in edgewise, both his hands find my cheeks and then he’s… kissing me.

  There’s no response time. No time for a slap or a moment of weakness to actually consider kissing him back. No time at all it seems. One second I’m being kissed and the next he’s pulling back, a look of shock settling in his eyes before he shakes his head, drops my cheeks, and runs off my lawn and down the street. I watch his blond head bob out of view, my arms stuck out to my side like a complete fool, coffee in one hand, mail in the other. My mouth is stuck in a puckered position, lips tingling like they may have had action but they aren’t exactly sure yet. The very small morning breeze is blowing up my overlarge hoodie, cooling my lady nethers and making me slowly wake up from the bizarre exchange.

  My feet finally start listening to my brain, and I fumble my way back inside. Tom looks up from his spot on the floor, the sun making his black fur look glossy. He blinks and I let out a confused laugh.

  “Well, that’s a new one.”

  2

  Scream Queen

  “Sorry!” my sister-in-law Katie says as she hurries through my door with a car seat over the crook of her elbow, a diaper bag slung over her other arm, and a two-year-old clutching her forefinger. I quickly take the car seat holding my newest nephew and let her drop her Mom Luggage onto my couch.

  “Chase here decided to poop all over his new outfit with a million snaps the second I got him strapped in the car,” Katie rushes out, taking off her jacket with a skill only a mom can have with a toddler still clinging onto her hand. “You’d think I would’ve learned from the first kid to only dress babies in onesies before going anywhere.”

  I nod like I know what she’s talking about ( I don’t). I just want to hold the baby, so I crouch down
and unbuckle the little pooper, grateful he’s already gotten that out of the way.

  “Okay…” Katie breathes out, clapping her now-free hands together before bending to her bag. “I brought chocolate and red velvet because you have a thing for both, and raspberry filling for whatever you decide on. What one are you cravin…don’t lick the cat, Claire! I can do one or the other or both.”

  She grins as she holds the cake mixes up, and I give her a look that answers the question she should’ve already known the answer to. She laughs and takes both boxes to the kitchen while I finally get little Chase unhooked from his car seat and watch Claire spit out cat fur onto my freshly shampooed carpet.

  “Naughty pants,” I tease my niece with the nickname I gave her as soon as she came out of utero and yanked seven hairs clean from my head. Katie had a homebirth—and I will not relive witnessing that experience— and as soon as little Claire was out, my brother Jim handed her to me—the woman with the towel. If you don’t think it’s possible to get beat up by a newborn, I have proof—in the form of a cheek scar— that it is inarguably possible.

  I snuggle Chase in his deep blue fleece blanket, Eskimo kissing him as I follow the clang and crash sounds coming from the kitchen. Now this baby… he’s the only one who’s come close to convincing me that kids aren’t so bad. The quiet cuddler, the fresh baby smell, and the perfect softness… sigh. It’s tempting to try to make one of these guys for myself.

  “Claire!” Katie scolds without even turning around from the cupboard. “Put the marker down.”

  I whip around to see my niece, Sharpie poised up against my wall. Her sweet face contorts into a red fit of rage as she chucks the open marker across the floor before falling flat backward against the tile. The high-pitched scream is enough to wake a dead man, but little Chase must be used to it because all he does is stir a bit before snuggling back into my chest. Katie continues pulling out ingredients as if nothing is going on around us.

  I’m instantly reminded why kids are not for me.

  “You going out tonight?” Katie asks, eyes flicking up as she sets a metal bowl on the counter and reaches for the cake mixes.