Spring Fling (Dating Season Book 1), Page 3

  “No scamming here. You’re not a serial killer, are you?”

  He laughs and it, too, is perfect—low and husky. “No.”

  “Phew. Then again, I’m sure they all say that.”

  “If you’d feel safer, I can text my driver’s license to one of your friends?”

  Maybe he’s joking, but it actually would make me feel better. “Would you mind?” Okay, I know that probably kills the mood. But better the mood than me, right? I may have inherited Granny Mae’s penchant for one-liners after all.

  He reaches in his pocket and removes a silver clip holding some money and a few cards. Within a minute, Charlotte now knows who to come looking for if anything happens.

  “Thank you, Finn,” I say. “This is all kind of strange, huh?”

  “Stranger things have happened, I’m sure.” He gives a sexy head nod toward the sprawling building behind me. “So, what are we doing?”

  His brows rise as I explain what tonight will entail.

  “Wow. Very cool.”

  Another study showed that remembering snippets about a person is not only flattering but also shows interest. I give it a go and hope I don’t sound like a stalker.

  “I gathered you were athletic from your profile, and you said you like winter, so I thought this would be fun.”

  These date-studiers are onto something. His gaze locks with mine with what can only be interpreted as awe. “I’m impressed.”

  “Ready?”

  “Are you?” he challenges in a way that makes me feel as if he’s not really talking about the ice. Which, of course, I’m not either way.

  His hand lands on the small of my back and as he leads me inside, dating factoids pop like popcorn in my head.

  Say his name to show I’m attentive and connected. Done.

  Blush if he pays me a compliment. Not sure how to do that on command, but I’ll try.

  He opens the door for me, and we cross the marble floor to the brunette at the counter that spans the back wall of glass. Behind her is a view of the rink, full of people whirling about like Olympians. Finn refuses to let me pay—aw—and we walk away with basic instructions and coupons to the onsite dining area. Once skated up, my worst fears are realized the moment my ass hits the cold hard ice. An “oomph” barrels out of me.

  “Oh, shit,” Finn says, before bending down to help me stand from my sprawled position. “You okay?”

  “I’m fine.” If I’m not, I’m unaware because our bodies are now melded. I grip his hips for balance and his woodsy scent is amazing.

  His brow furrows. “Can you handle a stick?”

  I nod. So many pucking puns crawl up my tongue, but I keep them trapped inside my mouth.

  “You sure?” His hands caress my shoulders. “We can go sit down.”

  “I’m sure. My butt will recover.”

  “Good to hear. It’s a very nice butt.” He winks.

  And there it is. The blush. Blush is a demure word for what’s happening to my face. It feels as though I stuck my head in a five hundred degree kiln. Our instructor arrives and the moment is lost but not forgotten. It’s all I can think about as we volley the puck back and forth. Finn whizzes across the ice like a professional player, and by the time we finish our session, my thighs are screaming.

  In the rink’s restaurant, we segue to the getting-to-know-you part of our date. On a scale of one to awkward, I’d give it a solid seven. Three points have been deducted because Finn was not captivated by the Hip Check sampler I ordered and there is just no ladylike way to eat buffalo wings or loaded nachos. Particularly as your date enjoys a grilled chicken salad. He tells me about his job as a personal trainer at a SuperFit gym and listens with rapt attention as I give him the lowdown on my Van Gogh pottery dreams.

  “So,” Finn says, when we’re outside the arena, standing beside my car, “what now?”

  His tongue shines his lips like gloss and as much as I’d like to disrobe in this parking lot, that darn dating tip article recommends against it. Sex before three dates gives a man the wrong idea.

  “I have to wake early in the morning,” I say. “Pottery class. I should get going.”

  He moves in closer. “I’d like to see you again.”

  “I’d like that too.”

  After we exchange phone numbers, he tilts my chin up and here it comes. He’s going to kiss me. I’m so ready for this, I close my eyes. Hold my breath. And then—

  Our first kiss happens.

  A gentlemanly brush of his lips on my forehead.

  Huh. Don’t get me wrong, my forehead is feeling all kinds of things, but my lips are confused and jealous.

  He opens my door and promises to call. Even if there was no lip action, as I drive away, I’d say it was a good date. Complete with butterflies and blushes. He’s swoony and cute, and most important, I only thought about Austin once.

  Four

  I think too much. It’s exhausting. Usually, I’m consumed with non-stressful thoughts of my next clay creation or diving down yet another rabbit hole of how things originated in history. But there’s been a breach. Ever since last night, I’ve analyzed every nook and cranny of why Finn didn’t kiss me on the lips.

  Perhaps I had buffalo breath.

  Something in my teeth. It happens to me more than I think it happens to other people.

  If I consult my history books, there’s a slim chance the smooch didn’t happen because I never got around to exposing a wrist or ankle to confirm my interest in him and pique his in me.

  It could be anything. Or it could be nothing. Whatever the reason, it’s messing with my mojo.

  “Does my dinosaur look like a dog?” Louis asks.

  I tilt my head and debate how to answer, ideally truthfully. “Well, dogs aren’t green, so no.”

  He smiles and continues dolloping paint on his bowl.

  As I check on the other painters, Andrea, my co-worker, enters the room with a Cheshire Cat grin on her face. “Chloe, someone is here to see you. I’ll take over.”

  She doesn’t respond to my quizzical eyebrow raise, so I let the class know I’ll be back soon. I trod to the front of the store where a few customers sift through clearance items. Behind them, I spot my visitor, shrouded in a ray of sunshine, by the art supplies.

  “Hey, babe,” Finn says.

  “Hi…” My body doesn’t know how to react to his unexpected visit. The way he said “babe” did things to me in a heart-thumping way, but I’m also not good with surprises. It’s like having one nipple hard, and one not.

  “You look cute,” he says, when I close the distance between us.

  I beam at his compliment, even if it’s generous. My hair is in a rough-shod bun and the paint-smeared apron over my leggings and tunic top is not what I would’ve chosen had I known he was going to show up here today. He, on the other hand, looks exquisite in dark jeans and a blue polo.

  “Thank you.” I toy with the string wrapped around my waist as we smile at each other. “So...what are you doing here?”

  “I want to take you to dinner.”

  “Oh. Today?”

  “Yeah.” He picks up a paintbrush from the shelf and fans it back and forth across his palm. “What time do you get off?”

  His question sounds sexual but maybe I’m projecting. “I don’t get off until four.”

  “Perfect. Text me your address.” He tucks a wayward strand of hair behind my ear, grazing the shell. “I’ll pick you up at seven?”

  “That sounds good.”

  He holds out the brush. “I’ll take this.”

  “You paint?”

  “No.”

  I tilt my head and roll my lips inward. That’s odd, but I guess I’ll let it go? Are we to the nosy stage where I can question his purchases? I ring up his fan brush and let him know it’s an excellent choice, soft and makes smooth strokes, hoping he’ll say what it’s for. He doesn’t.

  “I’ll let you get back to work.” He leans down to whisper in my ear, “I find this wh
ole artist gig sexy.” And with that, he exits.

  There’s no time to ponder why he didn’t kiss me if he finds my job sexy. Or why he buys random paintbrushes when he doesn’t paint.

  The next few hours are spent not lying to my class, and then I drive home to my cottage and spend two hours getting ready. Normally, I’m not high-maintenance, but I need to make up for the way I looked at the store. Plus, I was due for some lady-landscaping. Not that I’m planning on sex, but...just in case he decides to surprise me again.

  Since I’m silky smooth and lotioned up, I’m going all in with a dress tonight. The long-sleeved floral dress hits mid-thigh, exposing a lot of leg.

  I text a pic to Charlotte. “Which shoes?”

  “You look hot! The strappy heel on your left foot.”

  “You sure? You don’t like the boot on the right foot?”

  “I’m sure!”

  I kick off the boot and slip on the other heel as the doorbell rings.

  “He’s here! I’ll let you know how it goes.”

  When I open the door, it’s not Finn, it’s June, my landlord. She isn’t quite as funny or as huggable or as prone to sugar-coating as Granny Mae, but she’s basically been my stand-in for the last few years.

  “Hi, Chloe.” She gives me a once-over. “Are you going out?” One of the disadvantages of living on June’s property is there’s this unspoken thing happening where she kind of keeps tabs on me.

  “Yes, I have a date.”

  Her thin brows rise nearly to her salt and pepper hair. “Oh, well, I don’t want to ruin your date.”

  “No, it’s okay. What’s up?”

  “Well, I’m selling the house and moving to Florida to be near my daughter.”

  I blink and step onto the porch. “That’s great...and unexpected.”

  “Don’t worry, dear. If it sells fast, whoever buys it will give you thirty days to move out. I’ll make sure it’s in writing.”

  I want to throw myself at her orthopedic shoes and beg her to stay here in Colorado. But I know from our numerous tea parties over the years I’ve lived here, she misses her daughter the same way I miss Granny. My unselfish side wins.

  “No worries. I’ll start looking for something else.”

  “Okay, dear. Have fun on your date.” She pats my arm. “Make sure you stop by for tea and give me the details.”

  “Will do.”

  She waddles across the lawn back to her house, and I drop down onto the porch swing. The universe is punishing me for thinking I lived in a tiny house. Like, “You think that’s small? Well, let’s see how you like this cardboard box.”

  Not only is this place ideal because it has a back porch where I can make my pottery, it’s cheaper than most apartments. Plus, I love June. I’m in the middle of apologizing to my cottage for the slight when the purr of an engine interrupts me.

  Finn.

  His sleek black SUV parks next to my Honda.

  “Hey,” I call out.

  “Wow,” he says, climbing the steps, “you get better every time I see you.”

  The words leave my mouth before I can stop them, “Same, SuperFit, same.”

  He chuckles and leans against the railing. “This is a nice place. It suits you.”

  Don’t remind me. “Yeah, I love it here.”

  “Ready?” he asks.

  Is it bad I don’t offer him a tour? It seems too soon. It’s trivial, but Austin is the only man who has been inside my home. Maybe I should invite Finn in, just to show I’m moving on from my crush.

  “Be right back,” I say.

  He waits on the porch while I grab my handbag and keys, and I can only hope this date makes up for the bombshell June dropped on me.

  So far, so good. Even though it’s a little weird. I’m all for buffets, especially ones with a dessert bar, but is it normal to eat nine plates? I’m in no way judging Finn’s voracious appetite, but where does he keep it all? Does he have an extra stomach?

  “Wow, you’re still going.” I’ve been done for forty minutes, and he’s got yet another mountain of lean meats and greens.

  “Bulking up, babe. We’ve got a competition at SuperFit I’m gonna win.”

  I’m guessing “babe” is the chosen pet name. As far as nicknames go, I’ve never had a man use one. It’s got an alpha vibe, and... I’m into it. A lot. I don’t know myself at all, it turns out. My personal history hadn’t prepared me for the surprises to come.

  He details the competition, and it sounds a bit like torture, honestly.

  “What does the winner get?”

  “A trophy.”

  “Oh, wow. I’d want cash for all that work.”

  “I’ve got plenty of cash.” Must be nice. He places the hand not eating on my knee. “You should come see me compete.”

  This is good. He’s making future plans, and we haven’t even kissed. “Okay, I’ll go to your competition, and you can come to my spring thing.”

  “What spring thing?”

  While I explain to him the upcoming craft fair, he shovels in the rest of his food.

  “Sounds interesting.”

  I’m not sure if he means that, and it’s not a commitment, but I get it. Craft fairs aren’t for everyone. Austin is a trooper and goes along with me and Charlotte, but maybe it’s for the kettle corn. It’s divine. Austin always sneaks and buys a jumbo bag for me to take home.

  I have to know, “Do you like kettle corn?”

  “It’s a little too sweet for me. I prefer plain.”

  “Plain as in no butter?”

  “Yeah.” He finally finishes his meal and leans in. “Is the popcorn a deal breaker?”

  I laugh, but maybe. “You like what you like.”

  “Do you like me more than kettle corn?”

  What kind of question is this? “Are you asking me to give up kettle corn?”

  He chuckles. “No, but I think I could satisfy you more than kettle corn.”

  Finn has thrown down the gauntlet and I don’t know what to say back. I let the blush speak for itself, as recommended. Plus, the waitress arrives to refill our lemon water. By the time she leaves, it’s much too late to go back to his comment with something flirtatious.

  On the ride home, we discuss music, and he plays his favorite songs. I never would’ve pegged him for classical. Mozart and Beethoven fill the cabin and whoa, I’m turned on as his fingers dance across an imaginary piano.

  As far as the seat belt will allow, I lean toward him, chin in hand on the armrest. “Do you play piano?”

  “A little.”

  Well, that’s enough for me. The soft light of the moon shades him in artistic shadows, and I could almost see a vision of me preferring him over kettle corn.

  He pulls into my driveway and parks.

  “So, you think you’ll come see me compete?”

  “I don’t know. What’s in it for me?” He opens and closes his mouth a couple times, and I realize he doesn’t know I’m flirting. “Like…do I get to see your abs?”

  “Oh.” Without breaking eye contact, he lifts his shirt in a slow tease, and holy wow, he is ripped. I’ve never seen this in real life. I tentatively touch the etches on his stomach. They feel…huh. So weird. Like iron encased in velvet.

  “You could have your own, you know.”

  His raspy voice tears my gaze from his stomach. “Oh, I don’t think…”

  “I could be your trainer.” He grazes his teeth along his lower lip, and maybe this fitness talk is foreplay.

  “Oh, yeah? You’d…spot me?” I know very few workout innuendos.

  “I’d spot you a mile away.”

  With a groan, his hand grasps my neck, pulling me closer. And then I get my kiss. Our tongues collide and somehow I’m straddling his lap. His massive hard-on rocks into me.

  “Fuck, Chloe. I want to rip your dress off right now.”

  I want that too. Especially when he squeezes my nipple through the thin material.

  “Mm. You like that?”


  “Yeah.”

  Fingertips glide up my thighs and under my dress. He palms my ass, grinding me against him. This was a brilliant wardrobe choice. The steel outline of his dick teases my clit through the thin fabric of panties. I press down and circle my hips. Finn moans, easing me back and forth. If he keeps this up, I’m going to come. It’s been so long. He’s so long.

  He nips and bites his way down my neck, and as much as I don’t want to, I somehow find the strength to say the words recommended by the dating gurus of the interweb: “We should stop.”

  He halts immediately, but his chest rises and falls in ragged movements. “Sorry. I couldn’t control myself.”

  “No, it’s okay.” I untangle myself and return to the passenger side.

  He rakes a hand through his hair, adjusts himself, and walks me to the door. We kiss again, long and slow, but I don’t invite him in.

  When I climb into bed, I can’t help but think, maybe Charlotte was right about the opposite theory after all. Only for a millisecond did I imagine he was Austin.

  Five

  Studies show that couples who sweat together, stay together. I should be searching for a new place right now. Instead, I’m standing in the SuperFit gym, in my super uncomfortable Spanx-style leggings, staring at a list of exercises scrawled on a chalkboard, wondering if it’s too late to fake sick.

  You can’t tell me a man didn’t come up with these names—burpees, snatch, wall balls, clean jerks? None of which I’m certain I can complete, much less the required number.

  When Finn invited me here, I was still riding the high of our make-out session. Of course, anyone making out with Finn’s abs would have made this mistake. Surely I can do something on this list. I’m in reasonable shape. There’s a decent amount of lifting and whatnot I do at my job. The clay slabs are five pounds apiece, so I can’t possibly embarrass myself too much.

  “Chloe?” a feminine voice says from behind me.

  I turn to see Austin’s girlfriend.

  “Lucy, hi.” She’s not dressed for a workout, unless she does so in trousers and heels. “What are you doing here?”

  “I had a meeting with the owner to discuss PR for the gym. He’d like to franchise it.”