I’m on the couch, flipping through sports channels, when Daisy saunters through the apartment door. Every nerve ending in my body goes on high alert. Daisy can be something of a wild card. She always has been.
Is that part of the attraction?
Probably.
After she stroked me to the point of coming and then left me hanging, she hopped in the shower and made herself scarce for the rest of the day. Once she was gone, I took care of business. Which means that I jacked off.
Twice.
I’m in such deep shit.
Here’s what needs to happen—we forget last night ever took place so that our relationship can slide back to the way it was. Hell, us hating each other would be preferable to this, but I don’t think that’s possible.
Daisy and I need to strike a balance. One where she doesn’t despise me and I’m not pushing her buttons, but also where we’re not tearing off each other’s clothes.
Easier said than done. Especially when the taste of her is still so fresh in my mind.
Not to mention, on my lips and tongue.
Did I already mention that I’m in deep shit?
Yup, I’m practically drowning in it and I’m not sure if there’s a damn thing I can do to save myself.
From the corner of my eye, I watch her stroll into the kitchen like she doesn’t have a care in the world. Her nonchalant attitude only puts me further on edge because I know exactly what she’s capable of. I’m more than secure enough in my masculinity to admit that she scares the piss out of me. She’d scare anyone with half a brain.
I should say something, right?
But what?
How do I smooth things over between us?
Apologizing again would probably do the trick. You can never go wrong with an apology.
“So, um, do you have a minute to talk?” I ask.
Again, casual as shit, she walks into the living room and takes a seat across from me on the recliner.
“Sure. What’s up?”
This girl is cool, calm, and collected. And it’s totally throwing me off my game. Sweat breaks out across my forehead as I lean forward and rest my elbows on my knees. My hands are clasped tightly in front of me.
We need to hash this out before Noah gets home. If there’s any lingering tension between us, Noah will get suspicious. I’m doing the right thing for both of our sakes. It doesn’t matter if I want Daisy. She’s beyond my reach.
Having a little taste of her last night was a boneheaded move on my part.
Because now I know what I’m missing.
I’ve touched and kissed her. I know what she sounds like when she comes.
Fuck me.
I can’t think about that or we’ll end up where we started with her flat on her back and me between her thighs.
I clear my throat, wanting to get this over with. “I thought we should talk about last night.”
And this morning.
Her expression doesn’t falter. “Last night?”
Not only does she look bored, she sounds it as well. I’m not sure what I was expecting, but it wasn’t this disinterest. It’s like she doesn’t know what I’m talking about, which is weird. I give her a penetrating look that says come on, drop the bullshit. But all I get in response is the same blank look.
Even though we’re alone, I lower my voice. “Yeah, us hooking up?”
“What’s there to discuss? We made out, did some stuff, and that was the end of it.” She shrugs and relaxes on the chair, crossing her legs, and tapping her foot. “It wasn’t a big deal.”
“Oh. Okay.” I have no clue how to proceed. I’m at a loss. But I can’t keep staring at her like a dumbass. Especially when she raises her brows in silent question. “I…wanted to make sure that we’re good,” I mumble.
For the first time since walking in the door, Daisy gifts me with a cool smile as she rises from the chair. “Don’t worry about it, Carter, we’re good. I’ve already forgotten about what happened. It’s water under the bridge.”
“Okay, well…great,” I mumble.
She takes a few steps toward the hallway. “Is there anything else?”
“Ummm, no.” There’s a peculiar sensation growing in my belly. Like something isn’t quite right, but I have no idea what. “That was it.”
I’m tempted to ask if she’s sure about us being good. But I’ve made enough of an ass out of myself where Daisy is concerned. The best thing we can do is put this behind us and move on.
So…this is good.
“All right then,” she calls over her shoulder. “I have to get ready.”
I perk up. “Oh?”
She just walked through the door five minutes ago. Where the hell is she off to?
Daisy heads to her room and closes the door before I can give her the fifth degree. I focus on the television but don’t ask me what I’m watching, because I couldn’t tell you. My ears are pricked for the slightest sound coming from Daisy’s room. I shift on the couch and click to a different station. We have the super deluxe sports package, so we have about a million channels to choose from.
Why do I care what Daisy does?
I click to another station.
I’ve never cared before.
Point and flick.
Well, that’s not altogether true.
Fine, I care.
I just don’t want to care.
Does that make any difference?
I suspect it doesn’t.
Click.
My brows snap together as I see a couple making out on the screen.
What the hell am I even watching?
Flick.
Fuck me.
I plow my hand through my hair with more agitation than when she first walked in the door.
How’s that possible?
I was afraid she’d be hurt or pissed off and she was neither of those things. She didn’t give one single fuck about what happened between us. She was totally nonchalant about the situation. And damn, if that doesn’t chafe my ass. Which is ridiculous. This is precisely the outcome I was shooting for.
And yet…
By the time Daisy opens her bedroom door and walks out again, I’ve worked myself up into a fine lather. I’m practically frothing at the mouth.
What the hell has this girl done to me?
I pride myself on being able to remain detached from most situations. Especially ones that involve chicks. And yet, Daisy has managed to flip a switch inside me. She’s totally messed up my narrative.
Whatever I was about to say dies on my lips as my gaze rakes over her.
Short skirt that bares way too much of her legs. Tight top that hugs her curves.
Curves that I had my hands all over last night. And heels that give her more height.
I narrow my eyes knowing exactly what this outfit signifies.
Why the hell is she wearing one of her date night outfits? I’ve seen enough variations to know a I’m-hoping-to-get-laid outfit when I see one.
I sit up straight as my voice sharpens. “Where did you say you were going?”
She throws a look my way as if she can barely tolerate the sight of me.
Seriously?
It takes everything I have inside not to jump off the couch and remind her exactly who’s arms she spent the night wrapped in. But, I don’t. Somehow, I manage to keep my shit together.
“I didn’t.” She grabs her purse off the table.
I gnash my teeth together and count to ten, trying to rein in my temper. The fact that I shouldn’t give a damn about where she goes, what she does, or who she does it with, isn’t lost on me.
“Are you going out on a date?” I congratulate myself for keeping my voice neutral.
“Yup.”
Her coolness is like nails slowly scraping across a chalkboard. For Christ’s sake, I should be rejoicing that she’s moved on so quickly. Instead…
“And you’re wearing that?” My brows lower.
Daisy glances at her ensemble. “That was the plan. Why? Is there something wrong with it?”
I make a conscious effort to unlock my jaw. “Don’t you think that skirt is a bit short?”
She smooths a hand over the fabric. Not that there’s much of it.
Just a hint of a frown mars her face as she considers the question. “No. It hits mid-thigh, which is a perfectly acceptable length.”
“You can’t even bend over without flashing your panties,” I point out. That thought is enough to incense me.
“No worries there,” she says sweetly, practically skipping toward the door. “I’m not wearing any.”
The breath hisses from my lungs just as the door to the apartment slams shut.
Oh, no she didn’t!
But yeah…yeah, she did.
Fuck!
