Rascal Read online

  Still, hot guy patted the ground next to him.

  “You may as well settle in,” he said.

  “I would,” I told him, before gesturing at my outfit. “But I’m not sure that this suit and that ground are a good match.”

  “It is a nice suit,” he observed. His eyes grazed over me, and I got all warm as his

  eyes dragged from the tips of my toes all the way to the top of my head, taking his time to examine every inch of my body. It felt like years went by before his gaze returned to my eyes. And when they did, there was a heat there, too.

  “I have an idea,” he said, and

  I watched as he dumped his purchases out onto the ground and spread out the plastic bag into a makeshift seat for me. Not that it was easy navigating myself into a sitting position in that skirt. I settled onto the ground next to him not entirely sure I hadn’t flashed him a good glimpse of my panties. If I had, he was at least gentleman enough not to say anything.

  He held out a hand. “I’m Emerson,” he said. And just like that, Hot Guy had a name. It suited him: sturdy, but interesting.

  “Alex.” I shook.

  His hand was warm and rough. I could feel the callouses on his palms. It was unbearably sexy. And he only got more attractive the closer I got. Sitting next to him, I got a good whiff of his scent and was immediately intoxicated. It was pure masculinity, beer and salt and some kind of good, fresh soap that I wanted to rub over my entire body.

  Or just rub him over my entire body.

  “Short for Alexandra?” he asked.

  I blinked, wondering how many times he’d had to ask that, because I had completely zoned out.

  “Yep,” I answered.

  Emerson leaned back against the wall, crossing his arms.

  “You know, typically in situations like this, I would be asking what you do, if you’re from here, all that kind of stuff.”

  “In situations like this?” I smiled. “You get stuck in ATMs with women a lot?”

  He laughed, and the rich sound vibrated through me.

  “Not a lot,” he said.

  I gave him a look.

  “OK, not ever.”

  “This is my first time, too.” The suggestive words were out of my mouth before I even realized what I was saying.

  “I’ll be gentle,” he teased, and I was close enough to see the corners of his eyes crinkle.

  “You know what I mean,” I said, hating that I kept blushing around him.

  “What I was trying to say,” he continued, “was that we could do the whole small talk thing, getting to know each other, and all that. Or . . .”

  “Or?”

  “Or we could do something a little more interesting.”

  There was a twinkle in his eye. A naughty twinkle.

  “Define interesting,” I said, annoyed that the naughty twinkle had given me a naughty tingle between my thighs.

  You don’t have time for this, Alex, I told myself.

  Time for what? I countered my mental voice. I’m stuck in an ATM with the hottest guy I’ve ever seen. I don’t have time for anything but this. And I don’t even know what this is.

  “We could play a game,” Emerson offered. “Like truth or dare.”

  “Like truth or dare?”

  “OK,” Emerson grinned. “Exactly like truth or dare. Basically, we could play truth or dare.”

  I laughed. The whole thing sounded silly and reckless and fun. When was the last time I’d had fun? Work had become my life recently, and though I loved it, I also knew that it required sacrifices.

  “OK,” I agreed. “But we need rules.”

  Emerson raised an eyebrow.

  “I think you’ll like these rules,” I told him.

  His look went from skeptical to intrigued.

  “No sharing of personal details,” I ticked off on my finger. “I don’t want to talk about our jobs or family members or anything like that. No small talk.”

  “I do like that rule,” Emerson quickly agreed.

  “You can refuse to answer a question or complete a dare, but if you do, you have to drink.” I pointed at the six-pack of beer that was now laid out on floor with the rest of Emerson’s purchases. “Unless you mind sharing.”

  “I don’t mind sharing at all,” he said, that naughty twinkle returning. “Do you mind sharing?”

  I reached into my bag, making sure to avoid the tampons and pads, and pulled out the wide variety of snacks I had purchased, including the ice cream.

  “Too bad we don’t have a spoon,” I said. It wasn’t hot out yet, but still, who knew how long the ice cream would last outside of a freezer.

  “That’s what you think.” Emerson reached into his back pocket. In order to do so, he had to roll onto on hip, and his arm bumped up against mine.

  He was wearing a shirt, and I was wearing a blouse and a jacket, but I still felt the spark. Felt it like a jolt of lightning. If Emerson felt the same way, he recovered quickly, pulling what looked a Swiss army knife out of his pocket. He flipped it open, revealing a spoon attachment.

  “Were you a boy scout?” I asked as he opened the ice cream.

  “Maybe,” he said, giving me a look. “I thought we weren’t going to do small talk?”

  “Is that small talk?” I grinned.

  “No personal details,” he reminded me with a smile.

  I held up my hands as if surrendering. He grinned at me, and used his Swiss army knife-spoon-thing to scoop out a fair sized portion of Chunky Monkey. I completely expected him to eat it, but instead, he offered it to me. I took the spoon and the bite gratefully.

  Chivalry wasn’t dead.

  Somehow, Chunky Monkey tasted better when I was locked in a dark ATM with a handsome stranger. The sigh of satisfaction that escaped my mouth echoed in the quiet of the small room.

  “That good, huh?” Emerson smirked.

  I swallowed quickly and passed over the spoon.

  “What can I say?” I lifted my chin, hoping to hide what seemed to be an ever-present blush around him. “I like my ice cream.”

  “I like your ice cream too,” he murmured, before he had even taken a bite.

  Somehow, the vestibule seemed to get smaller and warmer. I didn’t mind one bit.

  “I hope that thingamabob of yours has a bottle opener on it,” I noted, finding that the beer bottles didn’t have twist-off tops.

  “What kind of boy scout would I be if it didn’t?” he asked, flipping the Swiss army knife around to reveal a bottle opener.

  “I guess not the kind that won’t admit he was a boy scout,” I teased.

  “This is your game,” he reminded me. “I’m just a mere player.”

  “I’m not surprised,” I murmured. Guys who looked like that always were.

  Emerson gave me a look, but didn’t respond to my comment. Instead he gave me another once-over, but this time, I could sense that he was looking for answers to questions he hadn’t even asked yet.

  “Let me guess,” he said, cocking his head. “You do something important. High-powered.”

  “I thought we weren’t sharing personal details,” I said, uncapping a bottle of beer.

  I peered at the label—I didn’t recognize it, but it looked like some fancy small-batch brewery. Something a beer snob might drink. That surprised me. From the look of Emerson, I would have taken him for a Budweiser kind of guy. Simple and easy.

  “I think we should play another game,” Emerson suggested.

  “But truth or dare was your idea,” I reminded him.

  “This game will be more fun,” he told me. “Trust me.”

  I had no reason to trust him. None at all. He was a complete stranger. Yet, when he smiled at me like that, I couldn’t help it.

  “OK,” I said. “What’s this alternative game?”

  “I tell you what kind of person you are.” He opened his own bottle of beer. “Just by looking at you. And you tell me if I’m right or if I’m wrong.”

  “Hmm.” I took a dr
ink of beer. “And what do I get if you’re wrong?”

  His gaze went hot. “What do you want?”

  Wasn’t that the million-dollar question?

  “I’ll take your beef jerky,” I said, chickening out of anything more suggestive.

  “Deal,” Emerson said, and we shook on it.

  He gave me a gleeful look as he rubbed his hands together. “OK,” he said. “So you work in a high-powered position.”

  I rolled my eyes. “That’s a very vague statement,” I told him. “Don’t expect to get any hints that way.”

  He grinned. “Fair enough,” he said, crossing his arms. “Well, from the way you’re dressed, I can tell that you don’t work from home.”

  “True.” I scooped out a spoonful of ice cream and licked at it.

  “I’m guessing you work in an office with a strict dress code,” he observed.

  “Also true,” I responded.

  “You’re not an assistant,” he told me.

  “No?”

  “No.” He shook his head. “You’re dressed like someone in charge.” He paused. “Or someone who wants to be.

  I’m right, aren’t I?” he asked, looking pleased with himself.

  “Maybe,” I admitted.

  “So you want to be in charge, then?”

  I shrugged, feeling self-conscious.

  “I bet you’re great at what you do,” he said.

  I let out a laugh, and it was a little harsher than I intended.

  “I feel like I’m in over my head ninety percent of the time,” I confessed.

  I wasn’t sure why I did. I hadn’t told anyone that I felt that way—not even Kelsey. It had always been important for me to project complete confidence, even when I didn’t feel it, so why was I telling a complete stranger that I wasn’t sure I knew what I was doing?

  “I feel that way all the time,” Emerson admitted.

  I looked at him, surprised. Everything about him screamed confidence. How could he feel the way that I did? How could he doubt himself?

  “It’s not easy being in charge,” he told me. “There’s a reason people say fake it until you make it.”

  “I guess so,” I said. “I guess I’m just waiting to make it.”

  “I have no doubt that you will,” he offered.

  I laughed, not as harshly this time. “You barely know me,” I reminded him. “I could suck at my job.”

  “I know enough,” he said. “I know you’ve got excellent taste in snacks—especially in ice cream. I know you don’t panic in unexpected situations. I know you take pride in your appearance and yourself. I know you’re creative and clever.”

  With every word, I felt my blush grow stronger and stronger. It didn’t help that Emerson was watching me the whole time, his eyes focused and intense.

  “And I also know that you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever been trapped in an ATM with,” he finished.

  My breath left me for a moment. We were sitting close together. I hadn’t even noticed us getting close, hadn’t even noticed how his thigh was now pressed up against mine, his arm against mine.

  “I bet you say that to all the girls,” I somehow managed.

  He shook his head, his eyes dark in the shadows. “Just you.”

  I knew right then that he was going to kiss me.

  And I wanted it bad.

  Emerson put a hand on my face, his thumb stroking the underside of my jaw. The sensation made me shiver. He tilted my face up towards his, and then lowered his head. His lips touched mine softly at first, but we were perfectly aligned. He moved slowly, languidly, his touch light enough that I could move away at any moment, but his kiss confident enough that I couldn’t have moved even if wild zombies were dragging me away.

  He kissed me, his tongue dragging across my bottom lip, making me gasp, giving him access. Immediately, the kiss changed. It went from soft and slow to hot and hard. His hand slid from my jaw to the back of my head, making a mess of the tight bun I always wore at the base of my neck. Somehow he managed to unpin it without pulling away from me and I felt my hair come undone and tumble down my back. He let out an approving groan and thrust his fingers into my hair, angling my mouth so he could deepen the kiss more.

  I gripped his shirt, not wanting to let go. Our tongues tangled and he tasted like chocolate and beer. I couldn’t get enough. My entire body tingled from just one kiss, and I couldn’t help wondering what it would feel like to have more.

  Suddenly, I heard a humming noise and a bright light exploded from behind my closed eyelids. Confused, I pulled back, blinking against the unexpected glow. It took a few moments, but I realized that the power had come back on. And with the power came light, and with the light came the realization that I was kissing a stranger.

  An extremely handsome stranger, but a stranger nonetheless.

  Emerson looked about as dazed as I felt, so I took that opportunity to scramble to my feet, gathering my things as I did.

  “I should go,” I managed, my lips still swollen from his amazing kiss.

  “Wait.” He stood, putting a hand on my arm. “We should at least exchange numbers. Last names?”

  I shook my head. “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” I told him.

  He looked surprised, but

  I didn’t wait for him to respond. I grabbed my bag and pushed past him, leaving him alone in an ATM with two fewer beers.

  3

  Alex

  I tried not to think about Emerson. It wasn’t easy since I had fallen asleep thinking about him—the way his mouth had felt on mine, the way his hand had tightened in my hair as he kissed me, the way he tasted like fancy beer and something else wonderful and all him . . .

  I might have considered the entire thing a fever dream brought on by my period and the bottle of wine I downed when I got back home—except I discovered that at some point, Emerson had slipped his packet of beef jerky into my shopping bag. It was the only proof I had that anything had happened.

  And I needed proof. Because it was completely unlike me. I didn’t kiss strange men. Lately, I didn’t kiss anyone—whether they were men and/or strange didn’t really matter. I was working myself ragged at the office and way too busy for this kind of distraction, and the fact that I spent the entire evening in my bathtub with a glass of wine that I kept refilling as I replayed the hottest kiss I’d ever had in my life instead of doing the pile of paperwork I had intended to do was further proof that this was the kind of distraction I really, really didn’t need.

  I went to bed, my alarm set for an ungodly hour for a Saturday morning, allowing myself one final replay of the kiss. Of course, that just led to me having incredibly intense, very sexy dreams about him in which the power hadn’t come back on when it did and we finished out our evening having sex against the wall of the ATM.

  Really, really great sex.

  Great sex that was ruined by the sound of hammering. At first I thought it was just in my head, that I was being punished by a splitting headache for eating nothing but Chunky Monkey and a bottle of wine for dinner, but as I woke fully, I realized that the sound was coming from downstairs.

  It was also two hours before I had set my alarm. Which meant some asshole was downstairs hammering something at six a.m. on a Saturday while I was dealing with a hangover and cramps. I had officially entered hell.

  At first, I tried to go back to sleep, burrowing my head underneath my pillows, but that barely did anything to dull the noise. After twenty minutes of not sleeping and nearly suffocating myself under my pillows, I gave up and got up.

  Five minutes later, I had a cup of super-strong coffee at my side and earbuds blasting white noise in my ears. I had grown up in crappy motels and even crappier apartments, so I had experience dealing with noisy environments. I had learned how to cope when I was a kid, managing to get straight A’s despite shitty circumstances outside of my control—I could cope with some hammering now.

  When my dad left, he left us with nothing. My mom went
back to school while balancing a full-time job. Eventually she got her nursing degree and moved us out of the worst neighborhoods, but we always struggled to make ends meet. She gave up a lot for me, and all I wanted was to make enough money that she could retire early. So she could actually enjoy life for once.

  Unfortunately, a mountain of student loan debt stood between me and my goals. I’d had to put myself through undergrad and law school and neither of those had been cheap, despite getting scholarships and working as much as I could. My pay right now was good, great even—but I couldn’t spend any of it, because there was still the chance it would only last until the end of summer. But if I won the permanent associate spot . . .

  Goodbye, five-dollar bottles of wine, hello, ten-dollar bottles of wine!

  I wasn’t even kidding. I had daydreams about what I’d do if I won that job. Long, detailed, luxurious daydreams about Target sprees and cute kitchenware. I’d be able to start paying off my debt and maybe even find an apartment with a window. Secretly, I was hoping that I’d be able to take my mom on a trip for Christmas. Maybe a cruise or something fancy like that.

  Not that I was complaining about life right now. I was on track, just like I’d always planned. I’d finally left roommate wars behind and found a dirt-cheap studio on my own, which I was more than grateful for. I had a job and I had the support of my friends and family. Sure, I was making sacrifices—living off of ramen and putting a self-imposed embargo on my love life—but it wasn’t anything less than what my mother had given up for me. She was my hero and I wanted to make her proud.

  And I knew I was capable of it. All I needed to do was work hard and show everyone at the firm what I was made of.

  Usually, that wasn’t a problem. But for whatever reason, not even my noise-cancelling earbuds and the white noise app on my phone could dampen today’s hammering from downstairs.

  I tried everything to block the noise.

  I stuffed towels under the door to try to muffle the sound coming from below. Switched from white noise to classical. Finally, I relocated to my bathroom, the quietest of all the rooms, and built what was essentially a noise-cancelling fort out of pillows and the ratty cushions of my second-hand couch.