Guy Hater: A Romantic Comedy Page 17

  “Do you think that’s going to save you, Finch?”

  Finch. Yikes. Maybe I underestimated how pissed she would be. It takes a few moments for me to squeak out a response. And when I do, I hardly recognize the uncertain, fragile sound that comes from my lips. “Yes?”

  She edges close to me, finger prodding my chest over and over until she starts laughing. “Oh my God, you should’ve seen your face!”

  I gulp, a little concerned but a lot relieved, and then laugh nervously. “You had me going there, Charleigh.”

  She snags the jar from my hand. “Serves you right.”

  I take a step forward, reclaiming the space between us. The self-satisfied smile on her face falters as her breath quickens, the air around us thick with tension. She takes a step back but I meet her step with one of my own.

  “Can you blame me though?”

  That hour gave me more time with Charleigh. If anything, the hour passed far too quickly.

  She hadn’t been that relaxed since the night at The Lookout. Christ. I still can’t get that night out of my head. It’s torture reliving it over and over again, unable to satisfy my hunger again. Even though the one thing that could satiate it is inches from me.

  “I guess not.” Charleigh’s voice is soft, breathy. Her perfect bow lips part slightly as she meets my gaze. I can taste those lips, feel their softness. It’s taking every ounce of restraint not to touch her.

  “You’re so beautiful.” And for a brief moment, I regret saying it. Not because I don’t mean it—it’s true. I only regret it because the words can change the fragile dynamic between us. It’s too soon. It’s not the right time. My mind is out of control trying to figure out what’s going on in that head of hers.

  Her eyes narrow and then open, alternating between the two as she looks up at me. They give no hint of what she’s thinking or feeling. And the longer we’re at this impasse, the deeper my regret builds.

  Fuck it. I don’t care. I’m not taking it back because I meant what I said, and I know Charleigh won’t take it the wrong way. She’ll probably make some joke out of it. Lord it over me. I don’t mind because I think she likes knowing how I feel about her.

  “You’re trouble, Sebastian,” she says finally, a wave of relief rushing through me.

  “I think you knew that when I kissed you, Emma.”

  I cup her cheek and she seems to melt away, her eyes closing as she lets out a shaky breath. I tangle my fingers in between strands of her hair and tug down gently, raising her chin as her lips part and her eyes meet mine again. There’s nothing else in this world that I want right now more than to taste those lips again, and when I tell her that, she wets her lips in response.

  I lean in, mere millimeters away from her lips when the front door opens.

  “Guy! Charleigh! I’m back from Jamie’s.” Deanna stomps her boots on the mat as she enters the house.

  You’ve got to be kidding me.

  My lips are so close to Charleigh’s that I can almost feel them. There’s electricity crackling between them, but before I have the chance to breach the gap between us, Charleigh slides away.

  “How was dinner, Mom?” Charleigh calls out as she grabs her purse from the table.

  Shit.

  I make my way after Charleigh. She’s already talking with Deanna about something—I don’t know what. My attention’s on Charleigh. Her lips. Her face. The shape of her neck underneath those red curls. How close I was to tasting those lips again.

  “I’m so glad you two had a good time.” Deanna’s voice finally registers. “But now… it’s time for bed.”

  She turns around and gives my shoulder a light squeeze. There’s a knowing twinkle in her green eyes, a content smile on her lips. “Goodnight, Guy.” She winks, glances once more at Charleigh, and then heads upstairs.

  The moment she leaves, the air around me shifts. It’s hot and thick, and I’m trying desperately to catch my breath as the most beautiful woman in the world stares back at me. How the hell did this happen?

  It’s like the boiling frog metaphor, but with me in place of the frog and my feelings for Charleigh in place of the water. I’m not falling for Charleigh—I’ve fallen for her. It’s a done deal. I thought I was in control the whole time, but the near-immobilizing feelings flooding through my body tell me I had it all wrong.

  “I should go.” Charleigh opens the closet door and retrieves her coat.

  I want to tell her to stay, but the expression on her face tells me that it’s not a good idea. I’ve already pushed her too far, and even though she reciprocated in kind, it’s all happening too fast.

  “Okay.”

  I help Charleigh into her coat and then hand her purse to her. She grabs it but I don't let go. I don't want to because that means she'll be gone too. I want to prolong our goodbye for as long as I can.

  “I’m not playing tug of war with you, Guy.”

  “I think you’re already playing it.”

  The push and pull—for every inch I seem to gain with Charleigh, she takes four back. She narrows her eyes briefly before relaxing.

  “You can have it,” she says, letting go of the purse. “But I’m not sure if it will match your uniform very well.”

  I crack a smile, pausing for a moment before I hand it back to her. “You’re right. It’s not my style anyway. I need something with more heft. Something pink, maybe.”

  Charleigh mashes her lips together, doing a terrible job at hiding that smile as she fumbles with the door lock behind her.

  “You seem to be leaving in a hurry, Charleigh. Are you sure you don’t want to stay for dessert? After all that work?”

  I’m not above a little bribery. Charleigh almost takes the bait, her eyes widening as she realizes she’s only a few minutes away from fresh-baked molten dulce de leche cakes, but she regains control.

  “No can do, amigo.” The door lock clicks behind her, creaking as it opens.

  Amigo? Confused is an understatement for how I'm feeling about Charleigh throwing her very limited knowledge of Spanish into the conversation. But that's nothing compared to her choice to pass on dessert.

  “You sure you’re feeling okay, Charleigh?”

  I reach out as though to take the temperature of her forehead, but she ducks the back of my hand and hops through the gap in the front door. “Yup!” she calls back after as she takes the front steps two at a time. I’m surprised she doesn’t fall flat on her face as she full-on sprints back to her car.

  “It has nothing to do with—uh—what happened in the kitchen either,” she yells before slipping into the driver’s seat and shutting the door behind her.

  “Well, that’s a normal response,” I mutter to myself, scratching my head as I watch Charleigh reverse out of the drive with as much grace as Maddox.

  Nothing to do with the near kiss indeed.

  25

  Charleigh

  Amigo?

  What in the world was I thinking? Oh, that’s right—I wasn’t. I mean, I’d congratulate anyone who could act normally after nearly having their lips assaulted—in the most romantic way possible, of course—by a man like Guy.

  My body was on fire from the moment he opened up the door and didn’t die down until my mother walked through the front door. And thank God she showed up when she did. A few minutes later and she more than likely would’ve walked in on something she definitely would not have wanted to see.

  My heart had been vetoing every objection to Guy that my brain threw at it all night, leading up to the moment our lips nearly met. It’s still vetoing my brain, but thankfully my brain still has a firm grasp on my motor skills or else Guy would be receiving some embarrassing texts right about now.

  I force my eyes closed. Go. To. Bed, I urge myself.

  Easier said than done. I took a shower, changed into pajamas, drank a cup of soothing herbal tea—everything that usually forces my body to accept that it’s time for bed, but I can’t sleep. I’m tossing and turning and can’t stop
thinking about how close I was to kissing Guy.

  How much I wanted to kiss Guy.

  My spine tingles as I relive the moment for the hundredth time, its effect on me just as strong as the first time. Everything about it is engrained in my mind—his scent, the electric sensations that pulsed just under my skin, how maddeningly difficult it was to breathe with his lips so close to mine.

  I wet my lips reactively as I picture him in my mind’s eye. My body begins to come alive as I relinquish the last of my resolve and allow myself to focus on that moment. I should’ve kissed him. I should’ve tasted those lips again. And in my imagination, I do.

  My center aches as I fantasize about what should've happened between us. Our lips crash together so harshly that our teeth nearly touch. But it doesn't even matter. All I care about is tasting Guy, feeling his rough, masculine hands all over my face, cupping my head, gripping my hair as he kisses me.

  I slip my hand down the front of my pajamas, feeling the slick warmth already building. It hardly takes any time at all for me to come, and not long after that, I finally drift to sleep.

  “Guy, do you even know how to fix a leaky pipe?”

  Streaks of black grease mark his jawline and forearms. His white t-shirt is ripped to shreds, hardly covering his tanned torso, which of course has patches of black grease on it.

  A few questions come to mind: Why is there grease all over him, and why does it look like a mountain lion swiped his shirt multiple times? But more importantly, how did I get here? And where is here?

  I look around. We're in the kitchen at his house, but at the same time, we're not. It's different, hazy around the edges as though I'm looking at it through a foggy lens. A Gaussian blur on steroids. The kitchen has somehow been renovated, but the design isn't my own. But when Guy opens his mouth, I don't care whatsoever.

  “You can fix just about anything if you have the right tool,” he says, whacking his wrench against the palm of his hand.

  The smile on his face just about knocks me out of my socks, if only I was wearing socks to get knocked out of. I look down and I’m wearing bright pink, fluffy slippers shaped like baby elephants. Okay…

  He kneels down and ducks under the countertop, and my eyes lock on that amazing ass. I swear I’ve somehow been flung into some low-budget porno flick. All that needs to happen is—

  There’s a loud grinding sound of metal on metal followed by jets of water spraying everywhere. Guy crawls backward from underneath the sink and stands up, turning back toward me.

  “Oh no,” he says, smiling at me. “It looks like I’m all wet.”

  Okay, that seals it. I am in some low-budget porno film. But as I watch Guy slowly pull his shredded shirt over his head, I don’t care. Yowza. Those rows of abs. The striations along his sides.

  When in dreams…

  I step into the spray of water, letting it soak me. And just as I’m about to utter my perfect, porny response, the world around me is sucked away.

  “Looks like I’m all wet, too,” I finish as I wake up.

  And I am. I’m soaked.

  “Shitshitshitshit!”

  I roll out of my bed, barely dodging the waterlogged pieces of my ceiling as they fall onto my bed. Apparently, my paper towel and duct tape fix weren't up to code. I told my landlord about the issue a month ago but of course, nothing's happened, and I've been too busy to actually follow up.

  I rush into action, trying to find the water turn off, but of course, I can't find it anywhere inside my apartment. After letting out a blood-curdling scream as my frustration reaches fever pitch, I burst through the front door of my apartment into the night, soaked and freezing and full-on sprint to my landlord's house across the road from the complex.

  “I’ve got a gun!” he squeaks from the other side of the door.

  “And my bedroom’s about to have a lake view if you don’t get out here and fix the broken pipe in my ceiling. I told you about it months ago.”

  After a few beats of silence, the gears apparently churning in his head, he says, “Two-two-three?”

  "Yes. Apartment two-twenty-three."

  A few minutes later I’m back in my apartment with my landlord. The water’s off but the damage has already been done. My bed is soaked. The floors are soaked. The ceiling is falling apart. I’m in shock.

  “It could always be worse,” my landlord says, rocking back on his heels.

  I’m at a loss for words, so I just glare at him. He almost shrivels underneath it.

  “We’ll have this fixed in a jiffy tomorrow,” he says as he turns to leave.

  “Tomorrow?”

  “Can’t do a thing now. It’s three a.m. I need supplies. Men to do this. You understand, right?”

  I don’t even have the will to argue. I’m at my wit’s end.

  “Get out of my apartment.”

  He shrugs, turns back around, and heads to the front of the apartment. A few moments later the door shuts.

  It takes a few minutes, but the cold finally registers in my brain. I’m freezing, soaked from head to toe. I’d been so fired up from adrenaline that I hardly noticed. But with it out of my system, I feel terrible.

  I can’t sleep here, so I grab a change of clothes, toiletries, and everything else I’ll need to get through tomorrow. A few minutes later, I’m out the door, heading to the only place I can think of going at this hour.

  The door’s locked when I test the knob. Shit. I knock a few times, but there’s no response, so I send a text.

  Charleigh: Can you open up? I’m here.

  The seconds tick by like minutes as every moment seems to stretch out longer and longer.

  Charleigh: A pipe burst and—

  The door swings open as I’m typing another message. Guy, naked from the waist up, answers the door. His hair is mussed, and the look on his face is adorably sleepy, making my stomach flip. But when I allow my eyes to wander to the rows of abs stacked one on top of the other, I feel the sensation flutter between my thighs.

  My dream was realistic in at least one way: Guy’s physique. He’s shredded. Not an ounce of fat on him. He has more defined muscles than I’ve ever seen on anyone, and I’m pretty sure if scientists studied him, they’d discover entirely new muscle groups.

  “This is unexpected,” Guy says, rubbing his hair as he begins to yawn.

  I force myself to look away from his torso. “So was the pipe that burst above my bed.”

  He closes his mouth, his eyes widening with raised brows as though to ask, “Seriously?”

  I nod.

  He steps aside. “Come in. Can I get you anything? Tea? Food?”

  I sigh. “I’d just like to go to sleep.”

  “Of course. Take your old room. I’ll sleep on the couch.”

  “No,” I say, “you’re living here. You can take the bed. I’ll take the couch.”

  Guy laughs as though it's the most ridiculous thing I've ever said.

  He leans in. “You’re taking the bed.”

  My spine tingles as his warm breath strikes the sensitive skin just below my ear.

  “I won’t take no for an answer.”

  He snatches my bag and heads upstairs. I stand at the bottom of the stairs for a brief moment, watching as his muscles alternate between flexion and contraction. I could get used to this view, but a part of me doesn’t want to. I want it to have the same effect every time.

  "I'm sure I can find new sheets and pillowcases if you'd like."

  “It’s fine,” I say. “I’m too tired to care and I just want to go to sleep.”

  “Then I won’t keep you up.”

  Guy sets my bag on the desk. Just as he’s about to pass by me, he stops. “Good night, Charleigh,” he says, kissing the top of my head.

  I can feel myself melting away as he leaves the room, shutting the door behind him. Why does Guy have to be so sweet?

  Why does it matter? another part of me pipes in.

  I've run around in circles about these same thoughts ev
er since I started hanging out with Guy again, but right now I'm too tired to give it any more thought.

  But as I crawl into bed, the sheets still warm from Guy, all I can think about is him. All I can smell is his scent. With the sheets wrapped tightly around me and my eyes closed, it feels like he’s holding me, snuggling me to sleep.

  I don’t know how I’ll be to keep things professional between us anymore.

  26

  Guy

  Charleigh was the last person I expected to see at the door at 3 a.m.—not that I usually expect anyone to knock at my door at 3 a.m.

  She’d left in such a hurry after our near kiss that I figured I wouldn’t see her for a few days, possibly a week. It tends to be Charleigh’s MO. Two steps forward, twelve steps back. I feel like I’m Sisyphus, pushing a boulder up a long, winding hill only to have it roll right back to the bottom again.

  Deanna rounds the corner and walks into the kitchen. “You’re up early.”

  “Couldn’t sleep, so I figured I might make myself useful and make breakfast.”

  Pancake batter sizzles in the skillet as I ladle a scoop of it in.

  “You’ve been more than useful around here, and you know it.”

  She wraps her arms around me, resting her head against my back. “It’s so good to have someone else in the house. It’s been so long.”

  Deanna sighs and I know exactly what she's thinking because I'm thinking about it too—him, really. Michael, her husband, passed away nearly a decade ago. It happened during my junior year in college. I loved him as much as I loved my own father, and when he died it felt like I'd lost my dad all over again. But this time around, it wasn't as much of a surprise.

  Michael worked a high-stress job—in-house counsel for a major oil company. He worked hard, so when he had time off, he played just as hard. His vices weren’t hard drugs. He was addicted to heavy foods, sweets, and alcohol and overindulged in them on a regular basis.