* * *
If one has only just met Derrick, one might assume he’s perfectly dressed, coifed, and smells like a million bucks because he’s a highly paid professional sports management guy with a knack for investing. But even in high school, when he had to survive on the tips from his busboy job at the local diner, Derrick always looked good and smelled even better. He’s one of those rare straight men who knows how to dress and takes care with his personal appearance.
I, on the other hand, have only recently emerged from my ugly duckling phase. Now that I’ve discovered hair masks, acne-zapping stickers, and an affordable vintage designer boutique, I can hold my own amongst the glitterati. But not too long ago, I was a scrawny kid with zits and frizzy hair so large, I always looked like I’d recently been electrocuted.
My immediate family will surely remember this disparity and wonder how a total catch like Derrick was able to forget my hideous caterpillar stage long enough to fall for my newly butterflied self. And why he would have bothered, considering half the gorgeous single women in New York City have been throwing themselves at his feet for the past five years.
Also, I hate the man!
I’ve said it before, but it’s worth saying again. I hate that he’s made me feel like a fool so many times in my relatively short life and that it took him so long to realize that Evie and I aren’t kids anymore. I hate his know-it-all attitude and that he can still make me question myself with one lazy arch of his eyebrow.
But most of all, I hate that I want him so damned much.
I hate that I still fantasize about that kiss ten times a day, and that Derrick’s is the face floating through my mind when I’m having a moment with my vibrator.
I hate that tending his stupid forehead wound last night was enough to make my nipples tight and that even now, as I stand shivering on the sidewalk outside our apartment between two giant piles of snow, I’m still turned on.
Freezing…but turned on.
I’m disgusted with myself, so disgusted it’s easy to scrunch my nose into a disapproving sneer as Derrick pulls up in an even fancier SUV than usual and executes a parallel parking job that would give any New York City valet a hard-on.
“New ride, I see?” I ask as he swings out of the driver’s seat and circles around the front of the Lincoln Aviator. “Is that a fiscally responsible decision, Mr. Olsen, seeing as you’ve recently lost your job?”
“I recently quit my job with plenty of savings to hold me over until my next gig,” he says with a grin. “But thank you for your concern, Miss Spreadsheet. Are you sure it’s wise to talk accountant to a man this early in the morning?”
“I don’t understand your meaning.” I frown as I hand over my roller suitcase, ignoring the way my pulse spikes as his fingers close over mine, trapping them between his warm skin and the handle.
He leans in. “I mean, you know what they say about accountants…”
I frown harder, refusing to think about how nice his breath feels, all warm and pepperminty, on my lips. “No, I don’t. What do ‘they’ say about accountants?”
“That beneath their buttoned-up shirts and sensible shoes they’re the kinkiest of the white-collar professions. By far.”
“Is that right?” I arch a cool brow, hoping he can’t see my heartbeat throbbing in my throat.
“It is. I believe Vogue did an article about it.” He cocks his head as his lips drift a whisper closer to mine. “Or maybe it was Cosmo.”
“You read Cosmo?” I hold my ground, refusing to let him know how very aware of him I am. “Of course, you do. How else would you stay on the cutting edge of fashion?”
“I also like the quizzes,” he murmurs, his gaze locked on my lips. “The one about your favorite side dishes revealing everything you need to know about your sex life was especially illuminating.”
I fight a smile and the urge to grab the collar of his gorgeous wool peacoat and drag his lips to mine. “Don’t tell me, you were…onion rings. Crispy and tasty on the outside, but foul and soggy in the center.”
He grins. “I’m a side salad, clearly. Healthy, delicious, and good for you, to boot.”
Good for me…
Damnit. Ninety-nine percent of the cells in my tingling body agree that Derrick would indeed be good for me, and that I should pounce on any excuse to make out with his sexy face. And what better excuse is there than needing to put Gram’s mind at ease so she can concentrate on getting well instead of worrying about whether her favorite grandchild is going to be forced to live without the love and affection she secretly craves?