Conditioned (Brewing Passion Book 3) Page 6

  Don’t think about Melody—or her deep brown eyes, her thick, ebony hair, or her full lips, perfectly rounded ass, her legs…

  “Stop,” he said out loud. “Stop it now.”

  “Dad?”

  He turned, heart in his throat, brain spinning with the sort of confusion that he despised. Taylor stood there in her holey jeans and Michigan sweatshirt—a school he’d worked his ass off to afford between scholarships, grants and part-time jobs—her eyes wide with concern. He blew out a breath and smiled to reassure her.

  “Sorry. Just pre-thinking my way into a meeting.”

  “The eggheads?”

  “Yeah, honey, the eggheads.”

  “Okay, so…” She touched the piercing in her nose. Trent bit the inside of his cheek to keep from reacting. “I just talked to Mom.”

  He crossed his arms, ready to deflect anything Sheila had said to enable Taylor to avoid his come-to-Jesus two-week plan for their daughter. “She said…um…that you were right.”

  Trent frowned, suspicious. “Well, that’s a first. We’re all on the same page, then.”

  “Yeah. She…uh, wants to talk to you.”

  Trent sighed, seeing that familiar, eager hopefulness in Taylor’s eyes. She never would give up on her parents getting back together. He put a hand on her shoulder. “I’ll call her later, honey, all right?”

  She nodded and slumped into him. He hugged her tight, kissed the top of her head and let her go, giving her a tiny push. “Get a shower. You have some essays to write, according to your principal. You can knock those out before you go to work.”

  She nodded. Order, Trent thought. Imposing order was the only way to get through life. Filling the minutes and hours with tasks. He’d done it, and it had worked out pretty well. For most of his life, it had been all he had to cling to—imposing his own, strict order on the extreme chaos all around him.

  “Catch you later, Daddio,” she called out.

  Suspicious all over again, he shot her a quick salute then grabbed his briefcase. He had forty-eight hours to respond to the eggheads’ demands. The clock was ticking. He hit the interstate, his brain ticking away on the budgets and to-do lists, mentally assigning his staff to various tasks. When his phone buzzed with a text, he startled, realizing that he’d barely even been paying attention to the road, he’d been so deeply immersed in the project. He looked at the phone screen, noting with dismay that it was from her, from Melody.

  Hey Guapo. There’s a good football game on tomorrow afternoon. Want to come over?

  Grinning like an idiot, he spoke into the phone, waiting for the text to populate. “For the hundredth time, I know I’m handsome. And Michigan is off this week so I don’t know what football you could possibly mean.”

  Real football. Not that sissy game with all the padding and helmets. It’s on at 1. I’ll make lunch.

  Don’t do it, Trent. Don’t go to her place again. If you do, you’re doomed.

  “Sure,” he said into the phone with a mental wince. “I’ll be there. As long as you keep calling me handsome.”

  Her reply was a winky face and a thumbs-up. He stared at them as he waited at a traffic light until the beep of a horn behind him brought him out of his trance.

  Chapter Eight

  The morning shift at the diner dragged slower than a snail trail but when my boss gave me the high sign at eleven forty-five, I shed my apron, reported and pocketed my tips and jumped in the car, heart trip-hammering with anxiety and anticipation.

  A date. I have an honest-to-God date. And I initiated it.

  Shivering in the heat, I parked my car and jumped out, determined to put the final, perfect touches on the meal we’d share while watching La Liga—two of my favorite things. Now all wrapped up in the possibility of a third favorite thing—the delicious possibility of Trent Hettinger.

  I ran into the kitchen, checking the pork roast covered in spices and oil I’d put into the slow cooker at four that morning, before my diner shift. I’d spent the hour before that chopping onions, mixing up homemade salsa and soaking the beans for the soup I’d planned as a side dish. This after four restless hours of sleep, after a long day at the office and a quick shift behind the bar. The manager had cut me early due to slow business and my somewhat less-than-ideal visage.

  “No offense, chica. You know I think you’re beautiful and I’d take you out to dinner in a minute if you’d let me.” His sad eyes had sagged even more. “But you’re scaring the locals, you know? You look like you were in a damn cage fight.”

  “I know. I’m sorry. I’ll go.”

  “There’s a girl,” the old-school guy had said, ever the pseudo-gentlemen.

  “I’m hardly a girl, Bob,” I’d reminded him, not insulted in the slightest. Some people would never change and were, essentially, harmless. The key was to know who’s a true misogynist and who’s too old to understand that what they say to women is wrong.

  I’d tried to sleep, and had managed some but had jumped up ten minutes before the alarm to prep the food. Hoping that the diner manager wouldn’t feel the same way about me and cut me—not earning money during a time I was used to earning, it made me twitchy—I’d slathered as much makeup over my nose and under my eyes as I could. And luckily, one of the other servers had called in sick, so they had to let me stay.

  I’d fended off plenty of growly regulars making threats about “the asshole who did that to you, sweetheart. Just give me his name. I’ll find him”. Floating around on a bubble of anticipation over having Trent in my space again, I’d waved them off, poured the coffee, slung the breakfasts, and now was home, chewing on my lip and wondering if he’d like the meal I’d prepared.

  Too bad if he doesn’t. Right?

  Right.

  I took a quick shower, taking special care to wash the diner smell out of my hair. While I was shaving my legs, I noted that I had neglected my usual bikini wax regimen. When you don’t pay a lot of attention to yourself down there, it’s something that gets left behind in the daily rush to make a living and not make waves, or be noticed by too many people. I stood under the cooling, weak stream of water, pondering the general state of unkempt fuzziness.

  I made a few swipes at it around the edges, wondering why in the hell I was even bothering. I had no intention of letting El Guapo near my furry girl bits today, if ever.

  Liar, liar, fuzzy pants on fire. At least tell the truth to your own sorry self.

  I climbed out, shivering as the water had gone totally cold by the time I’d made a dent in the fur barrier. Even as I cursed myself while doing it, I found my manicure scissors and did a bit of extremely careful clipping at the longest pieces, making a mental appointment at the waxer Evelyn had told me about. “He uses the hard wax. You barely feel it.”

  “He?” I’d reared away from her, honestly horrified at the thought of a man waxing anywhere below my belly button.

  “Yep.” She’d patted my hand. “He’s a true artist.”

  Fine, I thought, as I flushed the pubes down the toilet. I’ll visit the man and let him clean up the chaos down there. Maybe. Depending.

  I slathered on my favorite lotion, leaving a mild, fresh floral scent on my skin. I never wore cologne—couldn’t stand it actually. But I did like to smell clean. After pondering the clothing options for so long I got mad at myself for acting stupid, I grabbed a pair of dark blue jeans and my lucky Real Madrid jersey. A few waves with the blow dryer and enough makeup so my beat-up face wasn’t too scary—he’d seen me at my worst after all—and I declared myself primped.

  When I checked the time, the rush of anxiety over this whole, misguided thing almost knocked me into the wall. But I had food to prep so I let that steady me for the next half hour.

  Limes—cut.

  Onions—diced.

  Cilantro—ditto.

  Meat—perfectly spiced and shredded.

  Tortillas—waiting in the oven to be warmed.

  Soup—simmering.

  I pondered the be
er options I’d purchased, decided it would have to do and sat down to wait.

  One p.m. came and went, as did one-fifteen. When the numbers on my phone approached one-thirty, the doorbell rang, making me jump up and run to the door, pulse racing so fast I felt faint. “You’re late,” I called through the door. “I hate it when people are late.”

  “I have a note. I swear it. Please let me in.”

  “I don’t know….” I leaned against the door, willing my heartbeat to slow.

  “Have you ever had to ride herd on a teenager?”

  I frowned and peeked through the peephole. Until that minute, I’d forgotten Evelyn’s drunken complaint about Trent’s baggage. “No, can’t say that I have.” I unhooked the lock and opened the door, keeping it half closed so I could determine his mood. He sounded not so great, to be honest. My innate need to help was lurching well ahead of my compulsion to keep him at a safe arm’s length.

  As usual, he looked devastating. Today his no doubt perfect bod was clad in dark jeans and a plain black T-shirt. Nothing more was needed to highlight the width of his shoulders, the firm terrain of his torso, the bulky strength in his upper arms. “I’m sorry. Come in.” I opened the door all the way and stepped back. He brushed my cheek with his lips, which made me sway on my feet a second, before putting a bottle of Patrón on the counter, alongside a riotous bouquet of summer flowers.

  “Pretty,” I said, picking them up and reaching for the single vase I owned. “Thank you.”

  As I arranged them, he stood, tapping his fingertips on the Formica, his stress and anger coming off him in near-visible waves. “There,” I said, putting the vase next to the expensive bottle of hooch. “I’ll handle this too.” I put it in the freezer, for later. Maybe. “Hungry?” I gestured at the spread I’d made.

  He glanced at it, then at me, then he turned away and stuffed his fingers into his jeans pockets. Confused, and getting a tad concerned, I stepped out from behind the counter and put my hand on his arm. He flinched, then sighed. “I’m sorry, Melody. I…I may not be the best company today.”

  “Well, you have to at least eat. I’ve been up since four a.m. making this, so it would be completely rude not to.” I turned him gently and tugged him into the small kitchen space, put a plate in his hand and plunked a tortilla on it. He eyed the buffet and his smile appeared, warming my heart. “Go on. There’s the meat.” I pointed to the slow cooker.

  I made myself turn away from him so I wouldn’t get caught drooling or with my stupid tongue hanging out as he did such an innocuous thing as making a couple of tacos.

  “Hey, where’s the cheese?” He dropped a dollop of guacamole on top of the salsa he’d put on the meat and onions.

  “No cheese. These are authentic, Guapo. Only Anglos think an overpriced, overstuffed burrito from a fake fast-food place is how you’re supposed to eat these things.”

  He rolled his eyes, then stuck his finger in the guac before putting it in his mouth. I watched, mesmerized by his full, perfect, lips. “Damn, this is good.”

  “I know that.” I smacked his arm, embarrassed by my need to touch him. “Go sit. I’ll bring the soup. What beer do you want?”

  “Something like a pilsner if you have it.”

  “Of course.” I ladled up two small bowls of black bean soup, sprinkled cilantro and squeezed lime juice over each. I set them on the table in front of him then grabbed two local pilsners from the fridge and poured them into pint glasses.

  “Cheers,” I said, handing him one and holding my glass out. My heartbeat had calmed a little, as I’d distracted myself with making him happy or at least less worked-up over whatever was going on with his kid.

  His smile widened, as if he’d only just now realized what was going on. “Cheers,” he said, touching his glass to mine.

  We drank. I sat, leaving plenty of air between us.

  I took a few spoonfuls of my soup, watching him tear into the tacos like a hungry lion. Which made me happy. And, perversely, horny—a sensation I’d avoided, shut down, cut off or otherwise ignored for the better part of fifteen years.

  A shiver shot down my spine, nestling in the small of my back and making me shift in my seat.

  He grabbed the remote and handed it to me between bites. “Well? I thought I was getting subjected to that horrible game.”

  I took the remote, stuck my tongue out at him and clicked on the telly. The match flickered on after a few seconds.

  “Ah, right,” he said, sipping his beer, then tucking into the soup. “The pretty boys game.”

  “Damn straight,” I said, taking a bite of my own carnitas creation. Pretty damn good if I say so myself. “These men are fine.”

  “Guapo?” He raised a dark eyebrow at me, which intensified the heat gathering in areas of my body I’d forgotten I even had.

  “No. They’re too prima donna to be truly guapo.”

  “Good. I like that word being reserved for me.” He stood. “I need another one of those amazing tacos. And you’re right. I hardly miss the cheese.”

  “Of course I’m right.” I winked at him, then felt my face flush so hot I put my hand to my cheek.

  We sat in companionable silence, regarding the game and eating for a while. As we leaned back, our feet up on the table, finishing our second beers, the match got more intense. At one point I leapt up and started cursing a stream of Spanish at the official.

  “Calm down, already. What happened?” Trent asked, amusement on his face.

  “That hijo de puta claimed offsides and called back that goal! Are you blind? Mierda!”

  I flopped back onto the couch, this time so close our thighs brushed together when I propped my feet back on the table.

  “Offsides, eh?” Trent put his glass to his lips and eyed me over the rim. “I have no idea what that means, at least in this game.”

  I shoved our plates aside, grabbed the salt and pepper shakers and the empty beer bottles and attempted to explain it. After ten utterly frustrating minutes, I gave up and threw my napkin at his face after he asked one more stupid question. “Mierda! El burro sabe mas que te!”

  He leaned back in mock horror. “Did you just call me a burro? Is that like an ass?”

  I dissolved into giggles at the look on his face. “¡Mira qué cabrón! There, I just called you a smartass.”

  “Neat,” he said, grinning widely. We stared at each other for a few seconds too long, then both turned to the match.

  “For the record, I did say a burro was smarter than you.”

  “Ah, of course,” he said, getting up and stretching right in front of me. I swallowed hard and made myself not look at his ass. When he turned around again, his face had gone pensive. “Your poor, beautiful face,” he said, out of the clear blue. “It’s all I can do to look at you and not run out of here and kill that motherfucker.”

  I blinked fast, covered by grabbing my beer and totally missed my mouth. A dollop of the brew landed right on my best Real jersey. I stared down at it in horror. Trent chuckled. I glared up at him, daring him to say anything. He tried to stop laughing, but that made it worse. By the time I’d gotten up for a towel and maybe a shot of that tequila, he was practically rolling around on the floor in hysterics.

  “Are you quite finished?” I asked, brushing at the stain, my face so hot I could have warmed a whole house in the middle of winter. I’d kept my back to him, the tall counter between us. Mortification was making my vision blur. Or was that tears? Shit, I’d never get this right. I was ruined. Ruined for relationships with real men, anyway. I whirled around to tell him to take his funny bone and get the fuck out of my apartment.

  “I think…oh…”

  He was there, in front of me, too close for it to be in any way considered casual. His broad, black-cotton-covered chest filled my vision. His scent—a clean, fresh, outdoorsy odor—filled my nose. His voice—deep and musical—filled my soul.

  “Melody,” he said, as he took my hands in his and brought them to his lips. Mi Dios, t
hose lips! He kissed each one of my knuckles softly, keeping his eyes on mine. Then he turned my hands over and pressed his lips to first one, then the other of my palms.

  “Trent,” I whispered, my mind awash with images and sensations, all of them good for a change.

  “Sh,” he whispered, placing my hands on his shoulders, then sliding his hands around to the small of my back. “Sh, no talking.” His smile lit up my entire universe—corny, but true and I’m not ashamed to admit it. “I have wanted to kiss you since I saw you across that diner.”

  “When… Oh, right,” I said, my voice breaking at the end like a silly virginal teenager’s.

  Surely he won’t want me, when he finds out I’m spoiled goods. Surely he won’t…Surely he has got to be the best kisser in the entire known universe.

  I sighed and melded my body against his as he slanted those amazing lips over mine, caressing, teasing, licking my lips with his tongue then breaching to explore the inside of my mouth.

  I honestly felt as if I were on a cloud, up in the air, weightless, brainless to be certain. But no matter. I was being kissed by a god among men. And although I was sure it wouldn’t last I was determined to enjoy it.

  He broke our contact, and his hands moved up my back and into my hair, tangling there, until one hand cradled my cheek and other remained wrapped up behind my head. “This is okay?”

  “Yes,” I breathed, nodding. “It’s…very nice.”

  His grin turned slightly wicked. “Just nice? I need to up my game.”

  He pressed me back against the counter and dove in again, owning me with those lips, that tongue, his hands, which remained innocent but at the same time drove me wild with lust. He tugged my hair, forcing my head back as his lips found my jaw, then my neck, then my shoulder. I could hear my heartbeat in my ears. Sensed my breathing getting raspy as he licked and nibbled and teased his way around to the other side of my neck, ending with a quick bite on my earlobe.

  “Mi Dios,” I muttered again. I could sense my nipples—for the first time in my life I could say this—straining against the inside of my bra. I was warm all over and a serious melty sensation was forming low in my stomach. “Ah, guapo, don’t stop.” I wrapped my arms around his neck, trailing my fingertips along the bare skin of his scalp. I saw the goosebumps raise there, and felt him shudder as his lips found mine once more. He groaned into my mouth as our tongues met, and clashed, our teeth clicking together in an unpracticed, amateur way. He broke from me, his breathing coming in ragged gasps, like mine.