Authors: Lauren Layne
Nobody put a hand on Mitchell’s woman.
And Julie Greene was definitely his.
Mitchell quietly wandered around the dark apartment until he found his discarded black shirt, lip curling in disgust. He hadn’t liked the shirt even when it had been freshly pressed. Now that it was wrinkled, it might as well have “walk of shame” scrawled across the front in large neon letters.
Stepping into his jeans, he surveyed the contents of Julie’s fridge. Nothing that could have passed as breakfast. Not that he would have been much help if there were. His cooking skills tapped out at cereal, and her milk was four days past its sell-by date.
But his stomach was reminding him that he hadn’t eaten last night, and the stale box of Triscuits on her shelf wasn’t going to cut it. He crept back into the bedroom to retrieve his shoes and socks, amused to see that Julie had flung herself onto her stomach, kicking the covers off and displaying one very fine ass to his admiring eyes. Reluctantly he tugged the sheet up to her waist. The sight of two perfectly round butt cheeks had made him hard again, and after the way he’d used her body last night, he at least owed her a lazy morning.
She stirred slightly and began snoring again, and Mitchell shook his head. He’d have to make a concentrated effort to beat her to sleep if they were going to spend the night together again.
And he wanted to spend the night together again.
The question was whether she’d give him the chance.
Mitchell backed out of the bedroom and, after putting his shoes on, pulled out his cell to search for breakfast. There was a bagel place around the corner, and with any luck they’d have decent coffee, since Julie had a pot but no actual coffee.
Reluctantly he picked up the clutch Julie had dropped by her front door and rummaged among half a dozen lip products before finding her keys and dropping them into his pocket.
Most of the city didn’t rise until ten on weekends, especially in this part of town, so there was virtually no line. Fifteen minutes later, he was creeping back into Julie’s apartment, armed with two toasted sesame bagels and large coffees.
He set Julie’s cup and bagel on the nightstand, planning to eat his in the kitchen so as not to wake her. But the scent of coffee snuck under the veil of sleep and had her blinking at him in groggy surprise.
“You’re still here,” she said, looking adorably baffled.
“Yeah,” he said with a small smile. The surprise on her face wounded him, even though he knew it was justified. Last night he’d all but told her that she was a booty call and then fucked her five ways to Sunday before passing out in her bed.
She had every reason to expect he’d slink home in the early morning hours. And that killed him.
“I didn’t want to go home.” His eyes caught hers and held them, and he saw immediately that she knew what his presence here meant.
Knew that the breakfast was an apology. Or at least the start of one.
She looked away and started to reach for the coffee, but winced. “I feel like I got hit by a bus. I think I used muscles I didn’t even know I had.”
He wiggled his eyebrows as he handed her the coffee cup, his eyes locked on her exposed breasts. She followed his gaze and rolled her eyes. “Can you hand me a T-shirt?”
Mitchell didn’t move, instead taking a very deliberate bite of bagel. “Why would I do that?”
“Because I’m fairly sure that bagel crumbs on my boobs isn’t going to rate very highly on the sexy factor, and I’d like to get laid again.”
He paused in mid-chew. “By me?”
“That depends.”
“On?”
“On whether or not you get me a damned T-shirt.”
As much as he’d been looking forward to breakfast with a view, he opened the dresser drawer Julie had indicated and pulled out the first T-shirt on top of the pile.
He looked closer, and chuckled. “Minnie Mouse?”
She snapped her fingers. “Give it.”
Mitchell threw the shirt her way before gathering up the ten extra pillows that every woman invariably had lying around and creating a pillow wall for them to lean against.
“I love breakfast in bed, don’t you?” she asked around a mouthful of bagel.
“Not really,” he said, watching her take a big bite. “I hate crumbs in my bed.”
“But this is my bed.”
“Which I’m in.”
Her honey eyes smoked over, making him think of whisky by the firelight. “Do you plan
to be a frequent guest?” she asked huskily.
“Am I invited?”
“Depends. Am I still just a fling?”
She gazed at him steadily, and he realized that even if he told her yes, that she was a fling, she’d deal with it. Probably even accept it as her due.
Damn if that didn’t just tear at his heart a little.
He wanted to disrupt her. Turn her low expectations upside down. What that meant for his deal with Colin, he didn’t know. He’d figure it out later.
But for now …
“Want to get crumbs in
my
bed tomorrow?” he said, brushing a strand of hair off her cheek.
She took a sip of coffee, watching him warily. “What about answering my question about being a fling?”
“I thought I just did.”
He held his breath, and then let it out in a whoosh when she gave a slow, happy little smile. And just like that, he was forgiven. He should have known it would be that way with Julie. She wouldn’t demand endless explanations or indulge in prolonged talks. There were no games with Julie.
Just straightforward communication and sweet forgiveness.
“Why, Mitchell Forbes, are you invitin’ me over to your pad?” she asked in her best southern belle voice.
“I believe I am, little lady.”
“I accept. Are we defiling another nightclub first?”
Mitchell took a deliberate sip of coffee, finding he couldn’t quite meet her eyes. “Actually, I was thinking we should stay in tonight.”
Julie froze. “Oh?”
He took a deep breath and pushed Colin and box seats at Yankee Stadium out of his mind. For now.
“Yeah,” he said, giving her a half smile. “Now tell me, how do you feel about butter on your popcorn?”
* * *
“I told you we should have ordered the pizza.”
Julie stared down at the plasticky mess. “But this was a
frozen
pizza. Grace said it was supposed to be easy.”
Mitchell picked up the box and gave it a wry glance. “Did Grace also mention that you’re supposed to remove the plastic? Because the box does.”
“Let me see that,” she said, snatching the box.
Sure enough:
Remove plastic before placing in oven
. It was even in bold.
So much for her second attempt at domestication. It hadn’t gone any better than her chicken attempt, and that at least had required real chopping.
“Also,” Mitchell added, poking the pizza disaster with a tentative finger, “I’m pretty sure that broil and bake are not interchangeable.”
They aren’t?
“Well, that’s just great,” she said grumpily. “I’m so glad you have all these advanced kitchen skills you decided not to share.”
There was a knock at the door.
“Who’s that?” she asked.
Mitchell planted a quick peck on the top of her head as he slid past her to grab his wallet from the counter. “Pizza guy.”
Julie’s mouth dropped open, even as her appetite surged in gratitude. “What do you mean, the pizza guy? When did you order pizza? I told you on my way over that I had dinner planned.”
“And that’s when I called the pizza guy,” he called over his shoulder.
Julie’s lips pursed in thoughtfulness as she swept her failed pizza into his garbage can. She was certainly racking up ideas for her article today.
How to get him to invite you over: Ply him with wild sex and half-naked eating in bed
.
How to know when he knows you: When he’s formulated a solution to your screw-ups before they even happen
.
“What kind did you get?” she asked, pulling plates out of his cupboard.
“Some greasy meat special. Grab a couple of wineglasses, would you?”
She complied, her hand faltering slightly as she realized she knew exactly where to find them.
Another first. Knowing her way around a man’s kitchen.
Mitchell plucked the glasses from her hand as he pulled a bottle from his built-in wine rack. She grabbed the pizza box, the plates, and a roll of paper towels and followed him to the couch. They settled side by side, their arms companionably moving above and below each other’s as they got situated with pizza and wine.
Mitchell reached for the remote when they both had a full plate and glass, and Julie froze as the realization swept over her.
This was it.
This was movie night.
She waited for the wave of self-loathing and the depressing suspicion that her sexiest years were behind her.
Instead she felt … relaxed. Contented. Happy.
“What are you so smiley about?” he asked, shooting her a glance as he navigated through his On Demand menu.
“Nothing,” she said, giving a smug little wiggle of giddiness.
Just happy about you
.
“So what are we watching?” he asked, scrolling through the options. “Action, comedy, some stupid drama?”
Julie thought about suggesting the romantic comedy he’d just scrolled past on the menu, but she wasn’t brave enough. There was taking things to the next level and then there was taking things to the romantic-comedy level. She didn’t want to push her luck.
“You pick,” she said magnanimously.
He snorted. “I hate it when women say that.”
“Know what I hate?” she said, watching him rip off several paper towels. “People who dab the grease off their pizza. If you don’t want junk food, don’t order a pizza.”
Mitchell ignored her. “I hate when women tell men to pick a movie, because one of two things invariably happens. Either they make some sort of passive-aggressive comment once he’s happily made his choice, letting her know that she’s disappointed with a capital D. Or they just complain outright the whole damned time.”
She chewed. Considered. Swallowed. “That’s true. Good point. Want me to pick?”
“Hell, no,” he muttered, selecting some war biopic. “I’d rather listen to you whine than suffer through that romantic comedy I skipped.”
Julie glanced at his profile, pleased to see that he looked as relaxed and happy as she felt.
“Can I ask you something?” she said, feeling gutsy as she took a sip of her wine.
“Great, yet another gem from the female set,” he muttered.
“You like sports, right?”
He shot her a startled look. “Sure, most of ’em. Baseball, mostly.”
“Right, that’s what you told me that first night. You love baseball. But in the time we’ve been … dating”—she said the word hesitantly—“I’ve never seen you watch a game. Or even suggest watching a game. And I’m not the biggest sports geek out there, but I’m pretty sure we’re in the middle of the Yankees season right now.”
Something sharp passed over his face at the mention of the Yankees, but it disappeared before she could identify it. He slid another piece of pizza onto each of their plates as he seemed to be pondering her question. Julie sipped her wine and let him work it out. At first his pregnant pauses and apparent need to have every word selected before opening his mouth had bothered her. But she’d gotten used to it. Liked it, even. No wasted words ever escaped Mitchell Forbes.
“I record the games,” he said finally. “And watch them when I have free time.”
She raised an eyebrow. “And Saturday night doesn’t count as free time?”
“Okay, honestly? If we’re going to be all sharey and shit? Evelyn hated baseball. So have all my previous girlfriends.”
Julie shook her head in bafflement. “Sugar, I’m thinking half the women in America fall somewhere between hate and lukewarm on the subject of the New York Yankees. But I’m pretty sure there’s such a thing as compromise in relationships.”
He shot her a knowing look. “Did you read that in one of Grace’s articles?”
Julie gave a guilty smile. “I proof all her stuff; I guess I picked up a few things.”
“I’d say you have a natural knack for it,” he said, taking a bite of degreased pizza. “You seem to be doing pretty well in this relationship.”
Julie was in the process of bringing her pizza to her mouth, and at his words she nearly fumbled the slice. She forced herself to take a bite despite the launch of butterflies in her stomach.
Was this it? He’d said
relationship
. They were having movie night. And he’d slept over
last night.
Had she just taken things to the next level?
Did this mean she could be done with her undercover assignment? And the most important question of all … did she want to be done?
The pizza felt stuck in her throat, and she washed it down with a swallow of the excellent wine.
“You okay?” he asked, completely oblivious to the firestorm of confusion he’d just unleashed.
“Yup!” Julie desperately wanted to lunge for the remote and start a movie, any movie, to avoid this conversation.
But then again … weren’t these types of conversations exactly the purpose of her article? To coach women how to have the “relationship” talk with the man they were kinda sorta seeing, she had to have one first.
God, this sucks
.
Julie mentally slapped on her big-girl panties and turned to face him. “So, Wall Street, what made you change your mind about movie night?”
He set his own plate aside and leaned forward to refill their wineglasses—generously. Perhaps she wasn’t the only one who was nervous.
“Why is movie night so important to you?” he asked in response.
Because it’s the hallmark of everything I’ve never wanted. The sign that I’ve done my duty to
Stiletto
and can get back to my old life. My real life
.
“Probably for the same reason you balked at it last night,” she said bluntly. “Because it means something.”
He looked at her. Looked away. “I know what it means. Why do you think I suggested it?”
Julie didn’t think it was possible to choke on one’s heart, but it certainly felt like her heart had lodged somewhere near her esophagus. “But last night you said—”