Shacking Up

“Thanks. I had a lovely time. The food was exceptional.” At least until the morning after. It seems best to leave that part out.

“Excellent, excellent.” He sweeps a hand out to the chair on the other side of the table, where a host is waiting for me to take a seat so he can tuck me in like a five-year-old. “I’m looking forward to getting to know you better. I haven’t had much of an opportunity to meet many of Amalie’s close friends, especially not ones who have known her for as long as you have.”

“Yes, well, it’s been quite the whirlwind, hasn’t it?” I smooth my hand down the back of my skirt as the host moves the chair under my butt. I fall into the habits I’ve spent the last several years shedding like an old coat, nodding at him with a polite smile and a quiet thank you.

Armstrong waits until the host has moved on before he gives me what seems to be his signature, pickle-up-the-ass smile. “When you know, you know. I’m sure you’ll understand once you find your soul mate.” He turns to gaze lovingly at my best friend.

I hold back both the snicker and the gag—although the latter had more to do with the return of the roll in my stomach than the actual cheesiness of his response. Instead I smile and nod my agreement. “I’m sure when that day comes I’ll be just as excited as both of you. Maybe I’ll even want to elope.” I glance down at my drink menu so he can’t read the disingenuousness on my face.

“I wouldn’t suggest elopement, it makes it seem like you have something to hide,” Armstrong says with an air of snoot. Although almost everything he says comes across as pretentious.

Any potentially sarcastic response is thwarted by the sudden arrival of Armstrong’s last-name-first cousin whose home I’m hoping to move into for the next five weeks.

“Sorry I’m late. I got caught up at work.”

“Don’t you ever rest?” Armstrong asks.

“Last-minute trip details,” he replies.

I look up from my drink menu as the chair opposite mine slides across the carpeted floor. The hand doing the chair dragging isn’t a manicured one. The nails are imperfect and scars litter his knuckles. And the hand is huge. Like it belongs to some behemoth Neanderthal.

As I lift my eyes to further judge this cousin of Armstrong’s I realize the abnormally large hand is attached to one hell of a forearm and that is attached to a rippling bicep. Up, up, up I go until I reach the thickly corded muscles that make up his neck, and the incredibly cut jaw with the perfect amount of five o’clock shadow. As with any finely crafted physical specimen, I’m definitely intrigued to see whether the face does the body justice. I’m met with a plush set of lips that currently have a tongue dragging across them, making the bottom one glisten in the expensive chandelier lighting.

His nose is mostly straight, but there’s something a little off there, I can’t figure out why, though. My gaze reaches his eyes, his dark blue eyes. They’re stunning. Just unreal. And he has these perfect arching eyebrows to complete the perfection of his face. Amie wasn’t lying. This man is seriously f’ing hot. And I haven’t even checked to see if he has all his hair yet.

As I put together all the individual components of his rugged, sexy face, I also come to realize that beyond his being hot, he’s also terribly familiar. In my somewhat lust-induced haze of stupidity, combined with the still-hanging-on fever, it takes me a few more seconds to come up with a reason as to why this man is so familiar.

I break the rules of etiquette that were bitch slapped into me my entire life by pointing at him and saying, “You!” Thankfully, my voice is still hoarse so it’s a lot quieter than it may have been otherwise.

His smile, his pretty, white-toothed smile falters and he cocks his head to the side. His expression registers a flicker of recognition, although there’s also confusion. “Do I know you?”

“Do you know me?” I parrot.

“You look incredibly familiar.” He drops into the chair across from me, those eyes of his could be burning holes in my damn dress they’re so hot. Jesus. This man is like a nuclear bomb of sexy, just waiting to go off. I’m honestly surprised women aren’t super-gluing themselves to his body like in one of those men’s spray deodorant commercials. He may actually need women repellent. “I feel like I should know your name already.”

His now lopsided grin is making my panties reevaluate their importance in my life.

I recall him telling me he’d been popping cold medication like candy. Maybe his memory is fuzzy. Sadly, I remember every second of that accidental kiss, and the unfortunate aftermath.

I gawk for a few extra seconds before I finally remember how to put words together. “Well, you have had your tongue in my mouth.” Not really the best words, or the most appropriate ones, unfortunately.

“Do you know each other?” Amie’s smile is tight and her voice is high.

I wave a hand in his direction. “That’s Awesome Kisser.”

“I’m sorry, what?” Now she looks concerned, and she may have a right to wear that expression, because I’m about to go off.

“This is the guy who kissed me and then coughed in my face.”

There’s one of those lulls in conversation at the tables near us, so a few people stop to stare for a second or two before resuming their fake conversations.

Awesome Kisser whose name I now know is Bancroft, looks horrified. As he should. I lost the part in the play because of him. Well, that’s also assuming I would’ve given the best performance out of all 175 people who tried out for the lead and supporting roles. But, with my background I should’ve at least been offered some part, even if it wasn’t a major one.

“What?” Armstrong looks from Bancroft to me and then to Amie, apparently not in the know.

“Oh shit.” Bancroft’s distress is real. At first, I think it’s embarrassment, until he continues, sounding remorseful, “I really am so sorry about that. I probably shouldn’t have attended the engagement party in the first place, but Armstrong’s my cousin and I couldn’t miss it. Too much scotch and cold medication makes for a terrible combination.”

“Apparently. Your date certainly wasn’t pleased.”

“Does someone want to fill me in here?” Armstrong looks super confused. And annoyed. I can’t decide if this is a good or a bad thing, because it means the incident isn’t something Bancroft’s shared—out of mortification or tact, I’m not sure yet, since I don’t have much of a gauge on his personality. My knowledge of him is limited to the way his mouth feels and his tongue tastes.

I turn to Armstrong and smile. “Just a misunderstanding. It isn’t a big deal.”

The waitress comes by to take drink orders. Based on the turn in events, I consider a glass of Prosecco, but ultimately decide to go with sparkling water, hopeful the bubbles will settle my stomach, although maybe the alcohol would help kill whatever bugs are floating around in there.

Armstrong does a good job of dominating the conversation and Bancroft’s references to his business trip are quickly turned into another jumping-off point for Armstrong to talk about himself and his family’s media empire. Maybe he’s a nervous talker. Or a pompous ass. Either is possible, the latter seems more likely.

Appetizers arrive. Apparently Armstrong took the liberty of ordering for us prior to our arrival. A selection of tapas is placed on the table, including smoked salmon and sautéed calamari. Usually I’m a fan of seafood, but my recent unintentional fasting makes anything with actual flavor seem rather unappealing. I go with the safest option: baked pita chips, skip the hummus, and I order pasta primavera; the plainer the better.