Complicated Girl (Baker Street Romance #2)(15)
Author: Mimi Strong

He gives my knee a delightful squeeze, the kind of squeeze that sends pure delight through my muscles and veins and bones.

Chuckling, he says, “Why am I not surprised? Did you trash talk the other guys about their lack of balls? Did you hold the guys down until they cried?”

“I only wrestled girls.” Well, that’s not entirely true. “Officially.” I take a sip of refreshing wine, since my glass is too full and in danger of spilling.

“Meenie, go easy on that,” Rory says, looking at the bottle between us.

“I think the waitress is trying to get me drunk so I’ll give her a big tip.”

Drew turns to me, and just as I’m about to swallow, he says, with lusty fire in his eyes, “Do you think you can handle a big tip?”

Big tip. He means penis. The hand on my knee squeezes. I can’t swallow. Wine’s in my mouth.

He waggles his eyebrows.

My throat clenches, and the wine sprays from my mouth, in a perfect spray—perfect if you were, say, filming it, not perfect if you were hoping to stay dry during your visit to the pub. The wine lightly coats Drew’s handsome, GQ-pretty, lickable face, as evenly as a spray tan.

At least pinot grigio is a white wine. (Did you think, from the name, it was red? So did I, until this week.)

Across the table from me, Rory pushes her chair back and starts looking around urgently for the waitress.

Drew picks up a napkin from the table. Instead of wiping his face, he laughs and starts dabbing at my chin. I push his hand away. “Drew, don’t be intimate in front of Rory. You’ll make her head pop off.”

“I’m fine, you guys,” Rory says, which is about a seven on the white lie scale. “I’ve got to be up early, so I think I’ll call it a night.”

We’ve both finished eating our dinner, so I really have no excuse to beg her to stay. My only option, sadly, is the truth.

“Rory, you can’t go. Drew is in my self-help group, and we’re not allowed to be more than friends. But he’s wearing a tight-fitting shirt, and look at his face. Don’t you want to make a cake that looks like his face and eat it? You can’t leave me alone with him.”

She stands, her purse on her shoulder. “You’re a big girl,” she says, and then she leaves.

Drew uses the napkin to wipe his own face, then turns to watch Rory leave. He watches her just a few seconds too long, with his eyes just a little too low.

I grab his perfect GQ chin and turn his face back to mine. “If you look at Rory’s ass one more time, I will take you down. You’ll be eating peanut shells off the pub’s carpet, and there’s something else you should know. They haven’t served peanuts here in five years. That’s how far into the floor I’ll shove your face.”

He blinks. “I’ve never wanted to make love to a woman so badly as I do now.” He blinks again. “And that woman is you.” He blinks slowly, eyebrows raised like he’s having difficulty keeping me in focus.

“Are you drunk?”

“Noooooo.” He shakes his head emphatically. “I just had a few beers. Beer? Plural? Beers.”

I run his words through my internal slurr-o-meter. On a scale of one to ten on the slurr-o-meter, I’d say he’s at five.

His hand is back on my knee, or maybe it never left. The hand slides up, and it’s saying something. Mine. Mine, mine, mine.

My chest gets a fluttery feeling. It’s saying something, too. Yours. Yours, yours, yours.

“Drew, I really need my support group. It’s not for my personal problems, because I don’t have any personal problems, obviously, but going there makes me have more purpose in my life. I’ve always been good at counseling people when they come to the flower shop, whether it’s apology flowers or bereavement, or whatever. I just level with people, and they appreciate it. Usually. So, I don’t want to jeopar… leopard… jepper… damn this wine—”

I can’t finish what I’m about to say, because someone’s mouth is on my mouth.

Drew is kissing me.

Chapter 12

O’Flannagan’s pub disappears, like someone put it on mute.

His lips are just as kissable as they look, and I’m not exaggerating at all when I say Drew’s kisses could probably stop wars and lead humanity into a new golden age of enlightenment.

He keeps kissing me, his sweet, wine-soaked, amazing lips leading the way for mine, which are stunned but happy.

His hands move up, catching me firmly on the sides of my face, which is just the framework I need to keep me upright, because his kisses are making my whole body melt like a cheap birthday candle on the cake of someone too old for birthday candles.

The whole world tilts, suddenly.

I’m falling.

Not falling in love.

Falling off my chair.

Our lips pull apart as we hit the ancient carpet of the pub’s floor. We must be having an earthquake. I look around in shock as we both scramble to right ourselves.

The guys over by the pool table are staring, and one calls over to us, “Need a hand there, Drew?”

“We should get into a doorway, or outside,” I tell Drew breathlessly as I jump up from the floor.

He pushes my shoulders and does the sheepdog thing again, where he herds me down into my chair. His chair is overturned, so he rights it, and takes a seat next to me.

Wincing because I already know the answer, I say, “I guess we’re not having an earthquake?”

He holds up his hand between us. “Listen, Meenie. I’m not against kissing you, but you’ve got to give a guy some warning.”

“Excuse me? You’re the one who kissed me, Mr. Mouth Rugby.”

He shakes his head. “You’re crazy.”

I reach for my water glass, which has been untouched until now. I take a big drink, fuming over the nerve of Drew, lying and saying I’m the one who kissed him.

He chuckles again. “I’m glad you’re drinking that water, because for a minute, I thought you were going to toss it in my face.”

I stop drinking and throw the remaining second half in his face.

Sopping wet, he holds one hand to his eye. “Ow! You got me with the lemon wedge.”

“Boohoo. Let me see it.” I pull his hand down. His eye does look a little red, but there’s nothing stuck in it.

He reaches down and grabs the hem of his shirt. He pulls it all the way up, revealing a very appealing torso, and a belly button that’s downright adorable. He mops his face with the hem of his shirt, raising it higher and higher. I hold my breath as his ni**les are revealed. They’re perfect. I’m not saying I wouldn’t date a guy with big pepperoni ni**les, but, all things being equal, I do prefer the smaller, non-pepperoni ones.