Dirty Dix (Hard Love Romance #1) (11 page)

But the text message is from Madison.

Did you know that New York cheesecake is the most popular cheesecake in the entire world?

Smiling, I reply,
No, I did not. Good to see you’ve been doing your homework. Speaking of, how’s the dual degree going?

It’s going terribly.

Why terribly?
I ask, not able to imagine Madison being terrible at anything.

Because I suck at pharmacology. I’ll make a sucky nurse :(

I chuckle at her wit and text back.

You will not. It just happens I’m an expert in drugs. Well, prescribing them, not taking them :P

You don’t say. Would you be willing to offer your expertise? A slice of New York’s famous cheesecake is yours if you say yes.

Before I have time to respond, she adds.
Pretty please with whipped cream and a cherry on top.

Madison begging was enough of a trigger to say yes, but the fact whipped cream and a cherry is involved has, without a doubt, sealed the deal.

You drive a hard bargain…but okay.

Thank you! Thank you! Would 2mro be ok?

Tomorrow would be perfect
, I reply eagerly.

Great!!Do you remember where I live?

How could I forget?

Maybe I could suggest she come here. But that doesn’t make any sense, as all her books are at her place. I’ll just suck it up, and it’s not like it’s a date. I’m helping her study. It’s a study date. I’m only offering my expertise, nothing more.

With that thought in mind, I respond.

Text me the details. I’ll be there.

A loud knocking at my door interrupts my vigil by the phone, and by the obnoxious pounding, I know it’s Hunter. Opening the door, I quickly hand him a beer as I want to check my cell. However, the moment he takes one step into my home, he raises a brow. Looking from left to right, he sniffs the air and rotates his finger in a circular motion around the room.

“It smells like nympho in here.” A small laugh escapes me.

Looking at me closely, he adds, “But it also smells like…” He takes another sniff. “Cherry pie.”

It doesn’t surprise me how accurate he can be. I guess these are the perks of knowing someone your entire life.

Closing the door behind him, I say, “Drink that. You’re going to need it for what I’m about to tell you.”

“
M
addy
, why oh why are you getting messed up with this jerkoff once again?” Mary says, watching in distaste as I try on outfit number five.

“First, I’m not getting messed up with him. He’s helping me study, that’s all. And second, he’s not a jerkoff,” I say, defending Dixon’s honor.

“Um, yeah he is,” she rebukes, her eyes rising from the magazine she’s flicking through. “Do you not remember he stood you up, and
then
he disappeared off the face of this earth for like three months?”

“Only to be reappear looking like a damn angel of sin,” I softly add, remembering how good Dixon looked in his faded blue jeans and how he filled out his white V-neck tee perfectly.

“Stop that!” Mary throws a pillow at me. “That’s your hormones talking. The sensible Maddy would not be allowing this man into her home and heart.”

Her accurate comment has me quickly jumping to my own defense. “Lamb, stop being so melodramatic. He’s helping me study because he’s a doctor. And for the record, he’s going nowhere near my heart.” I fail to mention he’s already wedging his way in there.

“And besides, there’s David,” I add, taking off my sparkly sweater. “I would never do that to him. I really like him.”

We hit it off the first night we met, and before I knew it, we were casually seeing one another a few weeks later.

In the beginning, I knew I was sort of using David to fill the Dixon void, but soon after, I actually enjoyed his company. He’s the perfect gentleman and really is wonderful boyfriend material. But that’s the problem—he’s too perfect, which I know is crazy.

If I were to really evaluate what the issue is here, the reason I can’t one hundred percent commit to David is because he’s not Dixon.

I met David so soon after Dixon bailed on me, and I guess I was a little hurt he never made good on his raincheck. However, I now know the reason why he just vanished was because he was seeing someone. Although, it’s funny, because he never mentioned her, or hinted he was in a relationship.

But now that he’s back in my life, I don’t know what to think, or feel. Maybe Mary is right and it’s just my hormones overtaking my good sense.

“Maddy, I love you to death. You’re my best friend, but you’re living in denial. When that man is involved, you lose all sense of reason, which makes no sense. You’ve spoken to him like five times.”

“I know,” I say, turning around to face her. “But the times we have spoken, they’ve been, I dunno…” I shrug. “Kind of amazing.”

“And they’re not with David?” she asks, popping her gum.

“Of course they are. But it’s different with Dixon.”

“How so?” she questions, crossing her legs and sitting on the edge of my bed.

“I just…you know I have skeletons in the closet,” I confess, biting my lip.

“Yes, and I wish you’d tell me what. I’ve known you since we were in diapers. I would never judge you,” she says, her voice betraying her hurt.

Mary and I have been inseparable since I was five years old, as we were next-door neighbors. Even when my mom got remarried and we moved, Mary and I remained BFFs, and we promised to never allow anything to come between us. So far, we’ve both stuck to our word.

But my secret isn’t just “anything,” it’s life changing, and I will do anything to spare Mary that pain.

“I know, Lamb.” I sigh, lowering my eyes. “But it’s something I just want to forget.”

“I wish you’d at least talk to someone. Maybe Dr. Dixon can help,” she jokes, while I almost choke on my tongue.

“No!” I cry, shaking my head as I meet her warm eyes. “This is something I can never tell him.” I hate how vulnerable I sound.

“Whatever it is, I know it’s not your fault,” she says sympathetically. “But I just know your wicked stepsister is totally to blame.”

I swallow down my nausea and reach for my slinky tank. “Ugh, can you not ruin my day by mentioning her? I haven’t seen her for two glorious months, and I hope I can push it out to six.”

“I don’t understand how she can be a product of Sebastian. I mean, he’s so nice, and she’s…”

“Such a bitch,” I mumble, filling in the blanks. “And that’s a compliment,” I add, reaching for an elastic, as my long hair is suddenly pissing me off.

Mary nods and makes a grossed-out face. “I still can’t believe she’s marrying your brother.”

The hair tie goes flying across the room and I gulp. “Yeah, well, neither can I,” I lie, because I can so believe it.

“Isn’t that like incest or something?” Mary asks, and I shake my head.

“No, they’re not related by blood. My mom married Sebastian; we’re only related by marriage,” I explain, really hoping she drops this, like now.

“So kinda like if Greg married Marcia? God knows it’s all about her, so the Marcia analogy suits her perfectly.”

“Yes, kinda,” I reply, trying my best to remain calm as I hunt through my garments on the floor.

“It’s still gross. I mean, Dylan is hot, but he’s your brother,” Mary says, screwing up her nose.

This conversation is making me so uncomfortable, but I nod anyway. “I know. It really is.”

“When are they getting married?” she asks, casually reaching for her bottled water.

“I’m not sure. Their engagement party is a couple of months away. They only just got engaged, so I don’t think they’ll get married right away. But who knows, it
is
Beth we’re talking about. You know she’ll do anything for her five minutes of fame,” I spit, glaring at the wall, too angry to face Mary in case my emotions betray me.

“Yeah, and poor Sebastian has to foot the bill,” Mary says, and I nod. “Do you think—”

But I hold up my finger to stop Mary’s questioning, as I don’t want to talk about this any longer.

“What about this?” I ask, holding a knee-length, blue babydoll dress out in front of me, subtly hinting this conversation has ended.

Mary rests her cheek in her palm as she examines me. “Hmm, it kind of screams ‘date.’ I mean, it’s pretty, but what’s wrong with what you have on now?”

Looking down at my ripped blue jeans and black tee, I scrunch up my nose and pinch the hem of my top. “This? Really? It’s a little casual, isn’t it?”

“Why would that matter? It’s not a date, right?” she says, raising an inquisitive brow.

“Right,” I confirm with a half-assed nod. “You’re totally right.”

However, as I turn to look at my reflection in the mirror, I cringe because my face and hair are one hot mess.

“Yeah, you’ll definitely need to redo your hair and make-up,” Mary says when she sees my reaction to my hobo appearance.

Turning over my shoulder, I chuckle. “You said it doesn’t matter what I wear.”

“Yeah I know, but you don’t want to totally scare him off. I mean, he might be useful to have around,” she explains.

I raise my eyebrow, confused.

“He might have cute friends,” she says with a wink.

A
fter washing
, straightening and curling my hair, and hating all options, I’ve thrown it up into a messy bun, as that’s the only thing I’m semi-happy with. My make-up is minimal, and the only thing that’s “flashy” is my favorite vanilla lip gloss, which plumps up my lips. Mary was right. This most certainly is not a date. I mean, I’m going out with David, for Christ’s sake. But it troubles me that I occasionally need to remind myself of that fact.

When the doorbell chimes right at 7 p.m., butterflies suddenly take flight in my belly, but I tell them to cool it, because this is
not
a date. Wiping my sweaty palms on my jeans and taking a deep breath, I open the door and am greeted by the
hottest
man on earth.

The first breath I took was in vain, as it hasn’t helped calm my nerves whatsoever, so I take another before I pass out from lack of oxygen to the brain.

“Madison,” Dixon says in a deep, husky voice that has me loving my own name.

“H-Hi,” I stutter, shyly brushing a stray bit of hair behind my ear. “Please come in,” I add, opening the door wider and stepping out of the way.

Dixon nods, his lips tipping up into a mischievous, dimpled smile as he takes his first step into my home. I can’t help but note how much younger he looks in casual clothing. He’s wearing faded blue jeans and a tight, black Yankees T-shirt, and even though he looks informal, he still looks damn fine.

When I quickly shut the door behind me, he turns to look at me over his shoulder and smirks as he points to my framed
From Dusk till Dawn
movie poster. “I love Quentin Tarantino.”

“You do?” I ask, as he failed to mention this during our texting marathon.

“Oh yeah. I like anything that screws with the mind.” He taps his temple.

Of course he does.

“Well good, ’cause now I don’t feel like a total nerd,” I say with a faux sigh.

“Your secret is safe with me,” he replies in a conspiratorial tone, and I laugh at his flippant attitude.

“So, did you want your dessert now, or after?” I ask, still standing with my back against the door, too nervous to move, as his gorgeous looks are rendering me useless.

He turns full circle and crosses his arms over his broad chest, a hint of a smile pulling at his supple lips.

“How about we get some studying done first, and then I can pass out into a sugary coma?”

“Good idea.” I smirk, and push off the door. “I don’t really have a desk,” I shyly confess, and look at where my coffee table was once visible, as it’s now strewn with books, papers, highlighters, and the occasional candy wrapper.

“That’s okay. This is like your little study den. I like it. You should have seen my room when I was studying. I lost two cats in there,” he teases.

“Well, now I feel better, ’cause at least I know where my cat is.”

Dixon laughs and I realize this is the most casual I’ve ever seen him. His relaxed attitude calms me down somewhat.

“So, shall we?” he suggests, pointing to my sofa.

“Yeah—yes, of course,” I counter, mentally giving myself a well-needed slap.

I round the sofa, while he does the same, and we both take a seat on opposite ends, our bodies pressed up against the armrests. There’s a huge gap between us, seeing as my sofa seats five comfortably.

Wow, this isn’t at all awkward. But it’s the reality check I needed, as I’ve probably made Dixon uncomfortable with my excessive staring. With that thought in mind, I kick off my sneakers and reach for my textbook.

Tucking a leg underneath me, I turn to face Dixon and almost forget to breathe when I see he’s sporting a pair of thick-rimmed, designer glasses. His incredibly blue eyes are now amplified, and the chic frames give him a sexy professor look.

“Okay, show me whatcha got,” he says, and I close my gaping mouth.

“Well, I’m having problems with Autonomic Pharmacology,” I reply, my fingers shaking as I flip open my book to chapter four.

Dixon shifts closer, looking at the open textbook I’m offering him. “This can definitely be a little overwhelming. What don’t you understand?”

“All of it,” I confess with a smile.

Dixon chuckles, and I ignore how the sound resonates throughout my entire body.

“Well, let’s start with the basics. There are four classes of medications. There are medications that turn on the sympathetic nervous system, and then there are medications that turn off the sympathetic nervous system,” he explains, holding out his left hand.

Holding up his right hand, he then goes on to say, “There are medications that turn on the parasympathetic nervous system. And then there are drugs that turn off the parasympathetic nervous system.”

“Yeah, but how do you remember which do what?” I ask, reaching for my pen.

“You know the autonomic nervous system is responsible for ‘fight’ or ‘flight.’ And ‘rest’ and ‘digest,’ right?”

I nod, because my autonomic nervous system is running haywire at the moment.

“Well, it’s easy. The sympathetic nervous system isn’t that sympathetic after all. Just imagine, it’s a beautiful, sunny day and you’re taking a hike in the woods when suddenly, a bear…”

F
orty-five minutes later
, Dixon has managed to explain to me what my lecturer has failed to do all semester.

“Holy shit, that makes perfect sense!” I exclaim, madly writing out critical points as Dixon speaks.

“Of course it does,” he cockily scoffs. “Are you telling me you doubted my teaching skills?” he mocks, clutching his heart.

“Well…” I taunt, giving him a cheeky sideways glance.

“For your lack of belief, you now owe me two pieces of cheesecake,” he smugly states, taking off his glasses and rubbing his weary eyes.

“I think I can manage that,” I reply, standing up and heading toward the kitchen. However, I stop mid-stride and turn over my shoulder and ask, “So, what do you know about adrenergic drugs?”

T
hree hours later
, I know things I didn’t even know existed.

After I got over the fact that Dixon was in my house, sitting mere inches away from me, I actually learned stuff. He has turned out to be an incredible teacher, and it doesn’t hurt he’s pretty incredible to look at.

The way he spoke with excitement on topics he obviously felt passionate about just proved to me that I’m intrigued by all sides of him, which troubles me. I find myself easily slipping and forgetting that I’m in a relationship with David.

“Are you going to eat that?” Dixon asks.

“Huh?” I blurt out, his question disturbing my thoughts as I meet his amused eyes.

“That. Are you going to eat it?” he repeats, pointing to my cheesecake with his fork.

“Oh, no, you can have it,” I offer, handing my plate over to him.

He gratefully accepts, and I tell myself to stop staring at his lips as he takes a big bite. I obviously fail, however, because Dixon grins.

“I love desserts.”

“Me too,” I reply, thankful he didn’t address my staring issue.

“Yeah, I blame growing up with an Italian mother,” he replies with a smirk, licking his fork clean.

“Oh, that’s right. You mentioned your parents were Italian,” I say, remembering our texting conversation where I avoided the topic of my family like the plague. “But Mathews isn’t Italian, is it?” I ask, feeling culturally uneducated. “And neither is Dixon.”