Project Produce (8 page)

I mentally shook myself. How would he have heard of the scandal? Paranoia had set in. The chances that he had heard of the scandal were slim, but I wasn’t willing to gamble with my fresh start. “You have no idea.”

“So, you just want to know what makes me tick, that’s all?”

“Yeah, you know. What kinds of things guys think about. I don’t understand the male species at all. It’s like dealing with an alien.”

“Man, I know the feeling. I thought I understood the female population, until I met this shrink.” He shook his head, and a pained expression briefly flashed across his face. “She gave me the runaround, keeping me out of work much longer than I had to be, all because she had an ulterior motive. I don’t think I’ll ever trust a shrink again, at least a female one, anyway.” He met my gaze head-on. “So what do you want to know?”

Well, that killed any ideas I might have been entertaining. I had no intention of becoming a shrink, but I had a feeling he wouldn’t help me if he knew the information I was gathering was going to put be in a psychology project. I couldn’t tell him about my project now. Guilt crept down my spine. “I want to know when we’re going to eat. The food smells delicious, and I’m starved.”

“Me, too. Guess I got distracted by the unique dinner conversation.” He smiled, his sparkling sapphires roaming over my face and then dropping lower to skim over the pale-green sweater molding my bumps with nipples. “Nice sweater, by the way. It matches your eyes.”

“How would you know? My eyes are up here, Detective.” I crossed my arms over my chest, sending him mixed signals, I was sure. But I had to. My willpower had dwindled, big time.

Frowning, he cleared his throat. “Better dig in before the food gets cold. It’s my specialty.”

He scooped a moderate portion of thin spaghetti onto his plate, adding a helping of homemade sauce with meatballs, peppered with just the right seasonings. Dishing up some tossed salad, he poured on a dollop of dressing and snagged a slice of toasted Italian garlic bread. He opened his mouth as though to eat, but paused, his jaw unhinged as he gaped at my plate.

I’d served myself a heaping portion of spaghetti and had drenched it with a mound of sauce. Then I’d loaded ranch dressing onto my salad and had taken my bread, which already had butter on it, and slathered it with an additional layer. I dug into my meal with gusto. Couldn’t help it. It wasn’t macaroni and cheese, but it was pasta. Close enough.

I stared at him, with a long noodle dangling from my mouth. As I slowly sucked the noodle until it disappeared, I felt pink roses blossom across my skin. “What?” I gave him an uncertain half-smile.

“Nothing. You’re a woman who doesn’t put up pretenses. If you’re hungry, you eat. It’s refreshing.” He licked his sexy lips. “Except you have sauce,” he reached out and ran his thumb across the corner of my mouth, “right here,” then lifted his thumb to his own mouth and licked it off.

God, I wanted to entertain those ideas I’d had earlier in a big way. A veeeery big way. So not smart. “Th-Thank you,” I said on a whoosh of air, then I snatched my napkin and scrubbed my face. Picking up my fork, I continued my meal in silence, cleaning my plate in record time. “That was amazing. Thanks for everything. It’s certainly been... interesting.”

I stood, but he reached out and grabbed my hand. His fingers threaded between mine.
Not a good idea, a bad idea, a monstrous--bigger than his feet--mistake of an idea
, my brain hammered against my skull. Helplessly, I stared down at our hands. His were large and dark, mine small and pale. I sensed that he knew he unsettled me, but it didn’t stop him.

“How about dessert?” he asked.

“You made dessert?”

Chuckling, he released my hand and headed into the kitchen. “Cooking, I can do. Baking, however, is not one of my strengths.” He returned carrying two large slices of cake. “The corner bakery makes one hell of a dessert called Death By Chocolate.” He set the slices on the table, picked up my fork and cut off a generous bite, then lifted it. “Here, try some.”

I couldn’t do this, because if I did, I’d be opening the door to my biggest disaster yet. My lips ignored my brain and parted of their own accord. He slipped the fork inside, and I closed my mouth around it. My eyes rolled back and my lids fluttered shut.

“Damn,” he muttered. “How can you make something as simple as eating cake look erotic?”

I opened my eyes and struggled to maintain control. His glossed-over gaze locked with mine, and the undeniable desire sizzled between us.
You can’t do this, Callie Anne. Not again
. “Did I mention I love chocolate? A-Almost as much as pasta,” I stuttered.

Moaning deep in my throat, I worked my mouth slowly and then swallowed. Sticking my tongue out, I licked the remaining crumbs, not about to miss a single morsel. He opened his mouth, but didn’t say a word, just looked as dazed as I felt. If he didn’t kiss me soon, I would implode. The wine had weakened my resistance to the point where I was ready to ignore all the warning sirens screeching through my brain.

So much for control. Dessert hadn’t nearly satisfied me, and that fish kiss sure as heck hadn’t. I wanted more. I wanted him. I sighed, then leaned forward and pressed my mouth to his.

Bad idea
.

I stared into Hot Britches’ surprised, yet heavy-lidded, electric-blue eyes and started to pull back, but his lips began to move over mine. Magic. Pure magic. My eyes slipped closed, and a powerful longing zipped through me. I couldn’t let this happen, could I? I broke the kiss, then he licked my mouth with his tongue.

Sweet Jesus
. I mentally made the sign of the cross.

I couldn’t speak. His nearness overwhelmed me. He slid his hand up my back and plunged it into my hair, looking at me in question. My heart skipped a beat. I wanted him to kiss me again, bad idea or not. He stared into my eyes, and I saw a desire as powerful as my own. Grabbing his face again, I pulled his head down to mine, then laid another one on him.

His goatee felt like silk, caressing my cheeks and chin. I never thought I’d like a man with facial hair, but on Dylan, it fit. Kissing him was pure heaven, but one of us had to at least try to stop this madness.

“I’ve wanted to do this all evening,” he whispered. His voice sounded husky, then he traced my lips with his tongue.

“B-But I’m not ready.” I gave one last ditch effort. I didn’t want to get involved, didn’t want to be in another relationship anytime soon. Maybe never.

“No pressure. It’s just a kiss.” His mouth swooped down over mine this time.

No pressure. Just a kiss
. I could handle that. I moaned, and he deepened the kiss, thrusting his tongue inside to circle my own. Shock waves coursed through my mouth, rippled down my back, beat in places it had no business beating again, then turned my legs to rubber and curled my toes. Spice came to mind. He tasted like sinful spices and decadent chocolate all rolled into one intoxicating package.

I never wanted him to stop.

He cradled my face in his masculine hands, and I felt cherished and special. My arms wound around his neck all by their little lonesome, then my hands slipped under his short ponytail. As my body bumped into his, I noted how well we fit together. For the first time ever, I felt thankful for being tall. I should have stopped him, but I ceased to think when his palms slid down my back and cupped my big ole insecurity, pulling me to his cue stick.

Rack’em
, shot through my brain.

Good Lord, I had a problem. And right now, that problem was fondling my backside. The zucchini I felt pressed up against me was further proof that he in no way resembled little David.
Thank God
. I didn’t care what anyone said.

Size mattered.

Wait a minute. Are we moving
? I thought as he slowly, but surely, backed me down the hall toward what could only be his bedroom. I tore myself away from him, my chest heaving as fast as his. “What happened to no pressure? Just a kiss?”

“That’s all we did was kiss.” He tried for a smile but couldn’t quite pull one off.

“Riiiight.” Even if his kiss had rocked me right down to my core, things were moving way too fast. I couldn’t do this. Not again. And not with him. He was different, somehow. I didn’t think I could handle being used by him.

I stepped back, and we stood on opposite sides of the wall, staring at each other in the middle of his hallway. I didn’t know what to say, so I tore my gaze away from his and tried to clear my head.

He spoke first. “About that kiss--”

“Bad idea, I know. Can I use your bathroom?”

He looked like he wanted to say more, but he pointed down the hall by his bedroom.

Once inside, I closed the door and leaned my head against it, fighting to catch my breath. He was a cop, not a loser. And he’d seemed sincere when he’d said he wanted to help me figure men out. I had to admit, up until this point, he’d been a gentleman. Could I blame him for responding after I talked about winkie sizes and then kissed him? Maybe he was different.

I turned around to wash my hands and froze.

Or maybe he was a scumbucket like all the other men I’d dated. I gritted my teeth and stared at a copy of a girlie magazine in the bathroom trash. Every time I dared to have hope, the frustrating species let me down, reinforcing what I’d already discovered too many times to count. Men could not be trusted.

I stepped out of the bathroom and his open bedroom door caught my eye. There was a desk pushed up against a wall with a computer on it, and an issue of another girlie magazine along with a couple of nudie pictures lying beside it.

Disappointed and totally disillusioned, I looked down the hall. I didn’t see any sign of Dylan, so I walked over to the desk and picked up a piece of paper. My hand shook.
Oh, God, not again
. INTERNET PORNOGRAPHY was scrawled across the top in capital letters, with a list of websites below.

No wonder he’d been so willing to take part in that conversation. Feeling like I’d been sucker-punched, I fled his bedroom and made a beeline for the living room. I might have been overreacting, but after Bob the sex addict, I was through giving men the benefit of the doubt. At least this time it had only taken me a week instead of six months to discover his true nature.

“Callie, I’d like to--”

“I’m sure you would.”

“Huh?” When I didn’t answer, he kept talking, “What I wanted to know is if you’d like to--”

“I’d like to go home.”

He blinked. “But I thought--”

“You thought wrong. I’m not that desperate, Detective Cabrizzi. I don’t want to go to bed with a pervert like you.”

“Pervert?” He stiffened, hardening his jaw. “You really do have problems figuring men out, because you’ve got me all wrong.”

“Oh, I don’t think so. I know exactly who you are. Sorry, pal, not interested.”

“Neither am I.” His laser beams had cooled to icicles.

“Good, then we’re on the same page. I’m grateful for the job you got me, but dinner is over. Consider my debt paid.” Spinning on my heel, I marched to the door and yanked my coat off the silly hockey man. When I grabbed the knob, Dylan’s warm hand curled over mine before I could open it.

“I’ll drive you home.” His hot breath tickled my ear when he spoke.

“Don’t bother,” I snapped, stepping away from him. Anger shot through me that my body betrayed me by reacting to the sound of his voice and the touch of his hand.

“I said I’ll drive you home.” He glared at me like he had the night Flasher Freak had shown up. “It’s foolish to walk alone at night. Didn’t you learn anything last week?”

“I didn’t say I’d walk. I’ll call a cab.”

He ignored me, took my arm, and then led me to Big Betty. I opened my door before he could do it for me, then slammed it shut. Glaring, he stormed around to his side and slid behind the wheel. Neither of us talked during the ride to my apartment.

Cutting the engine, he sighed and turned to me. “Look, Callie--”

“Thanks for dinner.” I pushed my door open and stepped out, shutting it--and him--firmly behind me, then stormed over to my apartment door. Once inside, I locked it, wilting back and thumping my head against the solid steel as I tried not to cry.

Why couldn’t I be wrong, just once, when it came to men?

Hot Britches wasn’t only hot, he was sweet, and funny, and charming. He made me feel like a woman, not a piece of meat. I swallowed the lump in my throat and reminded myself he was a phony, he was a fraud, he was a fake...

He was a sex addict.

I could not, would not, get involved with one of
those
ever again, so I only had one choice. Get the sexy Detective out of my heart and my head for good. I had to start fresh. I had to find another zucchini to interview, that’s all there was to it.

***

Monday afternoon, I meandered into the college cafeteria with my usual--turkey sub and iced tea loaded with sugar--and peered over my tray at the crowded room. Only one seat left. I groaned. That meant I’d have to sit at a table full of teenage girls.

Not that I had anything against teenage girls, I’d just never had anything in common with them, even back when I
was
a teenager. But I had to do this. Face another fear and stand up for myself. So I took a deep breath, putting one foot in front of the other, and made my way toward the giggles. Then I jerked back just before an attractive boy would have plowed me over.

“Hey,” I said, gripping my tray.

“Sorry.” He flashed a grin but kept steamrolling his way across the worn-out linoleum floor. On the other side of the room, he caught up with an equally attractive girl and threw his arm around her waist.

I shook my head.

Note to self: Being beautiful and under the age of twenty must be prerequisites to fitting in here
.

“Oh, girl, did you see that? That guy’s hot,” the redhead at the table in front of me said to the brunette beside her. Then she stared after the man.