He strutted in here looking and smelling like my ultimate fantasy. I’m almost positive he’s aware of exactly how much he affects me and how topsy turvy I get. I’ve never been able to pinpoint what it is that flips me on edge. Perhaps it’s the shorts that ride low on his hips, the T-shirt that’s snug across his sculpted chest, the just-out-of-the-shower wet hair, or the fucking smirk on his face. Regardless of what it is, I’m sure I should excuse myself and change my panties.
And tequila. He’s killing me. Like I told him, the two of us and tequila is a bad combination. That’s what regrets are made of. No, not regrets. I refuse to live my life with regrets or guilty pleasures. I giggle at the thought of guilty pleasures. This man across from me is absolutely one of those.
“What are you laughing at?”
“You were laughing. What’s so funny? By the way, this roast is the bomb.”
“What was funny? Come on, don’t leave me hanging.”
“I was thinking about guilty pleasures.”
With a raised brow, Jameson puts down his fork and pours us each a new shot. Sliding one my way, he smiles and lifts his in a toast. I reciprocate.
“To guilty pleasures.”
“That’s the funny part. I don’t believe in them.”
“I don’t believe in guilty pleasures.”
“How can you not? Everyone has a guilty pleasure. Mine is that series of reality shows about rich wives. That shit is ridiculous but the hell if I can’t turn it off.”
“Are you kidding me?”
“What? It’s a guilty pleasure, Ash.”
I can’t stop laughing. I cannot imagine Jameson just sitting around watching The Real Housewives of whatever city on his massive television. That piece of equipment was made for football and racing, not Housewives.
“It’s not funny. Everyone has a guilty pleasure. I bet you do too, Ash.”
Noticing we’ve both finished our meals, I take his plate with mine and start clearing the table.
“Nope, no guilty pleasures. Like I said, I don’t believe in that.”
I manage to rinse and place our dinner dishes in the dishwasher before the tingles along my spine start. The “Jameson Strauss has entered your space” tingles. I don’t acknowledge his presence and continue cleaning up.
“Ash, you can’t just say that and walk away. Explain, please.”
I rinse my hands and turn to face him. Leaning against the counter drying my hands, I shrug my shoulder.
“There’s nothing to explain. I refuse to feel guilty about anything that brings me pleasure.”
Silence is what I expect. Only, instead Jameson starts choking.
A giggle escapes as I do what any rational woman would do: I walk out of the room and leave him alone with his ... choking.
Did that seem a little like flirting? Maybe.
Did that make Jameson feel uncomfortable? Absolutely.
“More shots?” he shouts to me from the dining room.
“Uh, not for me, roomie. You’re more than welcome to another,” I challenge.
“Nah, I’m good. So, what now? A movie?” I hear from behind me as I bend to pick up shoes from where I left them earlier.
Turning, I almost run directly into Jameson. We both stand still, me avoiding eye contact while feeling his eyes all over me. I can feel my pulse picking up, my breathing is more labored, and I need to get this under control. If he touches me, I’ll combust. The tension is high. Noting the tequila in his hand, I realize how much those shots have gone to my head and how dangerous this can be for my heart. Unfortunately, I think those shots have sent my logical thinking on vacation.