Malcolm - The Meeting (A Cocky Smiling O Story Book 3) Page 2

  "The guy they want you to meet?" she asks. "Did he murder someone? Is he sick? Is he wanted by the police?"

  "Yes, him, but no," I say. "Nothing like that."

  "Again, it's not about him, it's about you."

  "Fine. I give up. I can't deal with life while fighting both you and Sally."

  My mom's face lights up as small lines form around her eyes. "Do you want to call Sally or should I?"

  I can't believe how nervous I am. I gave up being nervous years ago. But here I am, my palms are moist and my breathing shallow. Despite the air conditioning and overhead fans, a bead of perspiration drips down the center of my back and another trickles between my breasts.

  As I stand at the entry to the restaurant, I take one last glance down at my blue sundress and heeled sandals when the realization hits me: I haven't dressed for a date since Jackson. I haven't worried about how I looked or how I styled my hair. I mean, I look professional for work, but other than that, it's just Jase, my parents, and me. I'm the mom at Little League with the baseball cap, a T-shirt, and ponytail.

  I fight the urge to rush to the restroom. If I do, will it be to make sure it's me in the mirror or to throw up?

  Deep breath.

  Inhale and exhale.

  If I do go to the restroom, whom will I see? Will it be me, or the Mandy Wells my mom wanted me to find?

  Questions continue to multiply.

  What am I doing?

  What do I even know about this guy?

  I run the facts through my head. Brian and Sally call him Pep. What kind of name is that? He's Brian's age, late twenties, never married, and an ex-hockey player. What does that mean? Is he unemployed?

  Do I care?

  "Table, ma'am?" the very young-looking girl behind the hostess stand asks.

  When did I become a ma'am?

  "No. I'm meeting some friends."

  She motions to the archway. "You can wait in the bar if you'd like."

  I nod and trying to swallow my worries, turn that way.

  Why does it matter if he's employed? I ask myself. This isn't a job interview. I don't need his resume. I don't. But maybe a police background check and oh, a medical clearance. I start to make a mental checklist.

  Background check.

  Medical records.

  Wait! I don't plan to take this night to anywhere that would need medical records. Then again, better safe than sorry.

  Taking another deep breath, I stand for a moment as my eyes adjust to the dimly lit bar. I scan the room looking for Sally. Of course, she and Brian aren't here. I look for available seats.

  I know from the clock in my car, I'm early. A giggle makes my throat clench as I shake my head. Sally has never been early in her life.

  Being early is a chronic ailment with me. With Jackson being in the military, late was unacceptable and being on time was considered late. The only possible arrival time was early and it still is.

  Doing my best to exude confidence—though fake—I make my way up to the bar.

  I've never been to a bar by myself. Jackson and I married at nineteen. I had just turned twenty-one when...

  I work again to fill my lungs and hope that no one notices my shaking hands or stuttered steps. There are only a few empty barstools. Though I wish there were more alone, I ease onto one wedged between two people and wonder if everyone can sense how tense I am.

  I shoot Sally a text: I'm here. Where are you?

  "Drink, pretty lady?"

  I look up and cringe at the bartender's greeting. It isn't his words, but the leer as he sizes me up.

  "U-um, yes, a glass of white moscato."

  When his gaze lingers a little too long, I look away and stare at my phone, waiting for Sally to answer.

  "Sorry, some men are jerks."

  I lift my eyes to the deep voice sitting beside me. I hadn't even noticed him when I sat, other than that he was there. Now as I'm staring into his eyes, I'm wondering how I hadn't.

  I blink. Once. Twice.

  Sapphire blue eyes look down at me, watching intently from under a protruding brow and wavy dark brown hair. As I try to swallow, my gaze goes lower, scanning his narrow nose, full lips, and chiseled jaw. I inhale, taking in how his jaw line contains just the right amount of beard—trimmed yet soft. Even though I haven't even seen his body, my insides are twisting like they haven't in years.

  This is ridiculous. I'm not some eighteen-year-old schoolgirl.

  It's then I realize his broad shoulders infringe upon my space: our bodies are nearly touching.

  Silently, I nod, agreeing with his statement that men are jerks and trying to remember how to speak. "I-it's OK." The words finally find their way off my tongue. "I'm just a little nervous. My friend is supposed to meet me."

  He turns my way, his shoulder brushing mine. "Your friend should never leave you alone with these wolves. He doesn't sound like much of a friend."

  Mr. Blue-eyes extends his large hand. "Hello, I'm—"

  "Hey beautiful," the bartender interrupts, "here's your wine."

  Blue-eyes turns to the bartender. "She's with me. While I agree she's beautiful, Miss is a more appropriate greeting."

  Suddenly all the menacing glances from the bartender disappear.

  "Hey, sorry. I didn't know."

  "I don't care if you knew or not. Drinks are your job, not hitting on every gorgeous woman."

  Beautiful? Gorgeous?

  I'm speechless as Mr. Blue-eyes sends the bartender away looking less like a predator and more like a wounded puppy with his tail between his legs.

  Once he's gone, I smirk, my cheeks filling with heat. "Thank you. You didn't need to do that."

  His shoulder moves against mine again as he shrugs. "I didn't need to, but I've been watching him. He's a snake." Blue-eyes turns my way. "Thanks for letting me say that. I wasn't insinuating you couldn't handle yourself. It's just that I've been watching him and dying to put him in his place. Really, you did me a favor."

  My cheeks rise and I lift my glass of wine. "Well, you're welcome. And...thank you for righting the world of wrongs."

  We clink glasses—my wine against his tall glass of beer—as he chuckles. Like his voice, it's deep and sends vibrations from my ears to my entire body, down my chest, my tummy, and straight to my core. I swear my toes tingle from his laughter.

  As I take a sip, my phone pings. I read the text and sigh.

  "Don't tell me your friend is standing you up?" he asks.

  I shake my head. "No, she's on her way. But she's running late. Surprise, surprise."

  "She?"

  Heat floods my system. Shit—I shouldn't have said that. What if this guy is a serial killer or something? Then again, maybe the heat I feel is from the way my bare shoulder rests against his sleeve-covered one or the way his warmth radiates from under the cotton.

  "Yes, she," I confirm. "But she's not alone. She talked me into..." I lift my glass again to my lips. "Never mind. I'm sure you have better things to do than to listen to me."

  The tips of his grin curl upward, making his cheeks rise. There's something about his smile that has me mesmerized.

  "Honestly, I've been dreading this night. Listening to you is much better than what I had planned."

  "Oh, wait. Am I stopping your plans? I'm sorry."

  "No," he protests. "I know this sounds like some pickup line, but I'm supposed to be meeting someone also, and so far, I'm alone."

  The small amount of wine I've consumed courses through my bloodstream, giving me a boost of courage and reminding me of the Mandy my mom wanted me to find. I unashamedly scan Blue-eyes up and down. I can't see lower than his waist, but the way the buttons on his shirt strain, I can tell he's fit. The waist of his slacks is trim. "It's been a long time, but I honestly can't imagine anyone standing you up."

  His cheeks blush in an endearing way as he repeats my scan. "I can most definitely say the same thing about you."

  He nods toward a booth along the wall. "How about w
e move over there until our respective friends arrive?"

  Taking a deep breath, I look back at the screen of my phone. There's nothing new from Sally, just her last message saying there was something happening with Brian's work, but soon they'll be on their way.

  Part of me wants to forget the whole thing, pay for my wine and go home, but there is another part, the one that took the first step, the one who bought a new dress and shoes, the one who worried about her hair and makeup, and the one who was just called beautiful and gorgeous by a very handsome man who wants to stay. Besides, what if Brian's friend is a sleazebag like the bartender? At least spending a few minutes with this guy would save the evening.

  Not waiting for my answer, Mr. Blue-eyes is now standing, laying cash on the bar, and extending his hand in my direction. "Shall we?"

  His movement fills my nose with the scent of his cologne. It's spicy. In one whiff, the aroma is fixed in my memory. My eyes drift to the floor, and slowly my gaze moves upward. From his shiny shoes and trim pleated trousers, to the belt accentuating his waist and up to the V of his chest covered by the light-green button-down shirt, I take it all in. I'd seen most of it when he was sitting, but the view is even better when he stands.

  I swallow and slowly place my hand in his. The way his fingers envelop mine suddenly makes me feel small, such a contrast to Jase. When I stand, this man is easily six inches taller than I, even in my new heels.

  "Only until my friend arrives," I clarify, hoping to give myself an escape.

  "Agreed."

  The booth is a half circle. I slide in first with him beside me. Once we settle, I miss the warmth of his shoulder.

  I don't even know her name but I want to know so much more. Why was she nervous when she sat down? I could fucking feel her tremble as that dick of a bartender threw his cheesy lines her way.

  For a moment she seemed like a meek church mouse, but then, she was different—a contradiction. When she looks directly at me, there's strength and determination behind her beautiful light-blue eyes. I'm fascinated by the color. If the world were to be divided into three eye colors: blue, brown, and green, we'd have the same. Yet they aren't. Hers are much different. They're soft like pastel, like the sky just before the sun rises.

  As we settle in the booth, I wonder who in their right mind would stand her up. Her friend is an asshole, even if she is a woman. Obviously this beautiful lady isn't accustomed to being out and about by herself.

  What does that mean?

  I've scanned her petite frame more than once. She isn't wearing a wedding ring. Maybe she's just out of a relationship. Maybe she's not used to going to bars alone.

  I chastise myself. I'm supposed to be on a blind date—the first date I've had since I moved here to start my new life. I'm supposed to be leaving the pickup artist side of me back in Florida.

  This is crazy. I can't understand what has me so enthralled. I didn't even want to go on the blind date. I'm not looking for a one-night stand or a relationship. I'm here because my old teammate made it sound like I was doing his girlfriend a favor. Her friend needs to be eased back into the world of dating.

  I laugh at the thought of my easing someone into dating. The old Malcolm, the one Brian knew, was all about getting laid and moving on. Maybe that's what he wanted me to do, pop the woman's dating cherry.

  That isn't who I am anymore. That Malcolm is gone. I left him in Florida.

  It's all too easy to score in the sunshine state. Fuck, women walk around half naked everywhere you go. It isn't just the beaches. It's the grocery store, the movie theater. I don't know how clothing stores don't go out of business down there.

  And the women who throw themselves at hockey players are obnoxious and plentiful. If I were a gentleman, I could say I never took advantage, but after a game when the adrenaline is pumping, the best-known cure is pumping in and out of a warm, willing pussy.

  Those days are over. I'm no longer Pep. I'm Malcolm Peppernick. I'm not a player. I'm responsible. This new career in a new city is supposed to cement that.

  Her phone pings.

  The name Pep came as a result of my energy on the ice. And it was short for my last name. All it took was for a few broadcasters to use it and—boom—it stuck. According to rumors my pep was for more than hockey. They said I had pep in the sack too. Well, not always a bed. A bar bathroom, the hallway outside the locker room. The truth is that women like to talk as much as men. Those bimbos following the team have their own belts filled with notches. If one woman said she had two orgasms with me, the next had three.

  At the time, my concentration was more on my satisfaction. As long as the rumors flew, there was plenty of opportunity for my own gratification. I may have used a few of those women, but they weren't complaining.

  That part of me was gone. Over the years, leaving hockey and going back to school made me rethink my priorities. Right now, a woman isn't one of them. Getting my new career going is.

  Nevertheless, I can't deny my attraction for this beautiful woman, but I can deny wanting to use her. Maybe it's because in the very short time since we've met, I can tell that she's totally different than the hockey groupies who used to throw themselves at me.

  There's something about her. As she frowns at the screen of her phone, I want to know more. I'm wanting to know her, like I've never wanted to know anyone.

  What makes this blue-eyed beauty tick?

  Watching her lower lip disappear behind her white teeth, I wonder what she's thinking. At the same time, I miss how close we were at the bar. I miss the sensation of her shoulder against mine.

  When she looks back up, she says, "Thank you, but you didn't need to buy my drink."

  I just smile. It's not her sweet voice, though the sound is like a song. It's the way she appears to have relaxed. We're too far apart to touch, but by the calm liquid in her glass, I can tell her trembling has stopped.

  "You can get the next round," I offer.

  Her long lashes flutter over her eyes as pink fills her cheeks. "I-I probably should go. This was supposed to be...well, my friend just texted again. Her boyfriend has an emergency at his work. I guess my night is a bust."

  I lean closer. "On the contrary, you, beautiful lady, owe me a drink. You can't leave with a debt unpaid."

  Her smile grows. "Then I better pay up."

  "Do you always fulfill all your obligations?"

  She nods, making her dark hair move and flow in long waves over her shoulders. "Always."

  "Tell me something about you," I pry, wanting to know it all.

  "Tonight was supposed to be my reintroduction into learning how to have fun. I guess it fizzled."

  I reach out. As the tips of my fingers contact the warmth of her arm, I pause. Our connection sizzles and crackles. I look up, wondering if she's felt the same thing. Her eyes are wide, but just as quick the long lashes veil her true thoughts.

  She doesn't pull away from my touch.

  "I don't know about you, but neither fizzle nor bust is a word I'd use to describe my night." I continue, "Like I said, I was dreading this evening. That isn't a pickup line. I was supposed to meet a friend here, a person I knew a long time ago. A person who knew me a long time ago. I recently moved to town and other than work, I've been kind of a hermit. My friend was a nice guy, but I haven't seen him in years. I've changed a lot since then." I shrug. "I'm not sure if he has...he wanted me to meet someone he knows." I cringe. "You know how blind dates can be?"

  She shakes her head.

  "You don't?"

  "No." The word comes out more as a sigh. "I've never officially been on one."

  "Consider yourself lucky. They never pan out. When someone is described as nice, that really means uglier than shit."

  Her laughter fills the booth as she shrugs. "Tonight was supposed to be my first." Her eyes open wide. "My first blind date. But, well, my friend warned me that the guy has issues."

  "Ew." My nose scrunches. "That's even worse. You didn't get the nice guy spe
ech?"

  "I think she was taking it easy on me. You know, easing me in slowly."

  I scoot closer and nudge my shoulder against hers. "Go ahead. Spill. What was the guy's problem?"

  Her head moves rapidly back and forth. "I-I haven't had enough wine for that."

  It's all the encouragement I need. My hand flies into the air catching the waitress's attention. "Two more drinks and—" I look my companion's way. "—menus?"

  There's but a second of hesitation. "Yes," she says, "but I'm buying my own meal."

  "You heard the lady," I say to the waitress. "Menus and she's buying."

  "I-I..."

  I've officially fallen for her little stutter. If I have her pegged, it comes right before a burst of confidence.

  "Sure," she proclaims. "Why the hell not?"

  Bingo!

  "I plan to learn about the issues with the guy you were supposed to meet before the night is through."

  "I plan to learn your name."

  I lean back. How do I not know her name and yet the conversation has been anything but uncomfortable? It's been fun and relaxed.

  I extend my hand. "Malcolm Peppernick and you?"

  "Mandy," she says with a grin. "Mandy Wells."

  Her hand lingers in mine. It was like when I helped her from her chair and when I touched her arm. There's a pull—a magnetic force drawing me closer to her.

  Still holding her hand, my gaze goes to her lips. They're pink and plump. The shimmer is light and not obnoxious. It's like the hint of perfume that lingers around Mandy, sweet yet clean and intoxicating.

  I can't resist as I move even closer. I want to taste her lips and probe her warm mouth. I want to capture the lingering sips of wine and drink them down.

  Instead of pulling away, her gaze follows suit, moving to my lips, intent on watching their next move.

  It's when her tongue darts to the surface that my willpower disappears. I lean toward her. "Mandy, I want to kiss you."

  She doesn't say yes, and she doesn't say no.

  Another inch and our lips unite. I capture hers, tasting her shiny gloss as we kiss. It's the first kiss I've experienced in months and I'm instantly deprived, wanting more.