Leaning against the counter, I can't help watching her and smiling. "Are you obsessive-compulsive?"
"No. I like neatness, that's all. Why be messy? There's no purpose to it."
"You won't like living with me, then. I toss my clothes everywhere and never touch a feather duster."
"Uh-huh. I can see that about you." She flashes me a playful smile, but then turns serious. "Why did you call yourself a louse?"
"It was a joke. But I do love women, and I usually leave as soon as we've both come."
"You mean you screw them, pat them on the head, and walk out the door."
That's almost exactly what I said to Chance, but without the head-patting. How does this girl I've known for five minutes understand that about me? Maybe she receives microwave thought transmissions.
She raises her brows, like she's expecting a response to her assessment of me.
And I suddenly feel itchy all over. "Yes. I kiss them, then I walk out."
"Why?"
I start to scratch my arm but stop myself. Trying not to look at her, I pretend ignorance. "Why what?"
Evasion is always a good choice when a woman pokes her charming little nose into your affairs. Not that I've had any affairs. It's strictly been come-and-go for me. And I don't mean "come" as in walking into the bedroom. Once we've both gotten off, what else is there to do but leave?
Arden stops unpacking her groceries and turns to face me, crossing her arms over her chest. "Why are you afraid of relationships?"
"I am not afraid. Relationships aren't for everyone, you know."
Her lips pucker while she roves her assessing gaze over all of me. "That's what people who are afraid of falling in love say. They usually have some kind of trauma in the past that makes them terrified to try again."
"Sorry to disappoint you, but I'm not traumatized," I say, sounding annoyed because, bloody hell, she is annoying me. And I'm getting itchier. Could I be allergic to interrogation? "Can we please stop talking about my sex life?"
"Sure, whatever." She resumes unloading her sacks. "I'm making banana oatmeal pancakes with your choice of Greek yogurt or syrup on top. Oh!" She pulls out what looks like a tiny milk carton, grinning. "Whipped cream too. If you're into that sort of thing."
Of course I am. I love decadence in all its countless varieties, but her grin and her sensual body are making me picture all the ways I can use whipped cream to make her squirm and gasp and finally scream my name.
No, you arse, you can't. She's off limits, remember?
Yes, yes, yes, I know that. Honestly, I do. I know I cannot touch her.
But fantasies are completely allowed. So tonight, I'll be locked in my bedroom fucking my own hand while I imagine I'm fucking her.
I stifle a groan. Being an upstanding adult is awful.
Arden has emptied her grocery sacks and proceeds to fold them, stacking them next to the refrigerator before she starts gathering the ingredients for our breakfast. I offer to help out as her cooking slave, and she cheerfully bosses me around. I love it when she smiles at me over her shoulder and says, "Mash the bananas with the potato masher, not your fingers."
"But if I use my fingers, you can lick them clean for me." Yes, flirting is also allowed. Chance didn't order me not to do that. He said to keep my hands off Arden, that's all.
Her lips twitch upward. "You have a one-track mind, don't you?"
"No, I have two tracks available at all times, running parallel." I wink. "One of them is reserved for dirty thoughts."
"Yeah, I can tell."
We go back to cooking, and soon we've got two plates loaded with banana oatmeal pancakes. A glass of milk sits next to each plate, which we've placed on the bar. Arden and I take our seats on the stools and dig in. I pour enough syrup over my pancakes to start a flash flood of stickiness, but Arden is judicious in her use of syrup. She does, however, spoon a mountain of whipped cream onto her stack.
I watch her shove four layered pieces of pancake into her mouth. "Do you believe all those barmy things you said last night?"
She swallows her huge mouthful of food. "Some of it. The part about not flushing the toilet before eight on Tuesday is pure baloney. Most of that stuff is my way of testing guys to make sure they're not schmucks."