Page 4 of All Hale the Queen

“What’s so funny?” I ask, glancing over. Damn, she really is beautiful.

“Have you heard of Urban Dictionary?”

“Mmm,” I hum. “I don’t think so.”

“My friend Claudia introduced me to it. It’s a website with all kinds of definitions for slang terms.”

“Ah, I bet that could come in useful for parents these days. I have no idea what half the teenagers are saying. Like, what the hell is rizz?”

“Oh,” she says, nodding her head and making her hair bounce. “I came across that one the other day. It’s short for charisma, but the kids use it for a guy who can get lots of girls.”

“Makes sense. So what made you laugh earlier?”

Ophelia hesitates before asking, “You’ve heard of cock blocking?”

I almost veer off the road at the sound of that term coming from her classy mouth. And great. Now I’m thinking of her mouth and my cock in a scenario that’s far from classy.

“Aye,” I grunt, tensing every muscle in my body to keep from springing an erection. It doesn’t work.

Ophelia laughs again, looking at her phone. “Well, a clam jam is the female equivalent of a cock block.”

I burst into laughter. “I’m going to have to look up this website.”

She crosses her legs, and my gaze shoots down to the skin exposed just above her knee. It looks as creamy and sweet as ice cream, and I picture myself on my knees for her, having a taste to see if she’s as delicious as she looks.

“Avoid any entries that have the wordshot pocketin them. Trust me.” She shudders. “My friend sent me an interesting one the other day. Girl math.”

I turn on my blinker to merge into the left lane. “Okay, I’ll bite. What’s girl math?”

“When a woman justifies a purchase using shady calculations. Like if you find a pair of hundred dollar shoes for sixty dollars, that means you still have forty dollars of free money to spend. Or if you preorder a book on your Kindle, when it releases, it’s basically free since it’s already paid for.”

“Makes perfect sense to me,” I say with a teasing smile. “Maybe I’m actually a girl.”

From the corner of my eye, I see Ophelia biting into her bottom lip. “I don’t think you need to worry about anyone thinking you’re not all man, Antonio.”

Fucking. Hell.

Needing a change of subject before I burst from my pants, I clear my throat and ask, “Is there also something calledman math?”

Ophelia rolls her lips between her teeth. “Yes, but it has to do with the strange phenomenon of men overestimating the, um,lengthsof… things,” she says pointedly, recrossing her legs. “Like if a man says something is nine inches, but then you find out it’s only five, that’s man math.”

I’m inordinately relieved when I pull up to a red light because I’m not sure I can focus on the road right now. My eyes find Ophelia’s, and when I speak, it sounds like someone ran my vocal cords over a cheese grater a couple times.

“It’s a shame some men feel the need to do that. I think a woman deserves to know exactly what she’s in for.”

She swallows, and for a brief second, I see her eyes flicker down between my legs. The man behind the zipper rises to the occasion like he’s performing beneath a spotlight. Our stare lingers, and the prettiest flush rises up Ophelia’s neck. Just as I begin to fantasize about other ways I can turn her skin pink, a horn behind us lets me know I’ve lost track of time.

I turn my attention back to the road, and once again, I feel the need to switch topics. “You mentioned your Kindle earlier. What do you like to read?”

“Anything with some good banter. I love Harlan Coben, but I also enjoy romance. AK Landow has some good spicy ones about couples who are a bit more mature, which is refreshing because it gets old reading about twenty-somethings all the time.” Ophelia tilts her chin up a little. “Just because someone isof a certain age, that doesn’t mean their desires go away, and I think they deserve to have their stories told as well.”

Do you have desires, Ophelia?I don’t voice it, but the question is certainly at the front of my mind now.

As we approach the gate in front of Ophelia’s neighborhood, I roll down my window. “The code is 0203,” she informs me before I can ask. A minute later, I pull up to her home. It’s a large, stately, red brick two-story with white columns and beautiful landscaping.

I’m not exactly poor. Remington Hale pays me very well, and I’ve made some solid investments over the years, but this kind of wealth is way out of my league.

As is the woman who owns it, I remind myself.