Page 21 of 10 Things I Skate About You

Ever.

10

ADAM

I am fucked.

Well and truly.

Kate and I didn’t talk at all through the rest of dinner after the closet. Not to each other anyway. She refused to make eye contact with me. I’m positive the entire town knows we were both gone from the table for ten or fifteen minutes, whatever it was. She was already in the plateau phase of arousal by the time I pulled her into the supply closet. There’s a good chance I’ll be in the excitement phase for the rest of my godforsaken life. And there is a 100 percent chance I’m going to have to get used to that damn cartoony Icebreakers logo because I don’t want to kiss Kate Pogue in public tonight. Not for everyone to see. Not to win some stupid bet.

I just want to kiss her again. All over. In private. I want to hear the sounds she’ll make when she doesn’t have to stay quiet, and I want to feel her tight, wet pussy clench around my cock the way it did my fingers. I want that more than I want anything else right now. I want her.

And she won’t even look at me.

She didn’t want me to take her home after dinner because that would have meant getting into a car with me, and she knew what would happen if she did—she’d jump my bones. I’d make her come again in the back seat of my truck. Somewhere no one else could see. I’d lose the Icebreakers bet, but she’d win the date. She’s wonme. And all she had to do to win me was come all over my hand. She wouldn’t see that as a win right away, but she’ll figure it out eventually. After I’ve made her come again five or ten more times.

Except she doesn’t want to be alone with me. After dinner—after we posed for a few more pictures with people at the restaurant—Kate insisted that we walk to The Penalty Box for a drink. She kept her eyes glued to the ground and cursed her boots—and me—every step of the way. I only had one glass of wine, but she had two and a half. She’s a lightweight and—surprising no one—an angry drunk.

Turns out it’s karaoke night at the bar and it’s packed with singles because it’s an I Hate Valentine’s Day theme. A lot of black paper hearts that are torn in half decorate the space, and there are a lot of horny dudes. As soon as we walked in, I asked her if she wanted to do a duet to a nursery rhyme and she just glared at me. But at least she turned her head in my direction. So I bet her she couldn’t sing a sexy song for grown-ups.

And now I’m standing here holding her coat, her boots, and a heart balloon that saysBE MY VALENTINE!while she sings “Hypnotize” by The Notorious B.I.G. into a cordless mic and dances on the bar counter. To the delight of horny single men everywhere. They’re hooting and hollering. It is not appropriate. One guy holds up his phone to film her.

I step up to him and swipe that phone out of his hand. He cusses me out before he sees who I am, and I get up in his face, staring down at him. “You do not have permission to film my date, you fuck.” He’s cowering. “You get me?”

“Yup. We’re cool,” the fucker says.

I hand his phone back to him, and he walks away.

Now, what am I gonna do about these other assholes who are salivating over my woman while she thrusts and rolls her hips? While she shakes her ass and holds that mic like she’s about to go down on it? “NO!” I shout out to all these motherfuckers. “Noooo!”

Finally, the song ends. The entire bar erupts in cheers and applause. Kate literally drops the mic, but the bartender catches it. She curtsies, but she’s a little unsteady. Two bro-dudes raise their hands to try to help her down off the bar, but I shove them out of the way. “Keep your fucking hands off of her!”

Some dickhead tells me to calm down. I’m about to give that guy a beatdown, but out of the corner of my eye I see Kate’s foot slip off the counter and I know she’s going to fall even before gravity starts to pull her down. I drop the coat and boots, the balloons, push everyone else out of the way, and I’m exactly where I need to be to catch her when she falls into my arms.

When her eyes open she frowns up at me and says, “Was that sexy enough for you, cowboy?”

“Well played, darlin’. Time to get you home, young lady.” I set her down and wait until she’s steady on her feet before taking the coat and boots from a nice girl who picked them up for me. The heart balloon belongs to the anti-Valentine’s Day assholes now.

“I don’t want to go to my home,” she whines.

“Didn’t say I was taking you toyourhome.”

She combs her fingers through her hair and opens her mouth to complain. Closes it. Opens her mouth again, but nothing comes out. She glowers at me. It’s pretty great. I hold up her coat to help her into it. I make sure she doesn’t fall over when she puts her boots back on. When she stands up, she turns tome, stares at my mouth through heavy eyelids. She licks her lips. “No,” she says. “I’ll walk home. By myself.”

She pushes her way through the crowd, stubborn and considerate at the same time. I can hear her complaining about how young everyone is tonight. And I think I hear her say something about cheese and salami, but that can’t be right.

When we’re out on the sidewalk, breathing in the crisp, cold air on Main Street, I follow two feet behind Kate, listening to her grumble to herself.Sofa grumble grumble. Fort Worth Frownypants grumble grumble. Power play grumble grumble.

Some drunk guy leans out of the passenger window of a truck and yells, “Woooo! Fogueley foreverrrrr!!! Hot beef injection for dessert!”

That shakes Kate out of her drunken bellyaching. She turns and shakes her fist at that guy, scowling like the grumpy old man she is, and calls out, “This is none of your business!”

“Good one, Red.”

She huffs and looks around. “Why am I not home yet? I’ve been walking forever.”

“We’re at my truck. Get in.” I open the passenger door and lead her toward it.