Jen was outraged. “Wow. He has a lot of nerve. He actually told everyone that?”
“Yep.”
“I’m going to kill him one day.”
“Not sure I’d blame you. The way he talks about you, you’re all of twelve years old. I don’t think he realizes you’re practically the same age as his wife.”
Hey, very true. Holly was only three years older, now that she thought about it.
Annabelle waved that dainty hand again—she seemed to do that a lot, and Jen had to respect the woman’s no-nonsense attitude. “My advice? You want Cash, go for it. Life’s too short to not go after what you want.”
“Good advice, except that Cash has decided we’re just friends. He keeps bragging about his formidable discipline.”
The brunette snorted. “Uh, he’s been undressing you with his eyes for the past twenty minutes. One little push and you’ll have that man in your bed.”
She shifted her head, and sure enough, Cash’s hot, hungry gaze was glued to her, even as he continued to chuckle and shoot the shit with Ryan.
Did she have the guts to follow Annabelle’s advice, though? To go for it?
Why not?
Yeah, why not? Things would be different if Cash wasn’t interested, but she knew he was. And she’d be a fool to pass up the chance to sleep with the guy. She’d yet to meet a man she could explore her sexuality with, and she knew without a doubt that Cash McCoy would be up for anything.
So what if Carson had laid down the law? Annabelle was right. One little push and Cash’s resolve would collapse like a house of straw.
“What kind of push?” Jen asked.
Annabelle stared at her.
“What?” she said defensively. “You brought it up. You can’t go all judgmental on me now.”
“I’m not being judgmental. I’m just shocked. Have you looked in the mirror, Jen? You’re gorgeous. Are you telling me you don’t know how to seduce a man?”
She gulped down a lump of insecurity. “I don’t have much experience in seduction.”
“Carson will be glad to hear that,” Annabelle said dryly. “But seriously, how can you not have men wrapped around your little finger?”
She shrugged awkwardly. “I guess I do, kind of, anyway. I get hit on a lot, but…” She blushed. “I’ve only slept with three guys and they were the ones who did the seducing.”
And they’d all disappointed her colossally in the bedroom. She didn’t have anything against slow, tender lovemaking, but sometimes a girl just needed…well, to be f**ked, damn it.
“Trust me, it’ll be a piece of cake,” Annabelle said confidently. “Just utilize the three S’s—skimpy clothing, subtle touches and sexual innuendo.”
She had to laugh. “That’s it?”
“That’s it. Use the three S’s and Cash won’t be able to resist you.”
“What about bros before hoes?”
“Yeah, the bro loyalty might slow you down, I’m not gonna lie. But you just have to keep cranking up the heat until he’s feeling so hot all he’ll be able to think is, Carson who?”
Jen pursed her lips in thought. Okay. That didn’t sound too difficult.
She glanced at the other side of the pool and found Cash’s blue eyes focused on her. She didn’t miss the brief flicker of desire in his eyes before his expression went shuttered. As he broke the eye contact, she felt a smile tugging on the corners of her mouth. So…Cash McCoy was convinced he could keep his hands off her?
Fine, well, let him try.
Because she was officially putting that discipline of his to the test—and once she was through with him, his hands were going to be all over her.
Chapter Five
What kind of self-respecting woman ate pizza in her underwear? Any meal, for that matter. There was a reason restaurants had a dress code—food was meant to be eaten while clothed. Come to think of it, that should be a law, Cash decided. He made a mental note to write his local congressman about it.
As he inwardly stewed, he kept his gaze focused on The Office rerun playing on the flat screen, refusing to let Jen see how much she affected him. They sat on opposite ends of the couch, with the pizza box on the cushions between them, yet she was still too damn close for comfort. From the corner of his eye, he saw her graceful throat working as she chewed and swallowed her slice, and when she reached for the beer bottle on the coffee table, his peripheral vision honed in on the side of one full breast.
Jesus. This woman would be the death of him. When she’d strolled into the living room in a black sports bra and tiny green boy shorts, his eyes had nearly popped out of their sockets. He’d casually suggested that she might be more comfortable if she had more clothes on, but she’d laughed and told him this was what she always wore around the house. Her relaxing outfit, she’d called it. Then she’d released her hair from her ponytail and all those tousled, honey-blonde waves cascaded over her shoulders and halfway down her back, making her look like a golden goddess.
He’d been trying valiantly not to ogle her—or touch her—all evening, but it was only eight o’clock and he was running out of willpower. If he retreated to his bedroom claiming he planned on turning in, she’d see right through him—and know that his so-called discipline was failing him big-time. Which meant he had to stick it out. Watch TV, make small-talk during commercials, maybe have another beer or two.