Three Blind Dates (Dating by Numbers Series Book 1) Read online

  “Want me to pour you a glass of wine?” Beck asks, going to the fridge.

  “What are you going to drink?”

  He holds up a bottle of water and smirks at me. “I hope you like red wine, because that’s what your option is.”

  Feeling slightly bad that Beck isn’t going to have a drink, I say, “Just a small glass is fine.”

  “You got it.” He looks around the cabinets until he finds where the glasses are and starts laughing. I’m studying the recipe for scalloped potatoes, baked chicken, and . . . Jell-O when I direct my attention at Beck to see what all the commotion is about. He holds up a cup to me that has a picture of a hairy-chested man in a bathing suit. “Oh hell. Sorry, Sassy, but you’re skipping the wine glass and drinking out of this tonight.”

  He pours the cold wine into the glass and we both watch in fascination as the man’s bathing suit starts to disappear and his penis begins to make a full-frontal appearance.

  “Holy fuck.” Beck laughs even louder and holds the cup up to both of us. “Sass, he’s naked.”

  Chuckling from how excited Beck is, I point and say, “And his bush is as hairy as his chest.”

  “This one is all man.” Laughing some more, he hands me the cup of wine and says, “Have fun sucking that down.” I nearly choke. Probably would literally too . . .

  Digging through the cabinet, he makes an “aha” sound and then holds a glass in front of me of a woman in a bathing suit.

  “Are we about to see some nipples?” I ask him, drinking from my naked-man cup.

  “I think we are. And here I thought I was only going to see one set of nipples tonight.” He winks at me, sending a wave of heat up my spine.

  Are we showing each other our nipples tonight? Beck’s sexy laugh flits through me and I think, yeah, we very well might be showing each other our nipples tonight.

  Chapter Eighteen

  NOELY

  “You’re a liar.”

  “That’s bold,” Beck replies, tossing a towel over his shoulder and sprinkling a dash of salt over the raw chicken, as if he’s the Salt Man, drizzling seasoning with cooking swagger.

  “It’s true.”

  “Yeah? How so?” Spinning on his heel, he opens the oven with one foot, yes, his foot, and plops the chicken in the oven with the potatoes already baking.

  Leaning against the cabinet, I wiggle my finger at him. “In your messages, you said you weren’t much of a cook, and yet here you are, acting like a professional in the kitchen.”

  He gives me a seductive glance. “Turning you on?”

  “What, no, I mean, yes, I mean . . . no, that’s not the point. You said you can’t cook.”

  Wiping his hands, he sets the towel on the counter and says, “No, I said I’m not much of a cook, meaning I don’t cook often. But when I do, I do it well.” Entwining his hand with mine, he pulls me closer where be blocks me in with his large body. Spinning me around, so my back is to his front, he whispers in my ear, “Now help me toss this salad.”

  His body is so delicious against mine, his heat enveloping me, causing my body to quake deep down in my toes. “Does tossing a salad really require two people?”

  “It does.” He slips his hands up my sides and down my arms where his hands cover mine. Together, we pick up the wooden spoons and dip them in the salad Beck put together. That’s been pretty much the entire night—me sitting on the counter, legs crossed, sipping my wine slowly, watching while Beck works his way around the kitchen, making me laugh, and sending me heated looks every chance he gets. He’s seducing me, and he’s doing it in a fifties kitchen wearing an apron sported by grandmas around the world.

  With his body pressed against mine, his head leaning over my shoulder, the scruff of his jaw caressing my cheek, he says, “Tell me, Noely, did you wear your special-occasion underwear?”

  “Why, Mr. Wilder, I don’t know if that’s proper dinner conversation.”

  His lips graze deliciously against my ear, causing a light thrumming to pulse between my legs. “We’re not having dinner at the moment, so my manners don’t have to be censored yet.” He kisses the spot just below my ear and says, “Answer me, Noely. Are you wearing your special-occasion underwear?”

  “Depends. Are you wearing underwear?”

  “I told you I don’t,” he practically growls in my ear right before his head moves to my neck where he peppers kisses along my skin. Wanting him to go farther, I tilt my head back and rest it on his strong shoulder, the salad completely forgotten. “Are you, Noely?”

  “Yes,” I whisper, loving the way his lips feel so soft, so gentle, but aggressive at the same time. It’s a lethal combination that leaves me shaking in my heels.

  “Did you dress naughty for me, Noely? If I were to take off your shirt right here, right now, would I find the same black lace that matches your shirt?”

  “Maybe,” I answer, feeling shy but invigorated. “It’s not the same really. What’s underneath is see-through.”

  And that’s a fact. To add to my harlot streak, the kind of streak I’m starting to take to, I put on see-through lingerie tonight, with the intention of giving Beck a little peek. I wanted to give him something to think about, but nothing he gets to fully see, because well, I am a lady after all.

  Ahem, motorcycle humping . . . I know, I know. That wasn’t very ladylike, but hey, if you were in my position, you would have done the same exact thing. No doubt in my mind.

  “See-through?” Still gripping the wooden spoons, Beck turns me, loops my arms around his neck and lifts my body onto the counter only to step between my legs and nestle himself closely against me.

  Hands still on hips, eyes heady—eager—he leans in, putting only a breath between us.

  “Give me a taste of your lips, Sassy. Remind me how good you taste.”

  “But the salad,” I breathe out heavily. “It needs to be tossed.”

  “The salad isn’t going anywhere.” Beck cups the back of my neck and wets his lips. “But this need I have for you . . . it’s burning strong. Kiss me, Noely.”

  Unable to focus with my brain turning into an abyss of fog, my body reaches out to the man in front of me. I feel hypnotized as my lips near his.

  “Don’t hold out on me now. Kiss me, Sassy. Kiss me like you fucking mean it.”

  The hand that isn’t wrapped around my neck runs down my thigh where it plays with the crevice between my hip and leg. My entire center melts into a puddle and before I can tell what I’m doing, the wooden spoons fall to the ground, and I pull Beck the last few inches until our mouths slowly glide along each other’s. At first I keep my kiss soft, exploratory, but when Beck steps closer and I feel the telltale sign of his erection, I hook my legs around his and open my mouth, giving him full access.

  Grunting, his tongue strokes inside my mouth, long, languid strokes that send chills down my spine, the thrill of making out with this man in public, in a fifties-themed kitchen adding to the rush of this experience.

  It’s hot, it’s risky, it’s something I never thought I’d do, but with Beck, it’s as though I allow him to push me to the threshold of my limits and then past them.

  Slipping my tongue against his, I dive deeper, pressing, pushing, wanting and needing more as I claw at his hair, my heels digging into his legs, my breath becoming labored.

  My tongue is stroking his, our mouths melding together, just as a distinct cough comes from behind us. Startled and embarrassed, I push Beck away and hop off the counter to find the chef who greeted us standing with her arms folded and a less-than amused look on her face.

  Beck doesn’t allow me to push him too far away. His hand snags around my waist and once again my back is pressed up against his chest . . . and his hard-on.

  Good Christ, this man.

  From the look the lady is giving us, I feel like I’m back in high school, caught making out under the bleachers, and I’m about to be sent to detention.

  Clearing her throat, the chef says, “I know cooking ca
n be very exciting, but please refrain from getting overly physical with each other in our kitchens. Save that for when you get home. Thank you.”

  She tips her head and walks away, authority in every step she makes.

  “Oooo, you got us in trouble,” Beck sing-songs in my ear.

  “Me?” I turn to face him, my finger pointing at my chest. “I wasn’t the one who lifted me on the counter and begged for kisses.”

  “Nah, that was all me, but you were the one who said you were wearing see-through lingerie. I’m a man, Sassy. You can’t say shit like that and not get yourself in trouble.” He tips my chin. “Keep that in mind.”

  With a smirk, he tends to our food, checking the oven and flitting around the kitchen as if we weren’t just about to have a full-on grope session in a public kitchen.

  How can he seem so casual when I’m burning up inside?

  ***

  “Uh, let’s see, something you don’t know about me. Well, that’s a lot,” I point out, while a piece of chicken waits on my fork ready to be consumed. For the record, he’s a good cook, like my stomach wants to eat all the food, even what’s on his plate, that’s how good he is. It’s not very often I get a home-cooked meal, unless I’m at Alex and Lauren’s house. So this is a treat, especially since an extremely hot man cooked it for me.

  “That’s why we’re playing this game. Tell me something obscure, like you used to plant raisins in the summer hoping they would come back as grapes.”

  I tilt my head to the side. “That’s an odd thing to say, unless . . .” I put my chicken in my mouth and then point at Beck. “Did you try to grow grapes from raisins?”

  “Never worked, can you believe that?” His charming smile gets me everytime.

  “Hard to.” I chew the rest of my chicken and swallow. Holding his water glass to his lips, he waits for my response so I think about what to say. I don’t have anything like trying to grow grapes but I do have something. “I’m in the Guinness Book of World Records.”

  “No, you’re not . . . are you?” His playful interest makes me feel important, content, and also excited about our pairing. I really hope more single people give Going in Blind a try. Although such different men and dates, so far, I’m impressed with their ability to match like-minded people.

  I nod. “I am. Go ahead, look me up. Noely Clark, right there in the book.”

  “For what?” He leans back in his chair. “Wait, let me guess.” Stroking his chin, I can tell he’s about to unleash some ridiculousness, and I can’t wait to hear it. “Okay, you beat the record for longest make-out session with a dog.”

  Chuckling, I shake my head. “Nope.”

  “Most deviled eggs eaten in a minute.”

  “No, that’s puke-worthy though. I would never be able to eat more than two deviled eggs in a minute.”

  “Most wedgies given in a minute.”

  Laughing some more, I say, “No, but who would volunteer to help break that record?”

  “Not me, since I don’t wear underwear.” I roll my eyes. “Oh I know, you hold the record for most four-leaf clovers found on St. Patrick’s Day.”

  “I’ve never found one in my life.”

  “Damn. Looks like I’m striking out, Sassy. Give me a hint.”

  Peering over my glass of wine, the one I’ve been nursing all night, I say, “It has to do with dancing.”

  “Dancing?” His brow lifts in question. “Huh, okay, dancing, dancing . . .” He snaps his fingers at me and leans over the table. “You hold the longest time for hanging upside down on a stripper pole by only your thighs.”

  I quirk my lip to the side as my brow pulls together. “That’s not dancing.”

  “To hell it’s not. Strippers are dancers, they just do it naked. If you think about our first date, you dancing against me in that tiny dress of yours, you were practically naked.”

  “Practically? That’s a far stretch. All my parts were covered so don’t you try to turn your little nonsensical logic on me.”

  He laughs, the sound rumbling through my chest, warming me up to a comfortable, relaxed state. “You never answered me. Was that the world record you broke?”

  “No, nice try though.”

  “A guy can dream. Now tell me what it was.”

  “You give up? How is that possible, your guesses were so close.” Sarcasm drips from my lips.

  “Okay, Sass, lay it on me.”

  I spin the stem of my wine glass and say, “I was part of the biggest twerking dance group in college my senior year. We all got on the football field, played some Rhianna, and then twerked it out for the entire song.”

  “You’re serious.” I nod. “So you twerked for an attire song with a bunch of college students?”

  “Yeah, there were a lot of flying butt cheeks that day. And let me tell you, twerking for an entire song is not easy. My back hurt for days after.”

  “I can imagine.” He studies me for a second then asks, “Do I get to see this twerking at some point?”

  Chuckling, I shake my head. “I think my twerking days are over.”

  “Never say never, Sassy.”

  “What about you?” I ask, wanting to know more about him. “I don’t even know what you do for a job. How is that possible?”

  He shrugs. “Eh, it’s not that important in the grand scheme of getting to know someone but if you must know, I’m a muralist.”

  “A muralist. As in someone who paints murals?”

  His grin is laced with humor. “Great definition.”

  “I’m sorry, I’ve never met a professional muralist before. Have I seen any of your work?”

  “Depends.” He shrugs, acting so casual it’s almost annoying. For some reason, I think being a muralist is a big deal. That’s a huge talent to hide. I mean, saying you’re an artist is one thing, but being a muralist, someone who paints on the world’s biggest canvases, that’s a whole other league of artistry. “Have you ever been to the zoo or museums in San Diego or Los Angeles?”

  “Many times. Why, do you have paintings there?”

  “Just a few. You know when you’re trying to look for an animal in an exhibit and in the background, there is a painted habitat behind them? I painted some of those.”

  “Really?” I don’t know why this is so fascinating to me, but it is. “And at the museums . . .”

  “I’ve painted and touched up a lot of the dioramas. I do some other random pieces of work, but a lot of my contract work comes from the zoos and museums.”

  “That’s incredible.” I sit back in my chair and cross my leg over the other. “I’m kind of in awe. When I thought about your profession, muralist never popped in my mind.”

  “Oh yeah? What did you think I did?”

  “I don’t know.” I pin him with a questioning look. “You’re kind of mystery. You like to talk more about me than yourself, or you like to just joke around, so I’m really shooting in the dark where you’re concerned.”

  “You seem to be doing a good job so far.”

  “Yeah, but you have to know my little daytime-talk-show heart wants to know everything about you, right?”

  For the first time since I met Beck, his back stiffens and the jovial look he once wore has morphed into a passive one, a facial expression I can’t quite understand. To say that is unusual is an understatement. I am good at reading people, as it’s one of my better skills that makes me good at my job. And Beck . . . well, it’s as though he’s just shut down on me. Why?

  “Not much to know that actually matters.”

  “What does that mean? Clearly there is stuff to know, but you don’t want to talk about it.”

  He tips his water glass in my direction. “Exactly.”

  “Well, you’re going to have to open up at some point, you know. That’s what dating is all about, getting to know one another.”

  “I’m well aware of how dating works there, Sassy. I’m also well aware that the night is coming to a close and the kitchens around us are starting to
shut down. So how about we put these dishes in the sink and head out.”

  Caught off guard from his abrupt departure from our previously easygoing moment, I nod and say, “Sure, let me grab my phone and call an Uber for myself.”

  Standing from his chair, he rounds the little table and pulls me to a stand as well, with his hands resting on my lower back, he says, “No way am I done with you tonight. We’re just done with the first half of our date.”

  “First half?” I swallow hard as his face inches closer to mine.

  “First half,” he whispers right before his mouth presses against mine, prying my lips apart, and kissing me until my toes curl right there in my heels. Yeah. It’s a thing. I know that now.

  Chapter Nineteen

  NOELY

  “You’ve changed my life.”

  “That’s not the first time I’ve heard that,” Beck says, facing me as we sit on a lounge chair in my backyard, overlooking the ocean.

  After we left the warehouse, Beck drove me around the city for a while, letting the wind whip through me, making me feel alive all over again. I’ve never felt so free, so daring, than when I’m on the back of Beck’s motorcycle.

  Then again, I’m feeling pretty alive right now with Beck’s gaze directed at me, his back completely turned away from the ocean and its glittering splendor under the starry night sky.

  “Seriously, how come I’ve never tried this place before?” I take another spoonful of the gelato we picked up on the way back to my place. Spumoni gelato is heaven. Never in my life have I tasted anything so smooth, so flavorsome. I very well might have to go to Maria’s Ice Cream place every day on the way home from work. We bought a pint to share, and I’m pretty sure I’ve eaten more than half, but from the sexy gleam in Beck’s eyes, I’m going to say he doesn’t mind.

  “You seem like a Baskin Robins kind of girl, am I right?”

  Mouth full of ice cream, I answer, “Their ice cream cake is to die for. They have that crumbling crunch yum yum on the bottom that is so damn good.”

  “Crumbling crunch yum yum. You know, I think that’s the real terminology they use.”