Big Dick Energy: A Meet-Cute Novel Read online

  “Penelope, did you need something to tie back your hair?” Archer so helpfully asked. “I think there’s a rubber band around here somewhere.”

  Finally, an amateur move he didn’t fully think through.

  I twisted a curl around my finger. “That’d be great, if you don’t mind fetching it for me.”

  The line of his jaw went taut, and while I usually preferred my men stubbled, the fresh-shaven skin highlighted his grunty irritation, same way it’d done to those drool-worthy grooves in his cheeks that popped whenever he smiled.

  Archer pinched the rubber band between his fingers as he lifted it off the table in front of him, likely fighting the urge to shoot it at me. Instead of closing the distance with a couple of steps, I stretched out my palm, making him come to me.

  Our fingers brushed, a frisson of electricity I didn’t expect tingling up my arm.

  Pulling my hair out of the naked elastic would be a bitch and result in losing a handful of strands, but if I played this right, it’d be worth it.

  Besides, he started it. I raked one section of hair up at a time, knowing without looking that the pleated chiffon blouse was tugging tighter across my breasts.

  Oh hey, Archer noticed, too. I took my sweet time pilling the loose curls on top of my head and then secured my hair in a high ponytail. One corner of my mouth lifted in a victorious smirk, and those jaw muscles of his were working overtime, so the act had definitely worked.

  Since this was more about rubbing Archer’s mistake in his face, I turned to the three people I’d resolved to impress today. “I feel—” Oh crappers, I’d used feel. Nothing for it now. “In order for this venture to be the huge success the city and team need it to be, we need to focus on more than memories of days past; let’s give the citizens of our wonderful city new memories. I’m confident that building this complex with our focus on the future will also win over more fans of not only our entertaining, talented soccer team, but all that downtown has to offer.”

  “And I’m of the opinion that there’s a better way to merge the old and new, while envisioning the future. Sometimes traditions need minor tweaking instead of bulldozing.”

  Now I was the one gritting teeth. “Why don’t we give you time to discuss what we’ve proposed and let it all sink in. We’ll check back in about…” I lifted my phone to check the time so I could also set an alarm. “Let’s say ten minutes.”

  “Thank you, Penny,” Scott said, and perhaps I’d discredited my lipstick color and its effects too quickly.

  “Oh, and if you need water or soda or coffee, it’s all behind you.” With that, I hooked my hand in the crook of Archer’s elbow, only rethinking the move after the feel of the soft fabric. The whiff of his cologne, all woodsy with a hint of citrus and sensual spices, elicited thoughts about how long it’d been since I’d been this close to a sexy man.

  Er, a man. Who was…decent looking.

  If decent meant my panties got a little damp when our eyes met.

  Since I didn’t rethink, use half sentences, or do anything with an ounce of doubt anymore, I clung on. I even went so far as to open the door and usher my cohort on through, like the alpha I’d become.

  9

  Archer

  “What were you thinking?” I asked Penelope as soon as we reached the break room. Fortunately, no one else was currently occupying it. So we wouldn’t be interrupted, I shoved the door closed.

  “You’re going to have to be more specific. Let me show you how.” She strode over to the fridge, swung it open, and—fuck me—bent to grab a bottle of water. Her skirt stretched tight over that luscious ass of hers, the same way her shirt had hugged her breasts as pulled up her hair. The instant she’d secured it in that ponytail, I’d wanted to yank out the rubber band, and I’d be lying if I claimed it was solely because she’d used the move against me. “What were you thinking, Mr. York, when you constantly interrupted and went off-book, pitching an idea to them without having an ounce of courtesy for me?”

  I strode closer to her, blowing air out my nose, feeling very much like a charging bull. “How is presenting my idea to them discourteous?”

  “Because you sprang it on me with an audience instead of giving me a heads up beforehand. There’s no I in team, or did you miss that speech during every sports movie ever? Hell, I bet you were a ball hog, and your own coaches also gave you the big speech.”

  Nope and nope. On more than one occasion, Dad asked why I’d passed the ball when I would’ve looked better to scouts if I’d scored myself. He’d been the one to think I’d qualify for the big leagues and play out the dreams he hadn’t been able to when he’d knocked up Mom in college, whereas I’d never held those delusions. More, it hadn’t been the life I’d wanted. I’d wanted secure and steady.

  Funny enough, I thought this would help calm the ugly side of me that reared its head during close competitions. It left me feeling too much like my father and how he’d yelled at my mother over every mistake. I wanted to win, but I didn’t want to do it because others cowered in fear.

  “Let me guess,” Penelope continued, still all fired up and trotting around on her high horse. “You were the big star, and now you relive your glory days in the boardroom. I’m surprised we didn’t all hear a retelling about how you scored the final goal in an important state championship game.”

  Again, she’d missed the mark. As my way of saying goodbye to the sport of soccer, I’d scored two important goals during regionals. We’d still lost in overtime, and I shoved away that memory since the fight with Dad afterward had been one of our worsts. I’d come damn close to punching him after he’d gotten physical—shoving and words that’d cut deep. I was over it; I avoided that particular memory lane.

  “If you’re asking if I like to win,” I said, taking another step in her direction, “then yeah, I do, which is why I always win. Trust me, Miss Jones, you don’t want to go head-to-head with me.”

  A gasp came out, and her mouth hung open as she searched for a comeback. I thought of cutting her off again, just to be the ass she’d accused me of being, but Izzie’s words from last night popped into my mind, and if I wasn’t careful, my little sister was going to turn me into a softie. I wished the stats about men and women’s salaries were different, but I wasn’t going to pussyfoot around and lose my job and the chance to design the soccer complex for the cause.

  Penelope curled her hands into claws. “I thought the last guy was bad, but you men are all the same, and I’ve been dealing with this BS since high school. Every group project ends with me doing the majority of the work, all so you can throw a curve ball in my face during the presentation and then take credit if I manage to save it. Or catch it or whatever—you get my point.”

  For some reason, my survival instincts went on vacation, my brain choosing to replay the way she’d repeatedly dragged her fingers through her hair. My fingers twitched with longing to do the same. I’d bet the strands smelled amazing and were so silky they’d slip right through my fingers.

  Unless I wound them round and round and gave the ends a yank. And we’re avoiding having those type of thoughts about the woman purposely driving you crazy.

  Back to the point I’d been trying to make before she’d fogged up the room with her anger. “What I meant was that giving them time alone alleviates the pressure and allows them to come up with three other answers instead of the two we presented them with. It’s like doing a stupid poll with a fill in option. You ask if the sky is blue or clear and people write in purple.”

  “Well, it is purplish during sunrise and sunset.”

  A low growl came out, along with a huff of breath. “What I’m saying is that you don’t want that.”

  “Maybe you don’t, but I know our clients better.”

  “If you did, it wouldn’t have taken you six weeks to close the deal.”

  The punctuated clacking of her shoes filled the air as she closed the last foot or so space. She opened her mouth and jabbed a finger to my chest. “I
swear, Arche—”

  “You gonna yank on my tie again?” I bumped my chest into her extended finger, the blood in my veins pumping so hot I was moving before thinking. “Go ahead. I liked it.”

  Whatever Penelope had been going to say died on her tongue, and satisfaction sang through me, along with a sensation that edged far too close to desire. My gaze dipped to her lips, and her tongue darted out to wet them.

  If she accepted the dare to grip the silky noose around my neck, she’d undoubtedly feel the rapid pounding of my heart, and I couldn’t decide if that was a good thing or a bad thing.

  Then she took a step back, unscrewed the lid of her water bottle, and downed a couple of gulps. She swiped her thumb over her lips, and I curled my hands into fists so I wouldn’t do something stupid like yank her to me and kiss the hell out of her. “You never answered my questions, and I don’t owe you even an ounce of an explanation, but I’m going to give it to you anyway. The reason they went with me instead of all the cocky pricks exactly like you was because I didn’t push. It might work with other clients, but the city doesn’t work that way and neither does Scott. He’s all about deep thinking, time to assess, and the long term.

  “But go ahead and try your way. Then I’ll have a solid reason to request Mr. Bishop remove you from the account before we lose it.” She strode closer again, evidently rethinking putting distance between us, which was hardly wise right now, but I’d let her learn that the hard way. “If you want to turn this into a competition, that’s fine. But don’t expect me to be a demure little woman who won’t call you out whenever you interrupt or speak over me. I’m sick of holding back punches, so prepare for the fight of your life.”

  With a huff, she spun around. Her heel snagged on the rug, and like one of those slow-motion car wrecks, she tripped into the chair someone hadn’t fully pushed underneath the table. The legs of rocked, and I lunged forward to snag her before she faceplanted and broke her neck…

  Right as she flung up her leg in the perfect scorpion-kick.

  Whack! Pain radiated through my skull, from the vicinity of my mouth or nose. My watering eyes provided a blurry view of Penelope struggling, belly and thighs over the arms of the chair, like an overturned turtle.

  One of her palms braced the floor, but whenever she attempted to let go and haul herself upright, the chair threatened to tip.

  She kicked her leg again, and I snagged her ankle, gripping it tightly to prevent another kick to the face. Warm liquid trickled into my mouth, and I used my tongue to confirm—yep, the coppery tang meant blood.

  With my fingers still circling her ankle, I grabbed the arm of the chair, anchoring it in place and maneuvering Penelope into it. Then I lifted my finger to confirm that her sharp pointy heel had split my lip. Mark that as a 10-4, good buddy.

  “You okay?” I asked, swiping at the blood.

  She groaned and tucked her knee against her chest. The fabric of her skirt bunched high on her hips, and in an attempt to be the gentleman I wasn’t, I glanced at the tabletop. She rubbed her ankle and flinched. “Just my luck.”

  Slowly, her gaze drifted up to my face. “Oh no, you’re bleeding,” she said, and then she was out of the chair and hobbling toward the sink before I could stop her. She yanked free a couple of brown paper towels, ran the scratchy paper under the faucet, and then then limped back to me.

  She lifted her arm to dab my lip, and I almost told her not to bother, but then I got completely caught up in the up-close-and-personal view. The bar had been too dim to make out the freckles dotting her nose, and in spite of plenty evidence to the contrary, the word sweet still flashed through my brain like a neon sign, along with a memory of sipping strawberry lemonade on the boardwalk.

  Maybe that fit. Sweet but with a kick of sour. “Those are some wicked heels,” I said, and she glanced at her feet, seeming to notice she’d lost a shoe. It made her significantly lopsided, a sensation slowly creeping through me as well.

  “I’ve always liked shoes that could double as weapons.”

  “I’m not sure which is more dangerous: the shoes or your mouth.” It was the wrong thing to say, as my gaze automatically dipped and then fixated on her brightly colored lips.

  The phone timer made her jump, and our momentary truce shattered. Penelope wadded up the paper towel she’d used to dab blood off my lip and fired it across the room.

  Nothing but net… or trash bag, in this case. For all the vitriol she’d packed into her sports movie slam, the woman obviously possessed a certain level of skills. The way she’d talked about Coach Johnson suggested her knowledge came from more than research.

  Penelope swiped at the stray strands that’d fallen from her ponytail, readjusted her blouse and skirt, and turned to find her other shoe. I couldn’t help frowning as she braced a hand on the table and hovered her foot over her other shoe.

  “Surely you’re not going to keep on wearing those deathtrap heels,” I said, and she glanced over her shoulder at me. “You twisted your ankle, and those shoes are only going to make it hurt worse. I’ll finish up with the client while you go get it looked at.”

  “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

  I’d prefer the woman from a minute ago to return, but that ship had clearly sailed so far away it might as well be another planet. “At least sit grab some ice and take a load off during the rest of the meeting. If you sprained it, it’ll at least keep the swelling down.”

  The glare she aimed my way matched the intensity in the resolve that set her chin. Keeping her eyes locked on mine, she jabbed her foot into the spiked disco-ball shoe and limped toward the exit, flinching with every step.

  “Penny.”

  “It’s Penelope. Only my friends call me Penny.” She flung open the door and strode across the hall.

  “Of all the stubborn, dangerous, infuriating, sexy…” Strike that last one. Not that it didn’t fit, but from here on out, it was a fact I needed to ignore. I bent to study my reflection in the silver paper towel dispenser. Thanks to the fancy brushed nickel, it was too distorted to tell if I looked like a fighter that’d been in the ring for a couple rounds.

  Thanks to Penelope, it kind of felt like it. I straightened my tie and rushed into the conference room for round three.

  Penelope was leaned up against the podium, all her weight shifted to her non-injured foot. “Well? Did you guys come to a decision?”

  “I tend to agree with Mr. York’s vision,” Mario Avila said, and I forced myself not to show any signs of celebrating. If I dared to fist bump the man, she’d likely lob her other shoe at my head.

  Councilwoman Roberts steepled her fingers and placed them under her chin. “I’m fully invested in Penelope’s plan. It’s exactly what I asked for, and what I think would be the best for the city.”

  My supposed teammate didn’t so much as glance my way. She aimed a nervous smile at Scott, Club President of the Pythons, and the final judge in this twisted version of American’s Top Architect. I hadn’t known him long enough to suss out whether he was more of a Simon, Paula, or Randy. The last time I’d watched American Idol was when I was sixteen, and it’d been mostly due to Carrie Underwood.

  Note to self: introduce Izzie to Carrie and teach her to go all Before he Cheats on any dude who dares to mess with her.

  “The truth is, I get both of your visions and I like both of them, too.” Scott leaned in his chair and stroked his chin. With his thinning hair, he reminded me of the thinking emoji Izzie scattered throughout her texts. Then again, they were mostly sarcastic, and I hoped that was where the likeness stopped. “Archer, I’m assuming you can draw yours to the same scale.”

  Out of my peripheral, I caught the sag of Penelope’s shoulders. A string tugged in the center of my chest, but the rush of triumph overpowered it.

  “Thank you for the vote of confidence, sir.” Threat of shoes that doubled as weapons be damned, I flashed my pearly whites. “I promise I won’t let you down.”

  Confusion creased Scot
t’s forehead and pinged through me. “Penny, I realize you’ve worked very hard on this account, but…”

  Oh sure. He got to call her Penny.

  “I’m asking you to be patient with me a little longer.”

  She straightened and took a step toward the guy, no hint of a limp. If I hadn’t known she was injured, I never would’ve guessed, so it must’ve not been as bad as I’d thought. “Of course, Scott. If you and the rest of the Pythons aren’t happy, I haven’t done my job.”

  He beamed at her, and so much for thinking I had this in the bag. “We’ve decided that it’d be easier to make a decision if both of you drew up more concrete versions of your plans, to be presented in three-week’s time. As added inspiration, I’d like both of you to join us for a tour of the current facilities next week. That should help you knock this project right out of the park. Or kick it out of the arena, since soccer’s clearly the superior sport.”

  Polite laughter came from the two people at his side. Admittedly, I grinned along with Penelope, not one to be outdone. Excitement also stirred at touring the Pythons facility, and I crossed my fingers in the hopes I’d get to meet Chase Blakely. Dad and I had admired him from the sidelines as he tore it up on the field the past few years. If meeting one of our favorite players and designing the complex where he and his teammates played didn’t lead Dad to see this was the career for me, nothing would.

  “Count me in.” Penelope swept her ponytail over her shoulder and turned her smile on me. It kicked me in the gut, and I reminded myself it was as fake as her acting like she could stand me. “Archer? Are you up for a field trip and some friendly competition?”

  “I’m all in,” I said, daring her right back.

  We said goodbye to our client, and I could tell by the pinching and paling of Penelope’s features, she’d merely done a good job at hiding the pain she was in. By the time she settled into her cubicle, her ankle was beginning to swell.