Brooklyn Flame (A Bridge & Tunnel Romance #1) Read Online Free Page B

assert as much by pulling seemingly innocent stunts like this one, showing up out of the blue, unannounced and smirking playfully because of it.
    He wasn’t in the mood.
    “I brought beer,” she said, indicating the weighted plastic bag in her hand, which hung in the shape of a six-pack.
    She let out a heaving sigh meant to draw his gaze to her chest, and though the tactic had worked in the past and though he flicked his eyes downward, getting a sense of the pink, low-cut tank that fit her with vacuum packed exactness where her fluffy faux-fur coat wasn’t covering her, there was nothing particularly appealing about Ashley at this very moment.
    “I thought we talked about this,” he said, hinting at the rejection he had locked and loaded, but was hoping he wouldn’t have to pull the trigger and state outright.
    “That we’re keeping it casual,” she supplied before using an easy air to add, “we talked about it. What’s more casual than a few midnight beers? I don’t have to stay over, Hunter. If you’ve noticed, I’m pretty efficient getting out of your hair... after...”
    She set the bag of beer down and neared him, her dainty hands and long, manicured fingernails, grazing his stomach where his jacket met with the waistline of his jeans. The grin spreading across her face seemed to say it all, and Hunter couldn’t blame her for her bold effort. He had brought this on, encouraged her for months, but at the end of the day, he simply wasn’t the guy she wanted. If Ashley hoped to transform something fun and infrequent into something real, it just wasn’t going to happen.
    He settled his gaze on her glossy mouth, as she pouted, asking, “One beer?”
    “I’m a pit stop, not a destination. I thought we were clear on that.”
    “A quick drink isn’t a destination.”
    “A quick drink isn’t what you came here for.”
    She smirked and when she said, “True,” her voice was a breathy whisper. Ashley hooked her fingers under the waistband of his jeans, asking, “When should I come by?”
    He groaned, though under his breath, dreading a formal break-up, as inevitable as it was, which would invite a drawn out closure talk he didn't have the energy for, but she completely misread the groan, leaning in, rising to her tiptoes, hoping to find his mouth with hers.
    “I don’t have any time for the next two weeks,” he blurted out before she could kiss him.
    Taken aback, her expression went slack, as she stared at him.
    “I told you about the Phoenix,” he pointed out. “I have a piece and it's nowhere near done.”
    “I know about the Phoenix,” she said in a whiny tone that made her sound half her age.
    Sighing with relief, he said, “Thanks,” which was enough of a prompt that she backed away and took hold of the plastic bag.
    As she passed by him, rounding towards the stairs, she said, “Sex is good for creativity, you know,” and then padded down, her high heel boots tapping each stair as she went.
    Hunter couldn’t agree more, but Ashley wasn’t at all who he wanted in terms of sex.
    Keying in and flipping on the lights, he entered his apartment. True to the nature of any converted warehouse, the studio apartment was broad and industrial with a sixteen-foot ceiling and windows so high and rusted there was little point in trying to open them.
    As he walked through the space towards his kitchen, which was little more than a patch of tiles in front of an old refrigerator, he rounded various sculptures he had carved over the years, pieces he loved but no one would buy, the evidence of his talent and failure all wrapped up in the sinewy clay figures of women who were also beasts.
    If Greer portrayed lovers who would never meet, Hunter sculpted grotesque enchantresses. They each used their art to depict their experiences, and he wondered, as he plucked a bottle of IPA from a half empty six-pack in his fridge having gotten the craving thanks to Ashley, if his life and Greer's would soon impose a new