Lickety Split

By Amarinda Jones

“Call me thunder thighs? I don’t think so.” He was never going to be offered the chance of seeing her thighs again. In fact, no man would. She held the carton aloft in the air, placed her other hand on her heart and did her best Scarlett O’Hara impersonation. “I swear on this tub of double caramel pecan swirl ice cream that no man will see these thighs again.” Waverley expected a crash of thunder and maybe a bolt of lightning for dramatic effect yet all she heard was male laughter. Great—one of them was in the freezer section with her. “All men suck,” she muttered in contempt of their kind. Because of this unwanted male intrusion, she felt justified in adding a carton of French vanilla bean ice cream as well. They made me do it.
“That’s a hell of an oath to take,” murmured a deep, smoky-sounding voice. “What did he do to make you so angry?”
“He was a man. Isn’t that enough?” Waverley grabbed the two cartons of ice cream and started to head out. “But it’s okay now as I am giving men up for good.” She could hear the man’s footsteps on the other side of the packed shelves of frozen goods.
“Thinking of batting for the other side?”
“No, going to invest in lots of batteries and hard vibrating plastic,” she responded, stopping dead when she saw him. That would be right. The gods were testing her vows already by sending her temptation. The man was tall, dark-haired and broad- shouldered. Just my kind. He was smiling as if he was pleased by what he saw. The pleasure was reluctantly mutual. Waverley’s eyes roamed the strong face before her. It was almost like it was carved out of rock. High cheekbones, dark hooded eyes, a large nose that would have looked weird on someone else and a mouth that was so beautifully shaped that it was a sin just to look at it and wonder at the taste. Waverley looked down at his hands. You could tell a lot about a person by their hands and this man was definitely not her type. In his hands he carried a plastic store basket filled with several bags of frozen vegetables. No ice cream lover this one. But definitely a lover. Those eyes screamed sin and sex and everything in between. Waverley mentally slapped herself. Hello? You are over men. Remember?
“Vanilla, huh?” His eyes read the label on the cartons she carried.
Waverley was already defensive when it came to men, questioning her ice cream flavor choices just pissed her off further.
“Got a problem with that?”
“Not at all. Did you know that different flavors mean something?”
Waverley blew out a tired sigh. “I’m not here to be picked up.” Yet she was wondering why she was pausing as long as she was to tell him that.
“Vanilla means hidden passions that are yearning to be free.” He tapped the lid of the container with one long finger.
“Vanilla means lunch and caramel means dinner tonight.” If they had stocked the cherry coconut she loved, then that would have been breakfast. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I am freezing my ass off in here.” If only it were possible to freeze flab off. She moved to the glass entry door and pushed. It did not open. Waverley tried again. The same thing happened. She looked at him.
“What?”
“The door won’t open.” I do not need this. I need ice cream and a male-free area to eat it in. Waverley glared at him.
“What?” he arched his eyebrow at her in amusement. “You think it’s my fault it won’t release because I’m a man?”

• Language: English
• Publisher: Scarlet Harlot Publishing
• Release date: Feb 24, 2012
• ISBN: 9781465750808

Amarinda Jones

Amarinda Jones believes anything is possible and sometimes just asking for the impossible will surprise someone enough that they will give it to you. Writing is like that. Put it out there and wait for a response. There is always the possibility you may fall on your arse, but after all, that's what cellulite is for. Amarinda believes in taking chances, speaking her mind and aging disgracefully. Twenty years from now she plans on being the neighborhood witch that all the kids are scared of. But then, everyone has to have a hobby.

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Published by Amarinda Jones at Smashwords

www.amarindajones.com

Copyright© 2012 Amarinda Jones

Cover Artist: Amarinda Jones

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

WARNING: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, and places are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Chapter One

Fucking men and their stupid words, Waverley Astor cursed as she scanned the available options before her. All of them looked good and each in their luscious own way would make her feel better. Even though it was bloody cold in the walk-in freezer section of the supermarket, she knew she had to make the right choice or end up with a Jonathon again. Smarmy bastard wanting me to lose  weight, she muttered as she blew warm air on her cold hands. Thank God I never slept with him.  But then he hadn’t wanted to sleep with her until she lost her irresponsible weight as he called it. Ignorant, arrogant asshole.

Waverley picked up one carton after another and assessed each of them critically. She had an important decision to make. What she did now would have an effect on the rest of her evening.

Call me thunder thighs? I don’t think so. He was never going to be offered the chance of seeing her thighs again. In fact, no man would. She held the carton aloft in the air, placed her other hand on her heart and did her best Scarlett O’Hara impersonation. I swear on this tub of double caramel pecan swirl ice cream that no man will see these thighs again. Waverley expected a crash of thunder and maybe a bolt of lightning for dramatic effect yet all she heard was male laughter. Great—one of  them was in the freezer  section  with  her.  All  men  suck,  she  muttered  in  contempt  of  their  kind. Because of this unwanted male intrusion, she felt justified in adding a carton of French vanilla bean ice cream as well. They made me do it.

That’s a hell of an oath to take, murmured a deep, smoky-sounding voice. What did he do to make you so angry?

He was a man. Isn’t that enough? Waverley grabbed the two cartons of ice cream and started to head out. But it’s okay now as I am giving men up for good. She could hear the man’s footsteps on the other side of the packed shelves of frozen goods.

Thinking of batting for the other side?

 No, going to invest in lots of batteries and hard vibrating plastic, she responded, stopping dead when she saw him. That would be right. The gods were testing her vows already  by  sending  her   temptation.  The  man  was  tall,  dark-haired  and  broad- shouldered. Just my kind. He was smiling  as  if he was pleased by what he saw. The pleasure was reluctantly mutual. Waverley’s eyes roamed the strong face before her. It was almost like it was carved out of rock. High cheekbones, dark hooded eyes, a large nose  that  would  have  looked  weird  on  someone  else  and  a  mouth  that  was  so beautifully shaped that it was a sin just to look at it and wonder at the taste. Waverley looked down at his hands. You could tell a lot about a person by their hands and this man was definitely not her type. In his hands he carried a plastic store basket filled with several bags of frozen vegetables. No ice cream  lover this one. But definitely a lover. Those  eyes  screamed  sin  and  sex  and  everything  in  between.  Waverley  mentally slapped herself. Hello? You are over men. Remember?

Vanilla, huh? His eyes read the label on the cartons she carried.

Waverley was already defensive when it came to men, questioning her ice cream flavor choices just pissed her off further.

Got a problem with that?

 Not at all. Did you know that different flavors mean something?

Waverley blew  out  a  tired  sigh.  I’m  not  here  to  be  picked  up.  Yet  she  was wondering why she was pausing as long as she was to tell him that.

Vanilla means hidden passions that are yearning to be free. He tapped the lid of the container with one long finger.

Vanilla means lunch and caramel means dinner tonight. If they had stocked the cherry coconut she loved, then that would have been breakfast. "Now if you’ll excuse

me, I am freezing my ass off in here." If only it were possible to freeze flab off. She moved to the glass entry door and pushed. It did not open. Waverley tried again. The same thing happened. She looked at him.

What?

The door won’t open. I do not need this. I need ice cream and a male-free area to eat it in. Waverley glared at him.

What? he arched his eyebrow at her in amusement. You think it’s my fault it won’t release because I’m a man?

Yes.

Well, at least do something masculine and kick it open or rip it off the hinges. Now that was something Waverley would like to see. There was an undeniable sexiness about a powerful man. And watching a strong man do manly stuff was not breaking her thigh vow. But then this particular man was sexy just holding a shopping basket. Be still my heart if he kicks the door.

Would you like to see me do that? he asked in a deep, throaty voice as if guessing her thoughts. He dropped the plastic basket to the floor.

I want out so do whatever you have to. Waverley stepped back to allow him to get to the door. The spicy sandalwood smell of him as he passed made her almost drop her ice cream.

He pushed against the door hard. It refused to budge. It seems it’s stuck.

Oh great. Just what I bloody do not need. It was midsummer. She had not dressed to be trapped in a freezer. Her thin t-shirt and knee-length shorts were appropriate for the sub-tropical Brisbane heat  outside but not the icebox she found herself in. Waverley pushed past him and kicked at the door several times. She only succeeded in bruising her toes. Kicking in doors required boots and not flat-soled Indian sandals. Waverley turned and looked at the man who grinned at her. Are you laughing at me?

Calm down, precious.

 Don’t patronize me, vegetable boy. Waverley dumped the cartons of ice cream on a nearby shelf. Her hands were freezing from holding on to them. Two questions were uppermost in her mind. What do I do now? And why don’t I have a spoon in my handbag? It was always times like this that you never had what you really needed. Ice cream was her thinking food. How am I supposed to deal with this literally cold turkey? Some days just suck. Waverley stamped her feet.

That’s cute. The man laughed and hit the red alarm button beside the door. You’re cute. A minute later, a teenaged employee came to the door. There was a look of panic on his face.

They probably never had an emergency procedure for this. From what Waverley could tell by his frightened hand signals, he was either going to get help or pretending he was a chicken, his arms  were flapping wildly. Great, where is Lassie when you need her? That dog would have  understood straight away, bringing back a rescue team bearing hot chocolate