Maybe he’d considered stepping out of the spray without achieving satisfaction, drying off and throwing on clothes before finding his way to her door. In his mind he’d pictured it, pushing in when she swung it open, taking her to her toes with his hands under her arms so he could bring her mouth to his. She’d sag in his hold, going pliant, heated, wet for him.
The thought of that had rocketed him instantly over the top, and he’d let his head drop back as ropes of cum shot high then spilled over his fist.
His groan had echoed on the walls.
But nobody got arrested for the noises they made in private or due to the excesses of their imagination, so he still felt deserving of good fortune.
His truck slowed while passing through the three blocks of downtown Sawyer Beach. He took in the tourists and townspeople enjoying the oncoming evening at sidewalk tables, drinking coffees, craft beers, and local wines, staying warm under patio heaters as the sun lowered.
Shops, cafés, and boutiques gave way to residential streets that spoked off from the main road which then narrowed to a sidewalk-less skinny lane, its sides crumbling asphalt bordered by powdery dirt. What it lacked in safety it made up for in rural charm—at least according to one side of the argument in the often-heated debates at community public safety meetings.
Others worried about the occasional pedestrians and the more common bicyclists—and as Boone came around a slight curve, he saw a figure ahead that ticked off both boxes.
A woman trudged along the edge of the road, pushing a purple single-speed with a rear wicker basket—flowers were wound around the edges of it, for God’s sake—filled with a couple of canvas grocery bags.
A purple bike with an obviously flat rear tire.
Lady Luck must be part prankster, Boone thought on a curse, recognizing Gemma Marquette.
Foot on the brake, he approached her slowly, giving himself enough time to weigh the pros and cons of what he should do next.
Passing her by and pretending not to see her predicament would be a smart move.
A dick move.
Something no white knight would do and manage to look himself in the mirror later, right? Damn.
On a sigh he caught up to her, rolling down the passenger window. “Hey, neighbor,” he called through the opening.
Her gaze flicked his way. “Hey.” She tucked some flyaways behind her ear.
“You need some help?”
“I’m good,” she answered, picking up her pace, not hindered by the low-heeled suede boots she wore with a pair of jeans and a sweater in shades of blue that buttoned down the center from throat to hips. “Have a nice evening.”
He goosed the gas. “Gemma.” Her second glance at him was as quick as the first. “We can throw your bike in the bed of my truck.”
“I don’t mind the exercise,” she said, continuing forward with resolute steps.
“Yeah, but—” He broke off as a sleek coupe, fire engine red and topless, advanced on them from the opposite direction. “Careful,” he cautioned Gemma, nosing his car inches closer as protection from the oncoming vehicle.
It braked to a stop, however, when the driver pulled alongside Boone, her smile as sunny as her hair color. “Hey, handsome,” she said. “What have you been up to?”
“Tammy.” He nodded at her, smiling too, because they’d had fun a time or two in the past. “I haven’t seen you in a while.”
Her left hand loosened from the wheel and she wiggled it, flashing four bare fingers. “I had a ring on it for nearly a year, but that didn’t work out.”
“I’m sorry,” he said, because what other response was appropriate?
“Don’t be,” Tammy told him. “Maybe marriage doesn’t suit me.”
“I get you,” he said, then hesitated. Should he say more? A broken engagement couldn’t be that easy. “So…you’re good?”
She winked. “Of course not, Boone, you must remember that. I’m not good in the least.”
“Yeah.” He grinned, as a few more pleasant memories surfaced.
“Want to get together soon?”
Why not? Tammy understood he wasn’t marriage material either, and accepted that about him. They’d had that fun before, no strings, no regrets. “Maybe we should—”
But then something sharp pierced his solar plexus, causing him to jerk. Without willful thought, his gaze shifted from the blonde to the brunette, now walking ahead at a determined clip, her spine ramrod straight, her hands firm on the front bars of her disabled bicycle.
He rubbed his chest, trying to ease the sudden, inexplicable sting. “I gotta go,” he murmured to Tammy, unable to look away from the swing of Gemma’s hips in snug denim.
If the blonde replied, he didn’t hear her as he accelerated, hurrying to catch up with his neighbor. This time, he didn’t give the woman a choice. Instead, he arrowed the nose of his truck to the right, blocking her path. Without a word, he braked the vehicle, leaped out, and plucked the bike from her hold. She jammed her hands on her hips as she watched him lift it into the bed, stowing the groceries there too.
“Boone—” Gemma started.
“Save your breath,” he ordered, pulling open the passenger door. She stared at the high seat, and for a second he considered helping her—lifting her by the waist, boosting her with a palm at the curve of her ass—but putting his hands anywhere on her body seemed counter chivalrous, given the lustful urges he felt toward his pretty neighbor.
Narrowing his eyes, he crossed his arms over his chest. “I’m driving you home and then I’m fixing your flat.”
“I can repair the tire myself,” she protested, even while clambering into place.
He waited to respond until he’d positioned himself behind the wheel. “Do you have a pump?”
“I do…in storage,” she admitted, her shoulders lowering as she slumped against the seat. “Damn.”
“By all means don’t work too hard drumming up some gratitude for my help,” he grumbled, annoyed that the small space meant he couldn’t avoid the faint, sweet scent of her. His cock stirred, which only irritated him more. White knight, he reminded himself. White knight!
“But I didn’t ask for your help.” It sounded as if she sniffed. “And you didn’t need to interrupt your…your…date-procurement on my account.”
The woman made it sound as if he’d been about to proposition a hooker.
Gritting his teeth, he decided against responding to that, then forced the conversation in a safer direction. “Were you on your way home from work?” Boone realized he didn’t know how she made her living. “What is it you do?”
“I own a local shop. Gifts for Girlfriends? It’s next door to the Seadaze Salon and Spa.”
“Hm.” He visited Manny’s Barber Shop on the north end of town, when his hair became too long to ignore. “Don’t know it, but good for you.”
“Thank you.”
An awkward silence filled the cab. Which made sense, Boone told himself, because they had nothing in common, even though each lungful of her fragrance made him want to make further acquaintance in the most intimate of ways. His sidelong glance landed on her slender fingers and he thought about the cool slide of them against his after-five beard, of bringing them to his mouth, of sucking them inside as her face took on that tantalizing, kiss-me expression.
That needy one from Saturday night.
As if she heard his thoughts, her gaze cut to his and color rushed across her cheeks.
Yeah, he could still read her like a stoplight—and yeah, he still found the woman wickedly tempting.
Yet still not for him.
Spotting his driveway ahead, he heavy-footed the gas, eager for them to go their separate ways as soon as possible. “Here we are,” he said, relief in his voice, as he pulled in and punched the button to open the garage door.
She was out of her seat before he could get around to help her down. So Boone strode to the truck bed and handed over her grocery bags before grabbing hold of her bike. Carrying
it into his garage, he called over his shoulder, expecting she was already making tracks to her own place. “You should be able to ride it tomorrow.”
“Okay.”
Boone spun around, startled to find her right at his heels. Her big blues were fixed on his face and her face was set in lines he didn’t immediately recognize. “Gemma?” he asked, puzzled.
“I’m making you dinner,” she declared, her tone brisk. With a grocery bag in each fist, her body language screamed stubborn. “Don’t say no.”
No. Damn it, he was looking forward to solitude, frozen food thawed just enough so he wouldn’t break a tooth, basketball. “There’s no need,” he said.
“Gratitude,” she said, nearly grim, “expressing it.”
He winced at his own words thrown back at him. That’s what he got for being a boorish smart-ass. “Really, it’s not necessary.”
“You fix my bike, I’ll fix you dinner. Then we’ll be even.”
Shit. Couldn’t she just scamper home and free him from staring into that lovely, tempting, not-for-him face? “I don’t do girl food.”
She rolled her eyes.
“I’m serious.” Though he tried to avoid sounding desperate instead. “No spinach, no tofu, no legumes.”
Her smirk was too damn cute. “Legumes?”
His frown was meant to shut down all that amusement at his expense. “I dated a chef once.” Shagged her actually, three times over the course of a long Saturday night. At midnight, she’d found her way to his kitchen. “Two words, Gemma. Lentil waffles.”
His neighbor laughed, damn her. “What’s your attitude toward meat loaf and twice-baked potatoes?”
Meat loaf and twice-baked potatoes. He sucked in a harsh breath, defeat already in the air. “You did not just say that.”
“I did say that. And let me further tell you I smother the meat in a delicious beef gravy and top the potatoes with an au gratin crust.” The devil-woman’s voice lowered. “Meaning right before plating the meal, I sprinkle the spuds with grated cheese and put them under the broiler.”
“Potatoes,” he said, feeling suddenly faint with hunger. “Gravy.” Shaking off the treacherous yearning to agree, he recalled yet another game of hoops on the TV and the frozen buffalo wings that were two on a scale of ten but at least would fill that crying hole in his belly. “I really don’t think—”
“Boone.” Gemma stepped forward, close enough for him to get another breath of her hypnotic perfume. “You’d be doing me a favor,” she said. “Please.”
He closed his eyes. What would a white knight do? Wouldn’t he acquiesce to the pretty lady’s modest request? Then we’ll be even, she’d said.
And how would any red-blooded man respond to the offer of a meal of meat and potatoes? An honest-to-God, old-fashioned, home-cooked dinner made by a woman’s hands.
By Gemma.
His answer must be written all over his face, because she swept past him, heading for the door that led from his garage into the house. “You won’t regret this,” she said.
Staring after her retreating figure—bouncy steps, swaying hips, swinging hair—Boone acknowledged that even the prospect of gravy and au gratin couldn’t make him believe that over-confident assertion for a single second.
Chapter 5
Gemma made do in the man-kitchen, populated with the bare minimum of pots, pans, and utensils. It surprised her not at all to find his refrigerator nearly empty with the exception of five bottles of beer and three to-go containers of leftovers that even from the outside looked less than edible. With a swift glance toward the garage, she pulled open the freezer even though she had no valid excuse to explore that space.
A couple of hoary bags of frozen junk food sat sad and alone in the wire bins.
The lack of fresh groceries dissolved her initial unease at intruding into Boone’s private space. With that unrequited resolve to create a balance between them, she’d made the impulsive dinner offer, thinking she couldn’t stand it if she owed him yet again—despite the risk of spending more time in the presence of all those pumped muscles and potent masculinity.
But with the man a door away, she cheerfully tackled the dinner prep, all the while making an assessment of what she could see of the rest of his home.
Like his kitchen, the space seemed to hold the essentials only. In the great room was a single leather couch and a matching recliner, as well as a TV with a massive screen. The eight chairs surrounding the round table in the dining area surprised her—she couldn’t see Boone hosting many dinner parties for that size crowd—but the walls of that room were as bare as all the others.
With forks and knives in hand, Gemma decided against setting places on the felt-topped table and opted for using the large island with its four low-backed stools instead.
Once the oven timer went off and after plating the meal—the promised meat and potatoes as well as some baby carrots she’d found in his crisper that she’d steamed and buttered—Gemma wiped her hands on a paper towel and pulled open the door to the garage, ready to call him in to eat.
She froze, struck by the strangeness of the moment—the delicious smells from behind her and the delicious man standing in front of her. It looked as if he’d fixed the flat and now he had a shop cloth in hand that he used to rub along the curves and angles of the bicycle’s frame.
Busy work? Postponing the moment when they were alone together once again?
Swallowing hard, she continued staring, mesmerized by his hand slowly tracing over the smooth metal. Would he explore just that unhurriedly when he learned a woman’s body? Or would he be all quick moves and demanding caresses?
His long body still bent over the bike, Boone flicked a quick glance her way. “Time for dinner?”
Gemma started, flushing. Had he caught her gaping? And worse, fantasizing? But he couldn’t see what was going on inside her head, so she tossed her hair and straightened her shoulders. “Re—” she began, but had to clear her husky voice. “Ready when you are.”
He shot to his full height, his eyes slicing her way again, his gaze hitting her like a freight train. A heavy locomotive, hot and steamy. “I’m so ready,” Boone said.
Eek.
The look in his dark-night eyes stopped her heart and seemed to make her clothes and her common sense go limp. Suddenly woozy, Gemma clung to the door, then used her other hand to feebly gesture him inside. “This way, then.” Maybe with a few mouthfuls of the meal in her belly she’d prove more resistant to his powerful pull.
After all, the point of the meat loaf and potatoes dinner was not only to even the scales but to demystify the man. Because she definitely needed to get control of her insane reaction to him. His attraction was nothing more than a pleasing combination of muscle and bone, she told herself for the umpteenth time. Nothing more mystical than that. Nothing more meaningful than a simple visceral response that any average female might experience in the presence of any random sexy male.
She stood aside as he washed up at the kitchen sink. Then he stood beside the island and it took her a moment to realize he was waiting for her to take a seat first. As she drew nearer, he pulled out one of the stools and ghosted a hand at her elbow as she hitched onto the seat.
“Such nice manners,” she said, when he took his own place.
“I only go caveman when the moon is full.” He forked up a bite a meat, put it in his mouth, grunted. A long moment passed as he chewed, then swallowed. “Or when I taste something as damn good as this.”
“Great,” Gemma said faintly, watching him as he stabbed another mouthful and brought it to his lips. His eyes closed in appreciation and she noted the faint color tingeing his cheekbones and the bridge of his nose.
Boone swallowed that second bite and then he turned to her, frowned. “You’re not eating.” He pointed at her plate with the tines of his fork. “What’s wrong?”
As if she could say that watching him enjoy was its own pleasure. Ordering her attention to her own food, Gemma manage
d to keep her gaze lowered as he finished his first helping and got up for seconds.
In between bites he took long swallows of the beer she’d set in place, while she sipped at a glass of ice water she’d poured when she’d been determined to keep her eyes on the prize.
Even the scales. De-mystify the man.
But as they both left their stools to attend to the cleanup, Gemma realized her plans had gone completely awry. Not only was she absurdly happy that he’d appreciated the food she’d made, every moment spent around him only served to heighten her awareness of him—from his deep voice and dark eyes to his broad chest and powerful arms.
Moving to the dishwasher, his elbow brushed hers and she sucked in an audible breath, shocked by the swift burst of goose bumps dashing across her body. Boone stilled, then he pinned her with his gaze.
“Did I hurt you?” he asked.
Staring into his dark eyes gave her vertigo. She swayed on her feet.
“Gemma?” He stepped closer.
“Hm?” This close, her focus was filled by the brawny wall of his chest and the notch at the base of his throat. Even the tanned column of his neck turned her on, she decided, her head spinning.
“Maybe you need to sit down,” he suggested, those ruddy lips of his turning down in another frown. His hands gripped her shoulders and he turned her to face him. “Gemma, what is it?”
“You,” she confessed, his touch causing her body to tremble, her nipples to tighten, and her belly to go weightless despite the five bites of dinner she’d managed to swallow. “It’s you.”
He released her like his palms were on fire, holding his hands high, a man with a pointed gun at his head.
“No,” he said, taking a hasty step away. It backed him up against the countertop. “You shouldn’t say that. I don’t know why you’d say that.”
ALL IN (7-Stud Club Book 1) Page 5
