ALL IN (7-Stud Club Book 1)

by Christie Ridgway

  Eli looked on, shaking his head. “Did they say thank you at least?”

  This time Boone didn’t bother rubbing away the memory of their second brief pecks. “They liked the gifts, that’s all that matters. I’m the first here?”

  He followed his host through the kitchen to the family room, with its worn couch, state-of-the-art TV, and roaring flames in the fireplace. A garland of tissue paper hearts decorated the narrow sofa table that held paper goods, a couple of steaming casseroles, and a huge green salad.

  “The twins made dinner,” Eli explained, as Boone tossed his usual pretzels contribution onto the countertop of the corner bar.

  “Explains the green leafy shit.” Boone fished a beer from the ice-filled bucket. “But I smell mac and cheese with bacon, so they’re forgiven.”

  Two swigs of brew in, the room filled with other members of their poker crew. This time, they were all in evidence with the exception of Hart. Two days ago he’d told Boone he’d make his own way to the game and now it appeared he was running late.

  “I’m not saving him a piece,” Rafael grumbled as he made to scoop up a second helping of the pasta dish. “You snooze, you lose.”

  As a best friend and a best man, Boone had duties. He shouldered Raf aside and grabbed the big spoon from his hand. “Give me that. I’m saving a serving for Hart and you can have what’s left.”

  Sighing, Rafael waited. When Boone moved on to the salad, the other man dug into the remaining casserole. “Give Hart all the kale that’s in there. He’ll need his strength for the wedding night.”

  “Maybe Boone should be taking that kale for himself,” Cooper said slyly. “Heard he’s got someone new to pump up for.”

  Boone turned his head to give the other man a barbed look.

  Which the bastard ignored. “My sister made that coffee for you at Harry’s,” Cooper continued. “She said you asked if she knew the exact order of the woman who owns that girl shop down the street.”

  Sophie. Boone should have known better than enlist her help. “The owner is my neighbor,” he muttered. “Get your mind out of the gutter. It’s not like that. We’re…friends.”

  Which only caused Raf to hoot. “Boone the Bed-inator now making friends with the ladies.” The mocking, sing-song tone grated on his nerves.

  “The Bed-inator is the stupidest name I’ve ever heard in my life,” his half-brother Shane said with a sneer. He and Rafael were three months apart in age, their mutual father having secretly maintained two families until the man’s sons met in high school and the truth unraveled. Despite that, they were close, although the other poker buddies talked among themselves, speculating the pair was one stress point away from a massive blowout.

  It was Hart’s contention that falling for the same woman could prove the impetus, but as of now, thankfully, their romantic interests had always diverged.

  Eli passed Boone a fresh beer. “Sounds like you’ve found the perfect woman to be your date to the wedding.”

  No. She was not going to be his anything, Boone thought, frowning at his host. “Sends the wrong message—” he began, then gave up. It wasn’t his buddies he should be talking to about messages for Gemma. He should be talking to Gemma herself, explaining that despite dinner and what came after, there would be nothing more between the two of them.

  Maybe he’d considered taking the easy route and ghosting her following the sandwich and coffee, but even without a mama, he knew better than that.

  So, yeah, the message was going to have to be relayed, person-to-person, Boone to Gemma.

  Tonight, even, if lights glowed through her windows when he returned home from poker he’d take aim at their burgeoning…friendship.

  Because they couldn’t even have that, damn it. Too dangerous.

  So he’d shoot it fucking dead.

  After tonight, no more contact. And thus, no more problems.

  Eli’s phone buzzed, and he withdrew it from his pocket, frowning as he glanced at the screen then took the call. His face grayed as Boone watched, and dread dropped down, dank and suffocating. The room went still, every man alerted by something emanating from Eli’s stiff posture and stunned expression.

  Oh, God, Boone thought, as cold sunk deep into his bones. Problems, he guessed, were just beginning.

  Chapter 10

  Gemma sat on an easy chair in the dark living room, curled up in an afghan. Her position gave her a good view of Boone’s driveway, but though her gaze was fixed in that direction, the visual playing inside her head was a montage of the big man.

  Handing her that cup of coffee in her store.

  Stroking his jaw as he looked at her over the Giovanni’s menu.

  The serious expression on his face when he’d left her for the night by her door, while she was still trembling inside and out from the stealth orgasm he’d delivered before she’d completely realized what was happening. She’d leaped from kisses to coming faster than she ever had in her entire sexual life. With or without a man.

  All that didn’t matter, though. Her neighbor experiment had come to an end.

  She’d gone as far as she could—flirtation, saying yes to a date, letting her body overrule her head as he’d brought her to climax, for once not overthinking the intimate encounter.

  But she’d reached the outer limits of her comfort zone.

  Not that she thought he was pushing for more. Though she appreciated the sandwich and the coffee, she knew he’d brought them as kindnesses, to communicate he saw her as a person and not just a simple feminine responder to his sexual pull. She could only appreciate that.

  And also understand he intended that nothing further would come of their mutual magnetism. Yes, it was mutual, she didn’t doubt it, even though he’d departed unsatisfied. There was no mistaking the erection that had pressed against her belly.

  Yet, he’d walked away.

  So…unspoken memo received.

  Her own concern now was that he didn’t realize his message had been delivered, and that as a man of few words there’d be embarrassment on both sides if he felt forced to spell it out for her. To avoid such a scene, she had a final plan—to hide from him.

  She’d get May in on it if he happened by the store—Sorry, Gemma’s out. At home, she’d keep indoors with her lights mostly off.

  A few days of conspicuous absence and he’d comprehend she was fine with this thing between them fizzling out and that she was determined to avoid any further interaction as well.

  Just then, headlights strobed through the room as a vehicle turned in next door. Boone, home from his poker night.

  Her heart thumped against her ribs and her pulse quickened, but she forced herself to breathe, to calm, because he hadn’t seen her and he wasn’t going to see her. The house was darkened inside and out, creating a safe cocoon.

  Curling her knees closer to her chest, she gave herself permission to watch him stride from his truck to his front door, though. He’d have to do that, because he’d parked on the drive instead of in the garage.

  Which was strange. And even more strange when he didn’t immediately move from the driver’s seat. From forty feet away, she could see him there, a big, dark shadow of a man, still as a statue, hands gripping the steering wheel.

  Until his upper body collapsed and he buried his head against his forearms.

  Gemma froze, surprised and concerned. She straightened, staring through the glass. Was something wrong? It could be fatigue or disappointment over a losing night, she supposed—but no, it wasn’t even eight o’clock, which seemed early for an evening of fun and games to end. And surely experienced player and budget-conscious Boone wouldn’t gamble beyond his means. So why…?

  Stay here, she reminded herself. Keep your distance.

  A few more minutes passed without him leaving his vehicle, deepening Gemma’s unease. Maybe he was sick or somehow injured.

  Not your worry.

  She commanded herself to turn from the window, perhaps retreat to her bedroom,
when she saw those heavy shoulders shudder. His whole body seemed to shake and the sight of it drove her to her feet, the afghan now worn as a shawl. With quick footsteps, she made her way to the entry, where she flipped on the porch and landscape lights.

  Then she eased open the front door, and peeked out, noting his body still bowed over the wheel, as if the new illumination hadn’t registered.

  His eyes must be squeezed shut, she thought, concern multiplying. What could he be hiding from?

  At that, one bare foot crossed the threshold. The frigid cement sent an aching chill shooting up her calf. She ignored it, however, taking another step and then another, her gaze on the unmoving, oblivious man, lost to…she didn’t know.

  Upon reaching the driver’s door, she hesitated, unsure of her next move. Shifting from frozen foot to frozen foot, she tugged the ends of the afghan closer to her body, a hug that she could really use about now.

  Then the big man must have sensed her presence, because his head slowly rose from the cradle of his arms. He turned it to look at her, and in the glow coming from the outside lights, she saw his face revealed nothing, his handsome features carved in granite.

  Yet a shiver tickled down her spine.

  Without thinking, she gripped the handle of his door and pulled. It didn’t budge.

  Undeterred, she set her lips in a straight line, tried again. This time it gave way and she realized he’d released the lock. Warmth wafted from the interior of the cab, causing another shiver to roll down her back.

  “It’s cold tonight,” she said, instinct still driving her. “You should come to my place for tea. Coffee. Something warm.”

  He hesitated, and she decided to read it as acquiescence. On nearly numb feet, she crossed between his driveway and her walk, marching up the path on the assumption Boone would follow. She heard the thunk of his door closing and then he was at her heels. With a tight smile he couldn’t see, she led the way into her kitchen where she threw the afghan over a chair.

  Her hands occupied themselves making coffee. Instead of fooling with her French press, she went straight to the twelve-cup drip machine, pouring water and spooning grounds, because the man he was would appreciate the no-nonsense manufacture of the brew. She hoped he didn’t catch her sprinkling a dash of cinnamon on top of the coffee. Though she liked how it spiced the scent and taste, he’d likely judge it too girly.

  Maybe he needed a little girly right now.

  Or not. She glanced at him over her shoulder. He stood, head down, with one shoulder braced against the opening to the room. Unreadable, as usual.

  But maybe, not unapproachable.

  She cleared her throat. “Would you like something else first? I have tequila. There’s a bottle of vodka in the freezer.”

  “Tequila,” he said, without looking up.

  She poured him a couple of fingers in a rocks glass, then, though recalling an unfortunate college incident, poured herself half that. Pressing the alcohol into his hand, she watched him stare at the contents.

  She sipped her own, her gaze fixed on his face over the rim of her glass. With a quick flip of his wrist, he downed the shot, his head now thrown back, his strong, tanned throat exposed.

  Her belly was doing the quivering now. His eyelashes were black fans on his cheeks, his hand a fist around the glass. He might be still, but he wasn’t settled. Not nearly.

  Gemma set her drink aside, slipped his empty glass from his hand, and placed it near hers. His dark gaze fixed on her.

  “Can you share now?” she asked, her voice soft. No matter what she’d told herself earlier, now wasn’t the right time for retreat from him, not when he was so obviously distressed. “Something’s wrong.”

  Her hand crept toward his muscled forearm, bared by the rolled-up sleeve of a plaid flannel shirt. The heat of his skin radiated and her fingertips felt it before they met the firm skin, dusted with black hair. Under her touch, he twitched and she saw his jawline harden.

  “Gemma…”

  She dared a short stroke, ruffling that rough hair. “I’m right here.”

  And then she was swept against his chest, pinned with an arm at the small of her back and another below her bottom, tilting her hips and bringing her to her toes to align their mouths. The kiss was hard and desperate and clumsy in a way she knew Boone was never usually clumsy. He shuddered as his tongue thrust inside her mouth and then shuddered again as he pushed her away from him.

  The heels of his hands dug into his eyes. “I don’t…you don’t…”

  Gemma found her breath. “Right. I don’t know. Tell me.”

  “I shouldn’t—”

  “Tell me.”

  He inhaled a long breath. “A call came. At poker.” His arms dropped to his sides and he rubbed his palms against his jeans. “It’s terrible.”

  Gemma came forward then and put her arms around him. He jerked, started to struggle, but she held him firmly. Then the fight went out of him and he pressed his face against the side of her head. “God, Gemma. God.”

  “Tell me,” she said again, insistent.

  His hands came up, one to her hip, one to the side of her hair, those big warm hands. “Hart—” He stopped, started again. “My friend Hart’s fiancée…”

  “Kim,” Gemma remembered, bracing for what came next.

  “She died tonight.”

  “Oh, God.” Tears pricked the corners of Gemma’s eyes.

  Boone gathered her closer. “An aneurism, they think. It was quick, but…”

  “But nothing will be the same for Hart or her family or anyone who knew her.” She pressed her cheek to Boone’s shirt, the flannel soaking up an errant tear.

  “Yes.” He breathed in deeply, as if inhaling the scent of Gemma’s hair. “Nothing will be the same.”

  “I’m so sorry for your loss,” she murmured. “So sorry.”

  “I only met her one time…they’d been college sweethearts who saw each other again at a recent reunion. But I liked her. What I really liked is that Hart loves—loved her.”

  “And you’ve known him a long time,” she said, sure of it.

  “Twenty years. More.” He breathed deep again. “He deserves good things, all the good things, and…and now this.”

  She nodded, her cheek rubbing his chest with the movement.

  Boone’s voice lowered. “How am I going to help him, Gemma?”

  “You’ll find a way,” she said, then glanced up, recognizing anguish in his eyes. “Oh, Boone.”

  Their mouths met once more, desperate and clumsy again, the kiss heated and wet until he broke for air and his mouth trailed across her cheek. She thought he tasted the salt of her tears because he pulled her even closer and this next kiss was harder, almost mean, like he was blaming them both for being alive.

  Despite that, Gemma melted against him, taking what he needed to give, until he made a low sound in his throat and pushed her away again.

  Her knees weak, she swayed on her feet but managed to steady herself by gripping the nearby counter as he forked his hands through his hair. “Shit,” he said. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s got into me.”

  “You’ve had a shock.” Her pulse hammered in her throat, her body hummed with the need to be close to him, closer. “It’s all right.”

  “I’m still sorry,” he muttered, looking away from her.

  She sucked in a long breath, held it, then reached out to catch his fingers with her own, the tips barely grazing. Her pulse rate doubled. “Why don’t you let me make things better, if just for a little while?”

  He frowned, his gaze coming back to her face. “Gemma…”

  “You need comfort.”

  “I’m not—” He shook his head. “I don’t want to use you.”

  She smiled a little. “Maybe I want to use you back.”

  One of his eyebrows winged up, and for a second she saw a different Boone, the Boone he was with a different woman. When he didn’t worry about…whatever it was he obviously worried about when
he was with her.

  That she was the marrying kind of woman, she bet, with sudden insight. And yeah, she might have thought of herself that way in the past, but that’s not who she wanted to be right now. Right now she wanted to be with Boone and be the woman who had what he needed in this fraught, emotional moment.

  “This way,” she said, taking her courage in hand and taking Boone’s hand too, leading him toward her bedroom.

  Though the trip was short, his mood shifted once more, again turning inward. At the threshold to her room, lit only by the low bedside lamp, she felt his hesitation. Facing him again, she gave him the smallest of smiles. “You’re thinking too hard,” she said. “Believe me, I know how that is.”

  “Gemma—”

  “Shh.” She placed two fingers over his mouth. “This way.” Now he let her tow him toward the bed, where she pulled down the covers.

  Then she stripped off her clothes, careful not to look at him and assess what he might think of her nakedness. Because she took herself down to that, yoga pants, top, underwear tossed to a waiting chair.

  Next, she turned to him, standing where she’d left him, his hands loose at his sides. Again, she avoided his gaze and stepped up to reach the buttons of his shirt. One by one she unfastened them, thinking of it more as an action of human to human than woman to man. Comfort, she reminded herself. Boone needed the consolation of warmth and the reassurance of sex.

  He remained quiet and still under her ministrations, his breathing even and steady.

  As she pushed his shirt off his shoulders, however, revealing his muscled chest and abs, air absented itself from her lungs. Her hands hesitated and she had to force them to move as she became hyperaware of the bunching of her nipples and the ticklish ends of her hair brushing her back. His shirt landed on top of her clothes, and since he wore no belt tonight, she attacked the button at his waistband next.

  Now his breath sucked in, she could see his belly hollow and she felt hers flutter in response. She glanced up, noting his eyes were closed so she let herself admire the masculine breadth of his shoulders, the discs of his nipples, the wedge of hair between them. The teeth of the zipper separating sounded loud in the quiet and her knuckles brushed the bulge beneath the denim as she dragged on the pull, taking her time because she was still admiring the wealth of skin already bared to her eyes.