by Jill Shalvis
“Well, that sucks,” Becca said.
“Gets worse. One night I had a break-in, and he happened to be with me. He ran out the front door screaming into the night like a little girl, without so much as looking back for me.” Olivia shook her head. “FBI agent my ass.”
They both laughed. Some of the hilarity had to be attributed to the wine, but mostly it was Olivia’s delivery. She knew how to spin a tale, and she knew how to be kick-ass, and not just the pretend, fake-it-till-you-make-it kind.
Becca needed to learn that particular skill.
“So. . .,” Olivia said, making the word about fifty syllables.
“So what?”
“So now it’s your turn to regale me with an ex story,” Olivia said.
Becca became suddenly extremely engrossed with finishing her wine. “I don’t really have all that many,” she finally said.
“Come on. Be serious.”
“I am serious,” Becca said.
Olivia had been lying flat on the couch, her head hanging over the side, while Becca—sitting on the floor—braided the long mass. But at this statement, Olivia lifted her head, pulling her hair from Becca’s hands.
“Unlikely from a woman who looks like you,” Olivia said slowly, taking Becca in, “with that gorgeous hair and those big, warm eyes, not to mention your amazing skin, which probably came from a rosy-cheeked baby with unicorn wings who poops golden fairy dust.”
Becca laughed. “You should be the writer.”
Olivia’s smile reminded Becca that her new friend still had lots of secrets. “So no ex at all?” Olivia said, heavy on the disbelief.
“Well, sure,” Becca said, busying herself with picking out a fortune cookie. “A few here and there.”
“Name ’em,” Olivia said.
“Taylor Bennett,” Becca said. “He dumped me because I couldn’t name the jazz songs he played.”
“Uh-huh,” Olivia said. “And how old were you?”
“Seventeen.”
“That’s the best you got?” Olivia asked.
She racked her brain. The problem was, during those years, she’d been traveling with Jase, and it hadn’t exactly been a normal coming-of-age situation. She’d dated, but hadn’t really sunk her teeth into any real relationships other than with Nathan. “There were others, just no one memorable.”
“Come on, there’s got to be a story to tell.”
“Maybe.” Becca nudged the fortune cookies around with her fingers. “But I don’t like to revisit the only other one I’ve got.”
Olivia was quiet a moment. “This have anything to do with our impromptu sleepover?”
Becca shrugged. She didn’t want to go there sober, much less half-baked.
“Men are bastards,” Olivia said with feeling.
Becca made a noncommittal response to this and opened her fortune cookie.
Your future is your own, it said.
“Damn it,” Becca said. “This one’s defective.”
Olivia peered over the edge of the couch and read it. “Hey, it sounds good to me. I like making my own future.”
Becca shook her head. “I’d rather hear something like: Your future is prosperity-filled, or You’ll spin money from your ass, or. . .”
“Or,” Olivia said, “There’s a hot guy waiting for you if you only open your eyes?”
“Yeah. That’s a good one.”
Olivia rolled her eyes. “It’s a true one.”
“That’s ridiculous. My eyes are open.”
Olivia laughed and came up on an elbow, eyes slowly going serious. “How do you not realize that you actually, really do have a hot guy waiting for you?”
“I don’t.”
“You do.”
“Don’t.”
Olivia sighed. “You’re an annoying drunk.”
This was undoubtedly true. “I chose the job, remember?” she asked.
“Sam doesn’t care about the job. That’s not what’s holding him back.”
“How do you know?” Becca asked. “You’ve holed up in here, laid so low no one even hardly knows you’re here.”
Olivia shrugged. “I’ve got windows, don’t I? And I’ve been around longer than you. I know that he looks amazeballs on a surfboard, that he looks amazeballs on a boat, that he looks amazeballs—”
“Okay, okay,” Becca said, and she did laugh then. “I get it. He looks amazing all the damn time.”
“Yes, but it’s more than that. It’s how he looks at you.”
Becca sighed. “Listen, I pretty much forced him into giving me the job.”
“Honey, no one forces Sam Brody to do anything.”
Also true. . .But he’d known she needed the money, and that had been that. He cared about her. He cared about all the people in his life. Cole and Tanner, for example. He’d do anything for them, and had. The same went for his dad, and Cole’s mom. Sam was a man who was careful with his emotions, he’d been brought up to be, and yet he could still give and care with every ounce of his body.
Unlike her.
Oh, she cared, but not deep. Going deep hurt. She’d learned that once and had never looked back. She loved her parents because they were her parents, but she couldn’t count on them.
And then there was Jase. When that situation had gotten to be too much for her to handle, she hadn’t just backed off. She’d backed off and moved thousands of miles away, leaving him alone to deal with his issues.
She couldn’t imagine Sam doing that to someone in his life, ever.
They both jumped at the knock on the door.
“That’s not my door,” Olivia said. “It’s yours.” She got up and looked out her peephole. “Well, well, speaking of the devil.”
“Oh, my God,” Becca whispered. “Back away from the door!”
Olivia kept her eye glued to the peephole. “You know, he’s got a really fantastic ass. And I’m only looking at the profile—”
“Shhh! He’ll hear you.”
Olivia turned to her in surprise. “You’re not going out there?”
Earlier, that’d been all she’d wanted. A late-night visit from her sexy surfer. Now . . . now she didn’t know what the hell she thought that would accomplish.
“It’ll accomplish plenty,” Olivia said, making Becca realize she’d spoken out loud. “You’d probably get boinked, for one. And nothing personal, but you’re wound pretty tight. You could use it.”
Becca came up on her knees, waving wildly for Olivia to shut up. “The walls,” she whispered. “Thin. You can hear me breathing. I can hear you swearing. Which means he can hear you.”
“No, he can’t.”
“Yes, I can,” Sam said.
Becca and Olivia went stock-still at the sound of his voice, right on the other side of her front door now.
Shit! “Don’t let him in!” Becca hissed.
“I have a tin of ranch-flavored popcorn,” Sam said through the wood.
“From the pier?” she asked, unable to help herself.
“Yep.” The sound of the tin being shaken came through the door. “And it’s good,” he said, mouth sounding full.
“Hey,” she called out, straightening up. “Are you eating my popcorn?”
“You bet your sweet ass. Lance warned me it was damn good, but I had no idea. You’d best hurry before I eat it all.”
He’d bought her popcorn. Oh, God. She was a dead woman.
“He’s funny, hot, and he likes you enough to buy you popcorn,” Olivia whispered.
“Don’t let him in!” she whispered back.
“Don’t listen to her, Olivia, let me in.”
Just his voice, calm but steely, made Becca’s nipples hard. Damn it. And Olivia was looking at her like Santa Claus had just shown up. Knowing she was too weak to be trusted, Becca leapt to her feet and looked for somewhere to hide. Unfortunately she tripped over the coffee table and went down with a thud.
That’s when she realized she was maybe more than half-baked. She might be fully baked
. Disoriented, she stayed there on her hands and knees a moment—until suddenly two hands slid beneath her armpits and lifted her to her feet.
“You gave my dad your car?” Sam asked.
She blinked. “Um.”
“You gave my dad your car.”
“A little bit, yeah.” When Sam shook his head, she hurried on, “He’s bringing it back tomorrow.”
“Do you give anyone anything they ask for?” he asked.
“Not anymore,” she said. “I’m on a break from doing that. Your dad just really needed the ride, and I’m not driving tonight anyway, so—” She hiccuped and covered her mouth. “Excuse me.”
Still holding on to her, Sam peered down at her, a very small smile on his lips now. “You’re shit-faced.”
“Nope.” Although there did seem to be two of him. . .Which was nice since both of him were smiling all sexy-like. “I’m not shit-faced. I don’t get shit-faced. I don’t drink.”
Olivia lifted the two bottles of wine they’d decimated. Both empty.
“Who drank those?” Becca asked her.
“That would be us,” Olivia said, and laughed. “Sexy Surfer’s right, babe. We’re shit-faced. We’ve gotta hit the sack, we both have to work early tomorrow.”
“Huh,” Becca said. She went to jab a finger at one of the two Sams in front of her, but missed. “Huh,” she said again.
Sam was still grinning. “Need help getting home and to bed?”
“No!” she said at the exact same time that Olivia said “Yes!”
Becca whirled on Olivia to give her a very dirty look, but her world began to spin, and didn’t stop. “Uh-oh,” she whispered, and would’ve slithered to the floor again except that Sam hooked an arm around her waist. It was a really great forearm, too, all tanned and corded with strength. But it was the big, warm hand that landed just beneath her breast that really grabbed her attention.
“Here’s her key,” she heard Olivia say, and then her world was upside down because Sam had hoisted her up and over his shoulder in a fireman’s hold, his arm wrapped around the backs of her thighs.
“Hey,” she said to his ass. His very fine ass.
“Hay’s for horses,” Olivia said cheerfully, whacked Becca’s ass, and opened the front door.
“Hey,” Becca said again.
But she was talking to no one. Well, other than Sam’s ass, of course.
“So romantic,” Olivia said on a sigh.
Still upside down, Becca tried to imagine Sam being romantic. But she couldn’t picture him giving a woman roses. “Do you?” she asked.
“Do I what?”
“Do you ever bring your women roses?”
“I’m not exactly a flowers type,” he said. “But I do have the popcorn.” He rattled the tin with his free hand.
The truth was, Becca would rather have popcorn any day of the week over roses. She might even have said so, but her world was spinning even more now, so she squeaked, slammed her eyes shut, and held on for dear life. And what she held on to was his butt—with both hands—earning her a chuckle from the guy who owned the butt. He balanced her and the popcorn with ease while unlocking her front door. Kicking the door closed, he strode across the open space, bypassing her bathroom, and dumped her on the bed.
She sat up, blew the hair out of her eyes, and focused on him standing there, hands on hips, looking sexy as all hell. “Come here,” she said.
“You feeling sick?”
“No.” She tugged him down over the top of her and pressed her face into that male throat she loved so much and inhaled him deep.
“Becca, I need a shower.”
“Oh, boy,” she said. “I’ve heard this story before.”
He snorted, then rolled off the bed. She blinked as he leaned over her and pulled off her sandals. “Whatcha doing?”
“Putting you to bed,” he said.
“But I thought you were going to shower and then do me.”
He went still a moment, then tipped back his head and laughed. The sight was so beautiful she just stared at him for a long moment. “Wow,” she breathed. “You’re so damn pretty. Does Lucille know? She should pin pics of you in your board shorts, the blue ones that have the white stripe down the side, the ones that show off your butt, all over her Pinterest.”
“If you suggest that to her, I’ll. . .” He paused.
“What?” she asked.
“I don’t know. I can’t think of anything that wouldn’t leave you scarred for life.” He reached for the hem on her sweatshirt. “Lift up.”
“Please,” she said. “You mean lift up please.”
He gave her an alpha look and she lifted up, and then the sweatshirt vanished, leaving her in a cami top and a gauzy skirt.
He stared down at her, scrubbed a hand over his jaw, muttering something to himself about “being a fucking saint,” and then he tugged down the blankets. “Get in,” he said.
“Okay.” She scrambled in, then waited for him to climb in as well. He didn’t. “Hey,” she said when he tugged the blankets up to her chin. “What are you doing?”
“Putting you to bed,” he repeated, not quite as patiently now.
In fact, he was sounding downright strained.
“Without you?” she asked, confused.
“Without me. Becca, you’re not paying attention to me.”
Yes, she was. That was always the problem. She looked down at herself. “I’m still dressed.”
“Yeah,” he said, and again ran a hand over his rough jaw, which made a very male sound that turned her on even more. “I don’t trust myself with you undressed.”
“I do,” she said.
At that, his eyes softened and he placed a hand on either side of her hips. Leaning in, he kissed her softly. “So fucking sweet,” he murmured against her lips. “So damn sweet.”
“But you still aren’t doing me, are you?”
He actually lowered his head, closed his eyes, and groaned from deep in his throat. “I’m trying to be a good guy here, Becca.”
“I don’t want you to be good. Well, I do. The good kind of good, you know?”
He kissed her again. “Go to sleep.”
“But I do trust you.”
“Not all the way, you don’t,” he said. “Not yet.” Then he kissed her again, and this time he gave her what she wanted, which was heat and lots of tongue. Then he tore himself away, breathing unsteadily. “Stop me,” he said.
“No.”
Sam groaned. “If I have to be the strong one here, we’re in trouble.”
“So don’t be the strong one.” She paused, and remembered. “When!” she yelled. “When, when, when!”
“You,” he said, backing away, “are a menace to my self-control.”
“Why the self-control at all? Forget the self-control! I just said When. That was our code word.”
He looked pained. And strained. “You’re under the influence. It
