Like how, a minute later, the car pulls over a few blocks from Jillian’s place.
“We’re just picking up my friend Katie,” she explains.
I turn my head, glancing toward the sidewalk and—whoa.
Wait a hot, sexy, beautiful second.
I stare at the vision in pink heading straight for this car—a knockout with a smile that has me waving a white flag. Her dress clings to her curves in all the right places and swishes around her knees. Silver heels complete that take me away to cloud nine look she has going on.
Her lush blonde hair falls in waves over her bare shoulders, which shimmer enticingly.
I whip around to glare accusingly at Jones, then Jillian. “Excuse me. Why did no one tell me that Jillian’s friend is an angel dressed in pink, and the answer to my prayers?”
Jillian laughs. “Presumptuous much, Harlan?”
“Presumptuous a lot.”
I hit the intercom. “Darien. I’ll get the door.”
“As you wish.”
I push open the door, step onto the street, and sweep out an arm for the bombshell. “Your chariot,” I say, gesturing to the car.
The stunning blonde, with eyes as blue as the sea, flashes me a grin, with just a hint of naughty on her lips.
Mmm. Yes.
“What do you know? I was hoping for a chariot, and here you are.” Her confident voice holds a touch of sarcasm as she slides into the car. I follow, sitting next to our newest passenger.
Jillian clears her throat and makes the introductions. “Jones, Harlan. This is my friend Katie.”
Let’s see if I can pave a path to her dance card tonight. “You’re a goddess, Jillian, for inviting your beautiful friend.”
“You know, she also has a good personality,” Jillian says drily.
I narrow my eyes at the publicist. “Oh, hush. I already figured that no friend of yours would be a wet blanket.” I turn to the blonde, shooting her a big grin. “I bet you’re a firecracker, Katie.”
Her blue eyes go all kinds of flirty. “I’m the aerial fireworks, Harlan—the finale at the end of the show.”
And I do believe I am officially in love.
“See? I knew that your sparkly personality would be perfect. But let me give you a proper greeting.” I reach for Katie’s hand, clasping it to press a kiss to her knuckles. “How do you do, tonight?” I ask, all refined, a hint of my Atlanta roots coming through.
“I do very well,” she says. “And aren’t you quite the gentleman?”
“Once a Southern gentleman, always a Southern gentleman. Especially in the presence of such a lovely, brilliant lady.” Yes, I’m all manners on the outside while on the inside I’m thinking, holy hell, I’ve already met my dream wedding hookup.
She rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling too as she tosses a glance at Jillian. “I can’t believe you didn’t warn me about this one and his oodles of flirt.”
Jillian shrugs. “I didn’t realize Harlan would be in such rare form tonight.”
“What would you have liked to know?” I ask. “That I’m patently charming? Terrifically entertaining? Possess gobs of sexy, endearing, can’t-resist vibes? Also, I pour an excellent”—I stop to consider the bottles in the limo’s bar—“tequila, whisky, or vodka. Take your pick.”
“I’m a tequila girl,” Katie says, laughing. “And maybe warn a woman she has to keep up with a master charmer.”
“Sometimes surprises are fun.” I grab a glass and pour her a splash, then do the same for myself.
Jones and Jillian opt for water, and the four of us toast, our glasses clinking as Sinatra croons about the way you look tonight.
“To weddings, wingmen, and wingwomen,” I say, casting my gaze from Katie, to Jones and Jillian, then back to Katie. “And to new friends.”
Her eyes twinkle as she taps my glass one more time. “I’ll drink to all that, Mister Charmer.”
I knock back my liquor, and she does the same. I sigh happily at the turn the night has taken. “Have I mentioned I can dance too? It’s one of my many talents.”
“What are your others?” she asks with that firecracker sizzle. “Besides running, blocking, and tackling.”
Ah, she knows my skills. “I can catch a football too. Tie any kind of knot. And I can also bake pies like nobody’s business.”
She hums her approval. “I’ll be saving a dance for you.” She studies my face, the corner of her lips screwing up in a smile. “So please save one for me.”
Oh, I like weddings very much.
2
Katie
I am a woman on a mission.
I have a message to deliver to someone at this wedding, and I don’t intend to mince words.
That’s why I said yes to Jillian’s invite, and that’s all I expected I would do tonight.
Now, though, I’m thinking this event is going to be a whole lot more fun—thanks to Mister Dreamy Brown Eyes, who makes no bones about trying to charm my ass off.
A hunk of man in a tailored suit who’s quick with his tongue?
Let me order a double.
He’s precisely what I’ve been craving. I am done with bores and through with nitwits who can’t hold a conversation.
As we exit the limo, I set a hand on Harlan’s hard-as-iron bicep. “Nice guns,” I tell him as we walk to the swank entrance of the hotel overlooking the Pacific Ocean.
“Thanks. I had them polished today at the gym.”
I squeeze harder. I do love a firm body. “Well, I’d like to feel these arms when I take a spin on the dance floor with you.”
He flashes a megawatt smile at me as we head into the lobby. “Be my guest. I will be counting down the minutes until that dance.”
“Same here.”
He leans in close, dusts a kiss onto my cheek, and whispers, “I’ll save you twenty, sweetheart.”
My heart flutters. And so do my lady parts. His voice, his kiss, his body—his confidence. I do like a man who knows his mind and uses his mouth.
It’s been ages since I’ve had a decent date. My social life has fallen by the wayside these past few months while my sister and I have worked on our secret business plans. I’ve been mega busy juggling a day job and a burgeoning side hustle. Mornings and evenings, I grab any chance to teach extra yoga classes.
That means activities in the man department have been few and far between. The handful of dates I’ve snagged recently have been snooze-worthy.
Maybe that can change now.
Though, I don’t have much time for flirting. My sister’s flying up from Los Angeles tonight, and her plane gets in at eleven. But that still leaves a window for a dance or two. This gal will take what she can get.
Harlan turns into the row of seats, and I shamelessly check out his ass as he walks. There is just something about a man in a tailored suit, especially a man with a great butt. A butt I want to hold onto.
Stop, Katie Madigan, stop. You can’t think filthy thoughts in front of a preacher.
Unless that’s a justice of the peace up there, which I’m pretty sure it is. So, it’s totally permissible to be a bad girl. JPs don’t mind dirty minds during a wedding ceremony.
Harlan grabs a seat, then Jones sits next to him, then Jillian, and finally, I flank my bestie.
We settle in, and when Pachelbel’s Canon begins, my heart rises to my throat.
Memories of other weddings claw their way to the front of my mind, and I force them away.
Stay present.
Focus on the here and now.
I zoom in on the bride and groom, though I hardly know them. They’re Jillian’s colleagues and I’m simply her plus-one. Still, when the groom promises to love his bride so long as they both shall live, I choke up.
Ugh, emotions, you bedevil me.
I root around in my purse, hunting for a tissue. I dab my eyes, then steal a glance at Jillian. Even through the silky black hair curtaining her face, I see she’s biting her bottom lip, holding in a tear or two, I be
t.
I offer a few tissues, which she takes, mouthing, thank you, then swiping her cheeks.
Once the happy couple exchanges their I dos and their first married kiss, we stand and clap. They walk down the aisle, hands clasped, gazing all lovey-dovey at each other.
What would it take to get to that place where you know you want to be with someone forever and ever? I can’t picture it. Didn’t see anything remotely like that while I was growing up.
When the bride and groom leave the ballroom, I grab Jillian’s arm and squeeze. “Thank you for making me your date. I don’t know a thing about those two, but I’m so stinking happy for them,” I say with genuine emotion.
“Me too. Weddings get to me,” she whispers, then her eyes stray to Jones.
I squeeze her arm harder. “Maybe your guy gets to you,” I tease under my breath.
She swats my arm. “Stop knowing me too well.”
I shrug happily. “Can’t help it. It’s our curse and our blessing as besties.” I tip my forehead to the exit. “Let’s get you to the reception so you and Jones can play footsie under the table.”
She arches a brow. “And maybe you and the running back?”
“Ha. Let’s focus on you.”
My first job tonight is to be her wingwoman. And my job as her friend is to deliver my message.
Once we make our way to the reception, I hunt for my opportunity. I’ve watched Jillian fall for this guy over the summer and into the football season, and he damn well better know exactly what he’s got on his hands.
A prize.
When the dancing begins, I motion for Harlan to come closer so I can whisper in his ear.
“Hey, there,” he says, as he sheds his suit jacket, tossing it on the back of his chair. “You ready to cut a rug, sweetheart?”
“Not quite. But soon. First, though, I need to chat with Jones—and you’re going to help me.”
“Hit me up,” he says, rolling up the sleeves of his dress shirt. His forearms—his strong, muscular forearms—are a little distracting.
Fuck, they’re a lot distracting.
But I soldier on. “Make some magic happen for me on the dance floor. You take Jillian for a whirl, and I’ll grab her guy, since I need a quick chat. And then you and I can dance together to our hearts’ content.”
“Whatever the lady wants,” he tells me, his eyes traveling down my body then back up, “the lady shall get.”
“Are you mentally undressing me?” I ask, feeling quite bold.
“Seems I was,” he says, unrepentant and confident as hell. “What do you know?” With a wink at me, he moves over to Jones and whispers something, nodding my way. Then they switch places, Harlan asking Jillian for a dance and Jones locking eyes with me.
“May I have this dance, Katie?”
“You absolutely may.” We step onto the parquet floor, and I set my hands chastely on his shoulders as we sway to an Adele tune. “I was hoping to chat with you.”
His eyebrows shoot into his hairline. “Let’s talk, then.”
Jillian is head-over-heels crazy for Jones, and she’s about to go out on a limb for him career-wise. I need to make sure he’s the kind of man who will treat her like a queen. “Listen,” I begin. “I’m a ride-or-die kind of gal. I’ve known Jillian since college, and she’s my girl. I’ve got her back anytime she needs it. You know what that means, Jones?”
“Means I don’t want to run into you in a dark alley?”
I flash a big Texas smile. “You got that right, partner,” I say, slipping in a touch of my once-upon-a-time Texas twang.
“I hear ya, boss.” Despite our slip into comic stereotype, Jones gives a crisp nod of understanding.
“You better treat her well,” I add.
Seeming earnest enough, he answers, “I will.”
But I’m taking no chances. “I mean it. If she risks her job and her reputation for this romance, do not let her down. I know that you’re a foot taller than I am and probably a hundred fifty pounds heavier, but I don’t care. I will kick you in the balls if you hurt her.”
He flinches. “Damn.”
“Exactly.” Jones seems like a good guy, but I am not messing around when it comes to my friend. “She is the best person I know, and she prizes honesty and integrity. If you make a play for her, it had better be for real. You better put your whole heart into it.” I hold his eye with a knife’s-edge look and flint in my voice. “Or you will answer to me and my steel-toed cowboy boots.”
Jones meets my gaze without flinching, intensely serious. “You will never need to break those out with me.” Then he nods in a that-explains-a-lot way. “I can see why you’re her best friend.”
“Then we have an understanding.” I let go as the song ends, stepping back to swipe one palm across the other. “That’s done. Good luck with the game this weekend. I will be rooting my ass off for the Renegades like I always do.”
Before Jones can reply, his handsome friend taps his shoulder, but Harlan’s oh-so-charming smile is aimed at me. “Hope you don’t mind me interrupting, buddy, but the lady and I have twenty dances to work through, and I’d like to start right now.”
I’d like that too. My night will end far too soon, and I want to make the best of the next few hours.
3
Katie
Goodbye, Jones. Hello, Harlan.
“Let’s see what your quicksilver feet can do,” I say, and Harlan moves right in, sets his hands on my waist, and dips me.
I am going to have so much fun with this hottie.
From his million-dollar smile, to his lush, golden-brown hair, to his dreamy eyes, the man has heartbreaker written all over him.
And that’s fine by me, since my heart isn’t on the table.
“So, what sort of dancing are we talking about?” I ask. “Do you dance like Magic Mike?”
He tugs playfully at his tie, jutting out his hip à la dirty dancer. “If that’s what you’re looking for, Katie. I’m more than happy to offer you a lap dance.”
The way he says that—a soft Georgia lilt returning to his voice once more—makes my skin tingle. Yes, he could definitely strip down for me in private sometime.
But just so I don’t melt into a puddle on the dance floor, I turn up the tease. “But maybe I want you to do the polka.”
On cue, he steps to the left.
I step to the right a half-second later, and we both do a hop. A few more impromptu polka steps and I’m laughing too hard to continue. “I’ll admit, I did not expect you to know such an old-fashioned dance.”
“You underestimate me, Katie. Go ahead, try another,” he challenges. “Dance-stump me.”
I can play this game. “Fox trot.”
Harlan steps forward; I step back. I’m breathless with laughter again.
“My turn now?” he asks, all rumbly sexy.
“I did get two requests. Seems only fair to give you one.”
“Then we need to tango.” Harlan hauls me in close and with my hand in his, thrusts our arms out to the side.
No wonder this is the sexiest dance ever. You have to press your chest up against a hot man. Let’s tango all night long.
We dance deliciously close for a minute on the edge of the dance floor. I like the feel of his firm body very much. “All right. I’ll bite. Where did you learn to dance like that?”
“Chippendales,” he says as we settle into a casual slow dance sway.
“You moonlight at a dance club? Is that after your football games?”
He winks. “Course it is.”
“Ha. Somehow, I doubt it,” I say. “Even with your smooth moves.”
Harlan smiles, runs a finger down my nose. “I’m from Georgia. A cotillion is mandatory.”
“Aha. The Southern charm explained,” I say, moving under the twinkling lights as the DJ crossfades into “Never Tear Us Apart.”
“I dip into the accent now and again for fun. I’ve been on the West Coast for many years, but I ham it up with the
guys and lay it on thick at practice, so they can all bust my chops about my supposed Southern drawl.”
I flash a grin. “Better watch out or you might lose the chance to dip into the sound for…fun all together.”
He feigns shock. “Whatever will I do without my Atlanta charm?”
I shrug helplessly. “You’ll just have to switch to San Francisco charm. Speaking of, how long have you lived here? You’ve been with the team for six years.”
He arches a brow, impressed or perhaps appreciative that I know that about him. “I have indeed. Before then I went to college in Washington.”
“A Husky?”
“Go dawgs,” he says.
“So, you’ve been out of the South and accent-free for quite some time now.”
“I have—ten years, to be precise—but when I’m with my sisters and Mom I sound all peachy again,” he says.
“And I probably sound like a . . . bluebonnet,” I say, sliding into the accent I lost long ago.
Harlan blinks, pulls back. “Whoa. I’d never have known you were from the Lone Star State.”
“Born and raised, but truth be told, we moved to California when I started high school. Though, you can never entirely take the Texas out of the girl.”
“And who’d want to? Your personality is as big as that state,” he says.
“You have a line for everything, don’t you?”
“Hey, now. Who said it was a line, sweetheart? I like your sass, and I like talking to you.”
He’s too much, but I’m completely taken by that, especially when my last three dates were so very, very lacking in . . . everything that Harlan has. The most recent guy explained, in depth, the ins and outs of his job manufacturing windows. The man before that waxed on about his favorite episodes of Barney Miller, and his predecessor debated the whole time whether his ex-girlfriend was a bitch, a big bitch, or the biggest bitch.
So, over-the-top or not, Harlan is galaxies better. “Fine, fine.” I fake a grudging admission. “I don’t mind chatting with you either.”
A Wild Card Kiss Page 2
