by Anna Cruise
ALL SHE WANTS
ANNA CRUISE
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
ALL SHE WANTS
All rights reserved.
Copyright ©2013
Mission Bay Publishing
cover design by Mae I Design Photography
This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any reproduction or unauthorized use of the material or artwork herein is prohibited without the expressed written consent of the author.
Author Note
When I first wrote IT WAS YOU, I knew Abby's sister, Annika, was special. She was an over-the-top antihero but, despite all of her faults, I liked her. She intrigued me because I knew there had to be more to her than what she put out there for the world to see.
Readers thought so, too – and several really wanted to hear her story.
Guess what? I wanted to hear it, too.
So thank you for asking. For prodding. Because I listened, to you and to Annika.
This is her story.
And yep, she's still a bitch. But I think you'll find some redeeming qualities in her in ALL SHE WANTS.
I know I did. :)
ONE
“I'm not babysitting. No way, no how.”
Sheridan, one of my sorority sisters, raised a perfectly plucked eyebrow at my announcement. Actually, they weren't perfect at all. She'd thinned them a little too much, giving her the appearance of being perpetually surprised. No, that wasn't it either. I squinted at her. She looked more like a porn star with a dick in her mouth. Minus the dick, of course. Sheridan batted for the other team, which was why she tolerated me. I might not give a shit about hooking up with any guy that crossed my path, taken or not, but I definitely wouldn't steal her partners.
“It's not babysitting,” she said to me. “It's...supervising.”
I made a face. “Bullshit. It's babysitting.”
“No, Annika ” she said. She rummaged through the basket of laundry on her bed. She found the shirt she was looking for and, in one quick motion, stripped out of the t-shirt she was wearing and slipped on the black camisole. “Babysitting would involve a baby. Like your sister's kid. Not a middle-aged humanitarian visiting from the depths of oblivion.”
“Deprived oblivion,” I muttered. I stared at my sorority sister. “Tell me again why this is my responsibility.”
“Because,” Sheridan said. She ran a hand through her long blond hair, then frowned. One of her acrylics had snagged and she studied her nails critically.
“Because why? Why am I the Chosen One?”
She rubbed her thumb along the ridge of her pointer finger. “You're the global studies major. And the sorority volunteered to help at the luncheon. You know, the whole 'do good' vibe we're supposed to emulate?”
I sighed. She wasn't telling me anything I didn't know. I just didn't want to do it. Not when it was summer and classes weren't in session. Not when I could hang out at the beaches and bars instead of at school. I took summer vacation very, very seriously. And this little project was definitely poised to cramp my style. Big time.
“So?” I picked up the diet Coke I was drinking, then reached for the bottle of red nail polish next to me. “Ellis should do it. She's president.”
“Ellis is in Cancun.”
Shit. I'd forgotten.
“Jamie, then.”
“Jamie's getting married this weekend,” she reminded me. “Which is why I can't do it, either. Because I would. For you. Even though you so don't deserve it.”
I nodded, trying not to frown. I'd conveniently forgotten about the wedding I hadn't been invited to. Jamie and I had never been close but me sleeping with her boyfriend—before he was her fiance—had not gone over well with her. After trying unsuccessfully to get me kicked out of the sorority, we'd settled into an uneasy coexistence. I avoided her and she did her best to not kill me.
I made a mental list of my other sorority sisters as I coated my toenails with polish. Brooke—she was passably pretty but her brain was smaller than her cup size. And that wasn't big, either. She'd make a horrible rep. Peyton—her beak nose and unibrow sent everyone but the Delta Sigma Phi guys running. I still wasn't sure how she'd gotten a bid. Jules—she was smart and pretty, in a mousy kind of way.
“Jules?” I asked hopefully.
Sheridan had her ragged nail in her mouth and was biting it. A couple inches wider and it could definitely be a dick. “No,” she said, her voice muffled. She pulled out her finger. “She just had her wisdom teeth out. She's not even coming to the wedding.”
I closed my eyes and pulled up a mental image of the soon-to-be-visiting humanitarian Stuart Woodcock. What the hell kind of name was that? I sighed. I'd seen exactly two pictures of him and each looked like a passable version of a Sasquatch. Big and beefy, his face barely visible under a Duck Dynasty-esque beard. Outfitted like he was on a never-ending safari, complete with pith hat on his head and cameras looped around his neck, dozens of malnourished kids on his heels like eager puppies. Hungry puppies.
“Stuart.” I grimaced as I said his name. “Who did he piss off?”
“What?”
“To be saddled with that kind of name.”
“Uh, he was probably a minute old when he was named,” Sheridan said dryly. “Pretty sure he didn't piss anyone off the second he was born.”
“Maybe he's royalty, then. Some inbred earl or duke. He probably has massive ears underneath all that hair of his.”
“Judge much?”
“Every chance I get.” I smiled. “He looks like a Sasquatch.”
“Sasquatch? I think the proper term is yeti.” She frowned. “And no, he doesn't. He just has...a lot of hair.”
“Yeti? Isn't that the green dude from that Star Wars movie?”
“Oh my God. No. That was Yoda.” Sheridan sighed. “Anyway. Sasquatch. Yeti. Abominable Snowman. They're all basically the same thing.”
“Right. Sasquatch, yeti. They're all Stuart Woodsuck. I mean, Woodcock.”
She stared at me, trying to think of something to say. “Well, just think of the brownie points you'd earn.”
“I don't need brownie points.” I finished my left foot and set the brush back in the bottle.
She rubbed at her mouth, trying to fix her smeared lipstick. “Annika.”
I swallowed a mouthful of soda and blew on my toes. “What?”
“You're a train wreck. You know that.”
“If I'm a train wreck, then why are you guys sending me to take care of this freak? I'd think I would be your last choice.”
Sheridan smiled. She'd gotten a fresh foil and, with her tan and fake boobs, she looked like Barbie come to life. If Barbie had been a lesbian. “It's like Obi Wan. You're our only hope.”
“Obi Wan? What's that? Some Eastern religion philosophy?”
“Oh my God.” She rolled her eyes. “No. It's from Star Wars, you idiot.”
“How was I supposed to know that?”
“You just brought up Yoda. I sorta thought that meant you watched the movie.”
“Oh.” It was my turn to smile. “Sure, I watched it. Sort of.” Trevor Malone had it tuned in one night, a late night showing on one of the movie channels. I'd had my back to the television most of the night. With Trevor thrusting into me.
“So how do you not remember Obi Wan? He was one of the main characters.”
I shrugged. “Kinda hard to keep the story straight when a guy's tongue is between your legs.” He'd done that, too.
Sheridan wrinkled her nose. “Jesus, Annika. TMI.”
“Oh, don't tell
me Kelly doesn't do that to you.”
She glared at me. “None of your business,” she growled.
“It's coming back to me,” I said, closing my eyes. “Not you with Kelly. I swear I don't watch. Much.”
Sheridan made a noise that sounded like a growl.
I looked at her and grinned. “Luke—he was the goody goody. The princess chick—she had weird hair. And Han Solo. He was hot. Before he got all old and stuff.”
“Anyway,” Sheridan said, dragging out the word. She twisted her hair into a ponytail. “Back to you and Stuart Woodcock. Our choices are limited, especially with Ellis out of town and Jamie's wedding. And, regardless of how you behave outside of the classroom, you're actually a decent student...and representative for the sorority.”
“Thank you, Madame Secretary.” I couldn't hide my sarcasm.
“Look, it's two days. And not even full ones.” She pulled her phone out of her purse and swiped at the screen. “He flies in tomorrow night. You need to meet him at the airport and take him to his hotel. Then pick him up the next morning for the banquet thing. It includes a brunch so you'll be there for a couple of hours. Take him back to the airport when he's ready and you're done.”
I didn't say anything, just stared at her.
“Brownie points,” she said in a sing-song voice.
“Sasquatch,” I sang back, narrowing my eyes.
Sheridan grabbed her purse and stood. “We're not asking you to fuck him, Annika. But we are asking you to not fuck it up. Got it?”
I brought the can of soda back to my lips and held it there. I did not want to fuck the Sasquatch-yeti. But I didn't want to supervise him, either. I didn't want to do anything, really, except focus on my summer.
Brownie points. I'd said I didn't need them but I knew Ellis was still pissed off at me. But it wasn't my fault that Josh from Sig Ep had wanted to party in my bed instead of hers after the end-of-year blow out at the house.
“Got it?” Sheridan repeated.
I took a deep breath and slowly expelled it. “No fucking. Him or up. Got it.”
TWO
I had yet to see a yeti come into baggage claim.
I sighed and recrossed my legs for the ninth time, thumbing through my phone. Stuart Woodcock's plane was thirty minutes late and since I was already irritated that I had to entertain him, I was doubly irritated that I was having to wait for his late yeti plane. I couldn't believe I'd turned down a night in Mission Beach with Jake Abernathy (rich, good looking and semi-intelligent) in order to wait for some earthy do-gooder at the airport. I might as well have been grocery shopping.
The plastic seat I was sitting in felt like a torture device and I stood up, trying to stretch the kinks out of my back. I wondered how fast I could get Mr. Humanitarian from the airport to his hotel. And I wondered if I might be able to catch Jake before he settled for someone far less interesting than me for the night.
I glanced at the arrival screen mounted on the wall. The flight from JFK had landed ten minutes ago. How the hell long did it take to deplane? He probably wasn't even in first class—knowing him, he probably booked the cheapest fare so he would have more money to spend on his save-the-humans campaign. Or maybe airline personnel had mistaken him for an animal and crated him and hauled him off to the cargo hold.
The sliding doors to the secured area slid open and travelers surged into baggage claim. San Diego's airport wasn't huge. It didn't have a ton of planes landing at the same time so I was pretty sure these were passengers from his flight. I dutifully lifted the sign I'd printed and held it in front of me, staring at the sea of faces. Pasty-faced families, ready for a beach vacation. Business travelers in wrinkled suits, clutching briefcases, flying back into town after day-long meetings up the coast.
Still no yetis.
I shifted the sign with his name on it to one hand and reopened my phone, scanning the text from Jake. He'd be at Guava Beach, holed up in the bar until at least midnight. It was just shy of nine o'clock. I could totally make it. I'd have to run home and change but I could do it. It wasn't like I'd be keeping my clothes on for long, anyway.
“Miss Sellers?”
I looked up. A guy stood in front of me, a grin on his smooth, tanned face. Not just a guy. A holy-shit-is-this-guy-real guy.
I thought frantically for a minute. Was this someone I'd randomly hooked up with once upon a time? And, if so, how the hell could I not remember?
I pasted a smile on my face and gazed into eyes that looked like melted chocolate. “Annika,” I corrected.
The Abercrombie model extended his hand and offered a smile of his own. “Nice to meet you.”
Meet me? I stood on my tiptoes and tried to look over his massive shoulder. Maybe this was Stuart's assistant or something. Maybe we had to go to the airline office and pick up the crate with Stuart holed up inside. But the man in front of me was too tall, too muscular, for me to see anything except the way the heather gray t-shirt he wore clung to his sculpted chest.
“And you are...?” I asked.
His smile deepened and I felt a fresh surge of lust bubble up inside of me. “Stuart. Stuart Woodcock.”
I froze. “Stuart Wood-woodcock?”
“Just one 'wood'.”
I took a step back and stared at him, trying to decide if I was delusional or if someone was playing a trick on me. Maybe it was like those mirages people saw in the desert when they were thirsty or hot, imagining things that weren't there. But I'd drank a bottled water on the way over and the marine layer had socked us in for the night, providing a damp, cool breeze even within the walls of the airport.
I blinked, thinking he might disappear when I reopened my eyes, but he was still there, smiling at me. I might not know who I was looking at or what was going on but one thing was perfectly clear. This was definitely not the Neanderthal I'd seen in the photos.
“But...” I sputtered, my eyes roving the length of him. “But...where's your hair?”
He laughed and I swear his eyes sparkled. “Clogging the drain at the Hilton in Queens, most likely.”
I continued to stare at him. His jaw and cheeks were smooth, not even a hint of stubble. His short brown hair was brushed up and off his forehead and I couldn't tell if he'd been blessed with hair that behaved or if he'd used an entire bottle of styling product to get it to lay so perfectly. Or maybe it was wig and his real hair was tucked underneath.
“There are these things called razors,” he said lightly, rubbing his jaw. “A First World convenience. Scissors, too.”
I blinked again, trying to clear my head. What the hell was I doing? So Stuart Woodcock cleaned up nice. Better than nice, actually. All it meant was I wouldn't be escorting a yeti around town. Score one for me.
“Sorry,” I said, giving him another smile. I slipped my phone back into the pocket of my black slacks. Sheridan had warned me to dress the part so I'd dug out my most modest outfit, black pants and a silky purple blouse that did not have a plunging, show-off-my-fantastic-tits neckline. “It's just...you weren't what I was expecting.”
He re-gripped the duffel bag he was holding and adjusted the small backpack strapped to his back. He cocked his head and a slow smile lit his face. “Is that a good thing?”
I looked him over one more time. Tall and muscular, gorgeous hair and gorgeous eyes, a smile that had instantly lit every sexual nerve in my body. Yeah, it was definitely a good thing.
“Neither good nor bad,” I said. “Just unexpected.”
“Unexpected can be good.”
“Absolutely,” I agreed.
Stuart Woodcock was definitely unexpected. I fished inside my purse for my keys and pulled them out. “Your taxi awaits, Mr. Woodcock.”
I would definitely give him a ride to his hotel.
And, despite Sheridan's warning, I might be looking for a different kind of ride from him before I shuttled him back to the airport.
THREE
“How far is the hotel?” Stuart asked, settling into the pas
senger seat of my silver BMW. It was couple of years old, a cast-off from my dad, but I didn't care. He'd taken excellent care of it and I looked good in it.
“About ten minutes,” I said.
He nodded. “Okay. I'm beat.”
I pulled out of the airport parking lot and pointed the car north, toward Mission Bay. For whatever reason, the university had put him up at the Hilton by the bay, not near San Diego State. Not like the campus was surrounded by luxury hotels but I didn't peg Stuart Woodcock as someone who would want to be pampered at a four-star resort. There were plenty of low-brow hotel chains near the campus, the kinds with moderately comfortable beds and make-your-own-waffles for breakfast. Sneaking a sideways a glance at him, I realized I couldn't peg him at all. Not when he cleaned up the way he had.
“Is this your first visit to San Diego?” I asked. I wasn't one for small talk but I had to admit, I was curious about him.
“Yes.” He glanced at me. “Can you believe it? I grew up near San Francisco, traveled all over the world. And this is my first time here.”
I winked at him. “A virgin, then.”
He raised his eyebrows but said nothing.
“Yeah,” I said. “It's a great city.”
It really was. I'd lived in San Diego all of my life and had no intention of ever leaving. I didn't buy the crap my sorority sisters from out of state were always spouting. It's nice and all, they'd say, but we miss the seasons. Yeah. Fuck seasons. The only season I wanted was summer and the less clothes I had to wear, the better. The last place I wanted to be was holed up in some godforsaken town in the middle of a snowstorm or swatting at mosquitos while the humidity frizzed out my hair.
“Have you lived here long?” he asked.
I pulled into the turn lane and sailed through the light at Harbor and Pacific, hooking a sharp left. “My whole life.”
