“Sounds really cool,” Olivia said.
“It was no Elvis wedding chapel,” Rebecca teased.
Olivia snorted. “Hey, how many brides can say they were married by the King of Rock and Roll?”
“In Vegas? Probably quite a few.”
“Yes, but how many can say they also had Angus Young as the best man?”
She had her there. “Not many,” Rebecca agreed, wishing for about the hundredth time that she’d witnessed Cole and Olivia’s Vegas wedding. But that would have required them to tell her—or anyone else, for that matter—about their impulsive decision to marry, something no one could have predicted seeing as how they’d hated each other’s guts before, during, and after the wedding. At least that’s what they’d told themselves.
For three months, Olivia had made it her life’s work to lobby—or harass, depending on which one of them you asked—Cole into moving his latest venture to a site that wouldn’t threaten an endangered bat. Then an alcohol-fueled night in Vegas led to a night of passion, which led to a hungover marriage of convenience, and the rest, as they say, was history. And while Rebecca would have given just about anything to see that sitcom of a ceremony, especially when she heard about the personal touch the King had put on their vows, she would be forever grateful that she was present when her half-brother and his bride renewed their vows on her family’s farm a few months later. No matter how many weddings she witnessed, a couple pledging their love was a sight that would never get old. Add to that the fact that the groom was the man who’d seen her through the worst two years of her life and forget it, she was a blubbering mess.
“Is that Rebecca?” Cole’s deep voice echoed in the background of the call. A few more words were spoken that Rebecca couldn’t quite make out, but Olivia’s reply helped her fill in the blanks.
“I do not hog your sister,” she said. The smile in her voice was hard to miss. “She just likes me more than you.”
Cole’s muffled voice replied.
“You’re a bossy bastard,” Olivia said with a laugh. “Do you know that?”
Of course he knew that. And Olivia knew it too. And yet she loved him anyway. Simply put, Cole and his bride were proof positive that every pot had a lid.
“Your brother would like you to meet him for lunch tomorrow.”
She bit back a smile. “Tell my brother I will have to check my schedule.”
“Don’t tease him. You know he doesn’t have a sense of humor.”
“True.” Rebecca laughed. Although the irony wasn’t lost on her that this was coming from the woman who seemed to live to tease the man she loved. “Fine, tell him I’ll meet him for lunch, but not at one of those stuffy, wood-paneled clubs he likes.”
Cole and Rebecca had been raised by different mothers, but more than that, in different worlds. Private clubs with steep membership dues and snooty clientele were about as appealing to her as an afternoon at the dentist. And she hated the dentist.
“Tell him he can pick the time, but I’m picking the place.”
“Oh no, you’re not putting me in the middle,” Olivia said. “I’m stepping out of this negotiation. Here, putting you on speaker.” A moment later, Cole’s voice came across the line, and this time, it was loud and clear.
“I’m not eating in the park again. Nearly ruined my favorite Tom Ford last time.”
“Fine, a place with tables. But no tablecloths.” That would rein him in a bit. The fact that Rebecca hadn’t been raised with the same silver spoon Cole had was something he seemed to be forever attempting to correct. But she was just fine with her life the way it was. And while it might have been nice if her late mother hadn’t had to worry about making rent, Rebecca’d had a far happier childhood than her half-brother had had growing up in a mansion full of servants.
“My office. Noon. I’ll handle the rest.”
“Your wife is right. You are a bossy bastard.” Although to be fair, no matter how Olivia described her husband, the word “bastard” always seemed to follow. Depending on the day, Cole was anything from a “gorgeous bastard” who could melt his wife with a smoldering glance, to a “depraved bastard” who would destroy the earth if it weren’t for her near-constant intervention.
Cole chuckled. “Part of my charm.” With that, he was gone. Rebecca smiled and shook her head as she tucked her phone back into the pocket of her jacket. She was tugging the zipper closed as she rounded the corner of the monument and slammed right into a solid wall of human.
The collision sent her stumbling backward with such force, she fell flat on her ass. Although not before flailing and flapping her arms in what must have looked like an attempt to fly away. If only she could have been so lucky. But no. Instead, she ended up sprawled across the concrete with her elbows scraped and her ego bruised. Of course, that was when she thought she’d run head on into a normal human. Once she had a chance to get a better look, she realized there was nothing normal about the man in front of her, which somehow made her state of disgrace all the more humiliating.
Her eyes traveled up his body, from the sculpted calves and the thighs that appeared to be carved from stone, to the black running shorts that did little to hide a hard-to-miss eye-level bulge, to the planes of his broad chest, clearly defined beneath his damp T-shirt. And the arms? Holy cow, forget a gun show. His biceps were a full-on armory. But all of that paled in comparison to his face.
With light brown hair, mischievous green eyes, and features that were almost too pretty to be real, the man in front of her easily could have been a movie star. Hell, maybe he was for all she knew.
His lips moved, but she couldn’t hear a word he said. A moment later he bent down, his elbows resting on his solid thighs. And then he leaned forward, close enough for her to smell the clean scent of light sweat mixed with spicy soap. And then his gaze dropped to her mouth, and his eyes seemed to grow a darker shade of green. And then his hands reached up as though about to frame her face. And then…
And then he plucked the earbuds from her ears.
Well duh, what had she been expecting, a kiss? That sort of stuff only happened in books.
“Are you okay?” he asked. This time she could hear him, but she still didn’t answer. She couldn’t. And it had nothing to do with her fall. It wasn’t her tumble that had taken her breath, not to mention her capacity for speech, away. It was him.
“Miss?”
“Huh?” Even to her own ears, she sounded dazed and confused. She shook her head to clear it.
“You okay?” he repeated. His voice was deep and rough and had the slightest rasp of a Southern drawl. It made her think of honey and lounging in a field in the warm afternoon sun. On a blanket. Naked. With the honey.
Whoa. Where did that come from?
“Um, yeah… I’m fine.” Her words croaked from her suddenly dry throat. But then again, maybe she wasn’t fine. Maybe she’d hit her head when she fell. How else could she explain the outlandish thoughts of naked, honey-covered sunbathing that were currently flooding her brain? Rebecca reached up but felt no lump or blood in her short dark hair. So that’s how it was, eh? Losing her mind at twenty-six.
“Let me help.” He held out his hand, and when she took it, Rebecca could have sworn a tingle passed between them to rival the one Bella felt with Edward. She narrowed her eyes to check for sparkling skin, then silently wondered if it was possible to have a head injury without actually hitting your head. Whiplash concussion, perhaps? Something, anything, to explain her current state.
The wall of muscle hauled her to her feet. He was taller than she was—something that wasn’t too difficult given her size—but this guy was tall. Like six-foot-four kinda tall with a confidence that was hard to miss. Even in casual workout clothes, the man in front of her had a commanding presence. Clearly, he was used to being the center of attention, and if the smug grin that played on his lips was any indication, he enjoyed it.
And there she was, sweaty and covered with sidewalk dirt and staring at him l
ike she’d never seen such a handsome man before. At least not up close.
“Sorry about that,” she said, hating how awkward she felt, especially in comparison to his self-possessed demeanor.
“Don’t be.” His grin stretched into a full-blown smile, unleashing a dimple that made him look too adorable for words. “I rather enjoyed it.”
She quirked one brow. He enjoyed seeing her fall on her ass?
The thought had no sooner crossed her mind when it seemed to occur to him as well. “Um, I mean, bumping into you,” he said. “Not that you fell.” Uncertainty flashed across his face for the briefest of seconds before his composure returned.
She tipped her chin up. “So, figuratively instead of literally?”
He unleashed the dimple again, and her knees did a little wobble. Surely, it was from the adrenaline crash? While there was little doubt that dimple of his had the power to make grown women drop their panties, it was highly unlikely he was actually making her weak in the knees. That was just an expression, wasn’t it?
“Both,” he said, looking quite pleased with himself. “I literally enjoyed bumping into your figure.”
Good God almighty. He might have looked like a deity, but his lines were mere mortal. Maybe that was the curse of being so good-looking. He never had to try, so he didn’t know how? Either way, the moment was broken. That, or the blood was merely returning to her brain.
“Well, I better get back to it,” she said, popping her earbuds in as she backed away. His face registered a hint of surprise, and then his lips moved with words she couldn’t make out over the blast of music that now filled her ears. It was just as well, she thought as she turned onto the path. The wall of muscle might have been dreamy, but he was also rather full of himself. The hot ones usually were. Still, it would have been fun while it lasted, and there was little doubt that Mr. Sexy-And-I-Know-It could have taught a girl like her more than a few new tricks. If only she could have him, no strings attached, for a night. Or two. The mere thought put a smile on her face that lasted far longer than the walk home.
Acknowledgments
Being able to do something you love is a gift. Being able to do it with amazing people who you not only admire and respect, but actually like? Now that is when you are truly blessed.
Pamela Harty, you are my agent extraordinaire, but you are also my friend. And while I value your career advice above all others, I value your friendship even more. Thank you for the time you’ve given me, both professional and personal. I owe you more than you will ever know.
To my editor at St. Martin’s Press, Lizzie Poteet, I will forever be grateful for a random Starbucks conversation about Nashville, all-girls schools, and 80s heartthrobs. I still can’t believe I let you hear me sing, or that after that your follow-up email addressed me as Ms. Walker, but what I do know is that three years later, here we are. You loved this series from when it was only a glimmer on my iPhone and you championed it all the way to print and now look . . . Pinocchio is a real boy! For that I owe you at least another round of Wheel of Fortune, not to mention my sincere thanks.A platter of warm cookies for the amazing PR team at St. Martin’s: Brant Janeway you made me feel like part of the family from the minute I stepped into that dinner at the Venetian and I hadn’t even finished the book yet. Marissa Sangiacomo and Titi Oluwo, you gals have done so much to help launch this series and your support and creativity is greatly appreciated.
To the authors who inspire me: Sylvia Day, you set the bar lady. I hope I can stand on my tip toes and touch the edge someday. Jennifer Probst, you had me from hello, and by that, I mean the first fruity cocktail post. You are a talented author and a generous soul, and I thank you for saying yes when I came knocking. Julie Ann Walker, we are horrible at keeping monthly lunch dates, but when we manage, I could stay there for hours. Oh wait, I do:) Cecy Robson, how do I love thee? Let me count the ways . . . in a writing sprint. And to Joelle Charbonneau, you continue to be my spiritual guide and voice of reason. To Amy Rogers, Jodi Ellen Malpas, Lauren Billings, Tara Sue Me, Andrew Shaffer and Tiffany Reisz, you guys have been my friends, my sounding boards and my sanity check. (Well, in Andrew’s case, insanity check) As for Sarah Blair, Melissa Marino and Rachel Goodman? I need to write you girls a ten-page letter served with a side of whiskey.
To Lisa Filipe at Tasty Tours and all the bloggers who have been so kind as to read and review, I owe each and every one of you a champagne toast. To Natasha Tomic, I’m so glad we had our night with Elton. Who knew growing a year older could be so much fun? But more than that, you were the voice of encouragement when I was filled with doubt and for that I truly thank you. And a special shout out to Conor Lynn for letting me steal his uniquely spelled name (where is the other n?) not to mention a few one-liners.
And finally, to the amazing readers who stuck with me and to the ones who are just joining the party, thank you from the bottom of my heart. All of this is just words until a reader laughs or cries or gets swept away. Your kind reviews and tweets and Facebook messages are what keep me going, one page at a time.
About the Author
Ann Marie Walker writes steamy books about sexy boys. She’s a fan of fancy cocktails, anything chocolate, and 80s rom-coms. Her super power is connecting any situation to an episode of Friends and she thinks all coffee cups should be the size of a bowl. You can find her at AnnMarieWalker.com where she would be happy to talk to you about alpha males, lemon drop martinis or supermodel David Gandy. Ann Marie attended the University of Notre Dame and currently lives in Chicago.
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