Chloe smiled, but then sobered. “I’m really sorry for getting fired and, well…the circumstances…”
“I’m sorry you got fired too, Chlo, but hey, look on the bright side.”
“There’s a bright side here?”
“Sure. At least now you know you’re not unfuckable.”
Chapter Eight
Michael logged off his computer and rolled his chair away from his desk, all the while trying his best to ignore the dull, persistent ache that had crept into his lower back sometime during the afternoon. He refused to acknowledge it with more than a careful stretch because his back was getting better, dammit. It had to be. If he spent another week navigating nothing more exciting than the stacks of paper on his desk, a herniated disc would be the least of his worries. He’d go bat-shit crazy.
Think about something else. Left to their own devices, his deviant brain cells called up a memory of waking up wrapped around Chloe, one hand fully occupied with her soft, bare breast, the other cupping her warm, wet sex, and his cock snug in the enticing little cleft of her ass. What was she doing right now? Get your ass home and the answer could be you.
The prospect propelled him out of his office and down the hall toward the exit. He meant what he’d said that morning about there being no strings attached to her staying with him until her next assignment came through, but the sparks between them combusted with the least little provocation, and if she decided to play with fire…he’d better stop at the PX on the way home and pick up some condoms…
“Major, are you headed out?”
At the question, Michael turned to see Colonel Harding coming down the corridor toward him. The colonel wore his characteristically severe expression, reinforced by a crew cut the color and sheen of stainless steel and eyes like sharp, blue lasers. The man managed to look spit-shined even in his utility uniform.
“Yes, sir, I was. What can I do for you?”
Harding drew even with him and clapped a hand on his shoulder. “I’ll walk out with you,” he said and fell into step beside him. As they approached the glass doors leading to the parking area, the colonel continued, “I understand congratulations are in order.”
Michael opened the door and held it. “Congratulations?”
“Loretta tells me you got engaged recently.”
Holy shit, Mrs. Waverly worked fast. “Um, yes. Very recently, sir. Mrs. Harding’s information-gathering skills continue to impress.”
The colonel beamed a little at that. “They do. They do indeed. Her entertaining skills impress as well. She’d like to have you and your bride-to-be…ah…Cody?”
“Chloe,” Michael corrected, as they continued out to the parking lot. The late-afternoon sun beat down on the asphalt. His gut started to churn.
“Chloe, right. The missus would like to have you and Chloe over to the house tomorrow night for a little get-together to celebrate your engagement.”
“Sir, that’s very nice of her, but, please, don’t feel you need to go to any trouble—”
“No trouble at all, Major. Something you need to know about women, given you’re about to marry one—they love to entertain. Loretta won’t take no for an answer.”
What a nightmare. “Well, in that case, sir”—he drew in a fortifying breath—“name the time, and we’ll be there.”
The colonel laughed and stopped by his car. “Son, you got a lot to learn, don’t you? I remember those days…vaguely. Go home and check with Chloe to make sure you’re free for a barbecue at your CO’s house tomorrow around six-thirty. Send me a text to let me know.”
“Oh. All right, sir. Will do.”
“Excellent. Don’t worry, Marine. We trained you, and you survived. She’ll train you too. How’s the back?”
“Good. In fact, I plan to ask the doc to sign off on my return to full duty at my appointment next week. Once he does, I’ll get that directly to you, so you can—”
“Let’s take things one step at a time, Major. Get the all-clear from the doctor and then we’ll talk.” Harding clapped him on the shoulder again. “Have a good evening.”
“Yes, sir. You too. Give my best to Mrs. Harding.”
Crap, Michael thought as he watched Harding pull out of the lot. So much for his “I doubt we’ll have to out-and-out lie to anyone” assurance to Chloe. He walked to his car, while his mind raced to find a graceful way out of the invitation. There wasn’t one unless Chloe scored a new assignment before Saturday night. Barring a “breakup,” they’d be sitting in the Harding’s backyard, chowing down on burgers and bullshit while they convinced Mrs. Harding they’d fallen in love at first sight. He got into his Cherokee, and fought an urge to thunk his head on the steering wheel.
During the drive home he considered how to position the invitation to Chloe. She might be a little on the wild side, definitely unconventional, and maybe even a bit evasive, but basically a what-you-see-is-what-you-get kind of girl. She lacked a natural talent for subterfuge. Spending an evening with the Hardings under false pretenses didn’t sit well with him, and it wouldn’t sit well with her either. Still, she’d agreed to his one and only request, so…
But even if she cooperated, could they pull off a convincing couple in love? Lust, sure. No need to put on an act. The chemistry between them was all too real. But love?
He liked women. He admired women. He’d seen more than his fair share of action with the opposite sex, but he’d never been can’t-live-without-you, want-to-spend-the-rest-of-my-life-with-you in love. Could he fake the head-over-heels thing well enough to fool a couple who had recently celebrated their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary? Could Chloe?
…
Chloe dragged a hot pink, oversize duffel bag into Michael’s guest bedroom, parked it beside its twin, and opened the closet. Inside she found a vacuum cleaner and two skeletons—in the form of a pair of pressed dress uniforms. A panicked voice in her head snapped, What the fuck are you doing getting involved with a marine? You have no job, no car, you’re in a town you barely know, and you’re moving in with a guy who’s pledged his soul to Uncle Sam. For a woman who doesn’t want to repeat her parents’ mistakes, you’re doing a hell of an impression.
She shut the closet, sank to the bed, and rested her forehead on her knees. Deep breaths helped bring some weight back into her light head and calm her skittering pulse. She wasn’t “getting involved” with a member of the armed forces. She wasn’t “moving in.” There were precious few rules in her life, but those two were hard and fast. She was just…hanging out for a while.
Yeah right. You like this guy. You’re attracted to him in a way you haven’t experienced since…ever. You’ve already let that attraction override caution and good judgment twice, and now you two are playing house. How long before you’re sharing his bed and forgetting all your hard-and-fast rules?
Okay, fine, the attraction couldn’t be denied, but whatever happened with Michael would be purely physical. She wouldn’t forget her rules because this situation was temporary. Four short weeks. Sooner, with a little luck.
Trouble was, she hadn’t exactly been a luck magnet lately. That had to change. Resolved, she dropped to her knees, unzipped a duffel bag, and dug around until she found what she was looking for. The black, patent-leather heels she’d bought a year ago to wear to her interview with Helping Hands.
There she’d been, fresh from filing for divorce, facing down the death of the white-picket fence fantasy she’d secretly nurtured throughout her bumpy childhood, and Helping Hands had held out the prospect of an immediate escape from the mess she’d made of her life. Travel. Excitement. Carefree assignments where she could do some good and then move on. She’d had more riding on the interview than merely a job. A fresh start and a tangible commitment to make her home within her own heart and find happiness there—to stop needing someone else to make her feel whole.
The shoes may or may not have made a difference, but her interview with Lynne couldn’t have gone better. Within a week, she’d been
winging her way to Sedona to start her first assignment, and she’d never looked back.
She slipped the lucky shoes on. The four-inch heels gave her height and confidence. They made her feel like she was going places without even taking a step. Maybe they looked a little odd with her cutoffs and tank top, but what the hell. She wasn’t walking the red carpet, just trying to rustle up some luck.
A few quick strides brought her back to the living room. Decorative pillows, a throw, and various doodads she’d hauled over from her apartment infused some much-needed color and texture in the otherwise dull, functional room.
The carpet, however, bore the signs of her trips back and forth. She braved the dreaded guest room closet, retrieved the vacuum, and grabbed her MP3 player while she was at it. Soon she was singing about good girls and blurred lines while sucking up the telltale trail of debris running from the guest room, down the hall, through the living room and to the front door.
Very domestic chore. Sure you haven’t turned into your mother, or worse, started building a white-picket fence around Michael’s apartment?
Absolutely not. Now shut up. Determined to drown out the useless, negative thoughts, she cranked the volume up.
…
Michael walked up the stairs to his apartment intensely aware he and Chloe had just over twenty-four hours to become the perfect couple. Step one, sit down and discuss the situation. Devise a strategy over dinner. Yeah, that sounded good. Logical. He stuck his key into his lock, realized it was already unlocked and made a mental note to warn her not to leave the apartment unsecured if she was there alone. He turned the knob and walked in. “Lucy, I’m home.”
Then he blinked. His formerly orderly, somewhat sparse apartment brimmed with enough colorful crap to fill a swap meet. He recognized some of it from his brief but memorable visit to her apartment—the square pillows, the fuzzy throw, an abundance of candles. Where the hell was she planning to put all this stuff?
Chloe stood in the midst of the disarray, with her back to him, pushing a vacuum. Her hair cascaded over her shoulders. She wore mile-high shiny black pumps that made his throat go dry, a thin, white tank top, and the tightest, tiniest Daisy Dukes imaginable. Oblivious to his presence, she shook her booty and sang off-key to a song streaming into ear buds connected to a player clipped to her hip pocket. All thoughts of a calm discussion flew right out of his head. The only thoughts left involved lots of noise, vigorous energy, the creative use of a few of those otherwise pointless pillows…and deserved a triple-X rating. He also realized he’d forgotten to stop and buy condoms.
She turned, and, in the midst of a mesmerizing hip shake and a painfully flat high note he nevertheless recognized as, “Bad Romance,” she noticed him standing there. She froze and then smiled self-consciously. A second later the roar of the vacuum ceased. Into the silence, she shouted, “Hey, roomie.” She ran a hand through her curls and shook them out. “Jeez, is it four thirty already? This day totally flew by.”
The volume of her voice told him she had the Gaga cranked to eleven. Did he have a stupid look on his face? Felt like maybe yes. He pointed to his ear.
She pulled her earphones out and laughed as she brought them together and tucked them under the strap of her tank top. “Sorry. Kind of a loud homecoming, huh?”
“I’ve flown choppers that made less noise,” he admitted.
That pulled another laugh from her as she tugged the vacuum cleaner cord and yanked it from the wall socket. “Are you telling me I sing like a rusty engine?”
The reply on the tip of his tongue dissolved when she bent over and started winding the cord around the vacuum’s holster. The shorts rode up so high they might as well have been a scarf. His heart stuttered to a stop and then kicked in at triple time as his eyes took a slow tour up her ankles, her slender calves, and toned thighs, to the half-moons visible below the wash-frayed edge of her cutoffs. His tongue itched to trace those lush swells.
“Michael?”
“Huh?” He forced his eyes over and found himself trapped in a concerned gray gaze. She’d asked him something, but he couldn’t for the life of him say what.
Her brows furrowed, which he found strangely adorable. “Are you okay? You look a little…intense. Is your back bothering you?”
“You may have to get used to this look on my face.”
Her worried frown deepened, and she slowly straightened and faced him. “Why? What’s wrong?”
“This is how I look when I’m thinking about tossing you onto the sofa, dragging those criminally short shorts down to your ankles, and giving you the tongue lashing of your life.”
Her throat contracted as she swallowed. “Oh.”
He crossed the room, feeling like a panther closing in on prey. “Would you like a drink first?”
“N-no.” She swallowed again. “The dirty talk works for me. I’m good to go.”
“Awesome.” He took the vacuum from her, lifted it, and twisted to stow it out of the way, but ended up dropping the thing when a current of white-hot pain blazed down his back and into his leg.
“God-damn-it!”
“Don’t move!” Her hands were on him in a second—all over him—fluttering from his neck, to his shoulders, to his waist. “Let the pain ease off. You taxed your back lugging me around last night, and now when you twisted, you drove your swollen disc into your nerve. It hurts like crazy, I know, but I promise it’s not new damage. Just stand straight, and the sensation will subside in a few minutes.”
He stood there, sweaty, shaking, and pissed as hell at the time bomb in his back that could turn his own body against him at the most inopportune times. “This fucking sucks.”
“I know,” she said in a low, soothing voice. A gentle hand patted his chest, and then slid up and around to the back of his neck. She kneaded the tendons there until he closed his eyes and let his head fall forward. “You’re used to being able to rely on your body. You’ll be able to again, but, for now, you have to take things easy and give yourself time to heal. Come on.” She tugged his hand and pulled him toward his bedroom. “Let me help.”
From pretty much the moment he’d walked in the door and seen her in dancing around in those high heels and shorts, he’d planned on getting her into his bedroom, but a therapeutic massage had been the last thing on his agenda. Now, here she was, leading him into his room like a nursemaid. The whole sad scene made his earlier aspirations seem like a sick joke. “I don’t need any help,” he ground out, well aware he sounded like a cranky five-year-old. He caught a glimpse inside the guest room as they passed, and nearly stumbled at the sight of two, oversize, hot-pink duffle bags parked on the floor, overflowing with clothes and shoes. “You know, for a free bird, you don’t travel all that light.”
She gave him the owl eyes. “Too much stuff everywhere?”
Okay, maybe the pain made him more blunt than normal, but he was starting to feel claustrophobic in his own home. “More than I expected. Ten years rotating between stateside posts and overseas deployments got me used to keeping things pared down to the essentials. All this”—he gestured to the apartment in general—“is a little overwhelming.”
“No problem.” She preceded him into his bedroom. “I’ll edit the decor down a bit after I get your back squared away.”
“Thanks.”
“You’re welcome. Take off your shirt, remove your belt, and lie facedown on the floor, right here.” She pointed to the empty area right beside his bed.
Her words taunted him with their completely unintended erotic undertones, and the frustration of the situation got the better of him. “I’d rather have you face down on the floor, naked, telling me exactly how hard and fast you’d like me to fuck you. Barring that, I’d just as soon be alone with my messed-up back and two fingers of Johnny Walker.”
She crossed her arms over her chest, which pushed her breasts up to tantalizing new heights above the neckline of her tank top. “If you follow instructions like a good boy and let me get you to the p
oint you could actually follow through on the offer, I’m more than happy to discuss how hard and fast I like to be fucked.”
Okay, huge incentive to stop acting like a complete asshole. He walked over to her and carefully unfolded her arms. Then he took her hand, threaded his fingers through hers, and squeezed gently. She squeezed back. “I’m sorry. I can be a good boy.”
“I’ll bet you can.”
She obviously intended to rub her very talented hands all over him. No reason to fight that. But he could fight for maximum comfort. “Sure you wouldn’t rather do this on my bed?”
“Not this. I need you on a solid surface if I’m going to try to work some magic between your L5 and S1. Afterward,” she raised a shoulder and let it drop, “who knows where we’ll end up?” She took a step back and wiggled her fingers. He released her hand. “Go ahead and get into position. I’m going to grab some massage oil from my room. Be right back.”
She swept by him and he moved aside to let her go. He expelled a slow breath and then stared at the spot where she’d told him to lie down. Getting down there was going to be a challenge. He unbuttoned his shirt with less-than-steady hands, shrugged it off, and tossed it on the bed. The white undershirt quickly followed. Then he sat on the bed, lifted each foot, unlaced and removed his boots without moving his lower back. The belt came off next. And then—thank Christ he was still alone—he lowered himself to his knees like an out-of-practice Catholic. From there he went onto all fours and slowly slid his legs backward into a push-up position. He released his elbows and lowered his chest until it rested on the rough-weave carpet. The pressure on the nerve abated a little and the pain lancing down his leg subsided from heinous to merely unbearable.
“Do you prefer sandalwood or eucalyptus?” Chloe’s voice invaded his thoughts at the same time two powerful scents invaded his nostrils.
“Your choice,” he managed, turning his face to the side to watch as she stepped out of her heels and knelt down beside him.
“I choose eucalyptus, in that case.” She recapped one bottle and put it down on the nightstand, then shook the other bottle. “The essential oil acts as an anti-inflammatory, plus it’s recognized as a treatment for muscle aches and pains. Relax,” she said softly and positioned his neck the way she wanted it. He heard a click when she flicked the bottle open and dribbled oil into her palm.
Falling for the Marine (A McCade Brothers Novel) (Entangled Brazen) Page 8
