by Kate Angell
“Hot for the moment.”
“I glimpsed the two of you in the passenger side – view mirror at Unleashed. He was pressed up against you, dry-humping.”
“He always leaves an imprint.” A male brand.
“I’d flirt with the man myself if not for Dean.”
“I’m keeping my distance, because of my cousin.”
“Dean’s request that you stay away from Joe isn’t fair. I’ve told him so. Let the two men battle it out at the stadium, and leave the women out of it.”
Stevie was thoughtful. “Family loyalty. I’d never break my word to Dean.”
Lori pursed her lips. “There’s loyalty, and then there’s loss,” she pointed out. “Don’t miss out on Joe. He’s bed-worthy. A once in a lifetime.”
“Not sure I could handle him.”
“Let him do the handling. I’m sure he’s quite good.” She stopped at a red light, glanced at Stevie. “The guys need to think about us and not their rivalry. When they next have free time, let’s distract them. Win-win.”
A win with Joe would be short-lived. She would be just one of many women, standing in line for his attention. His party posse took priority with him. “Are you seeing Dean tonight?” she asked her friend.
“We made a date when he picked up Etta. Dairy Godmother. Ice cream cones to keep us cool. Our sunburns will be gone by Friday night. That’ll be our night.” She grinned. “I’ve cleared time off with Twyla. She’s fine with it. Rebels have Saturday free, same as the Rogues. I may not make your wedding, married lady.”
Stevie rolled her eyes. “It’s not a real ceremony. Merely a magazine shoot.”
“Have you tried on the dresses?”
“I’d planned to do that tonight.”
“The off-the-shoulder gown has my vote. Classic and romantic.”
“It’s my favorite, too—if it fits.”
“Fits?” Lori laughed. The traffic light turned green, and she moved forward. “You are put together, girl. Flawless. Designers would kill to have you model their gowns.”
Stevie took the compliment in stride. She’d never thought of her body as perfect. Far from it. Her cousin Dean had called her “skinny” most of her life.
Lori soon pulled into a crushed pale-pink seashell driveway fringed by red hibiscus bushes. The owner of the springer spaniel hurried out, happy to receive her dog.
The next destination was close by. Still, Lori programmed the address into the GPS, for fun. “I love this van,” she gushed. “Joe saved the day.”
Stevie didn’t see him as a knight in shining armor. More of a hardened mercenary. Rough and raw. A law unto himself despite his generosity.
Stevie got out of the van at Violet the basset’s home. She slid open the side panel, unfolded a pet loader ramp, and hooked it to the door track. Violet of the floppy ears and short legs walked the ramp with ease. As if she’d been born to walk the runway. Her owner greeted them with high praise for the new Sprinter.
The twin Scotties remained. Their owners weren’t home when Lori parked by the curb. There was no huffing and puffing with the new van. They’d arrived ten minutes ahead of schedule. The friends chatted.
Lori confided, “Dean’s reserved a suite at Sandcastle for the weekend. No interruptions from his teammates. Room service, a balcony, Gulf view. And”—she stretched the word—“a raised king-size platform bed. The bathroom has a waterfall shower. Built-in water jets cover the ceiling. Like an outdoor paradise.”
Sandcastle, a five-star hotel on Saunders Shores. World-class service. A honeymoon couple had boarded their Chinese crested several weeks ago. The purebred hairless came with a diamond collar and gourmet canine chef. The newlyweds requested transport for their dog to the hotel. Stevie had waited for them, just inside the main doors. Enormous chandelier. Terra-cotta tiles and Peruvian rugs. Original artwork. Wealth and luxury.
“Etta will be boarding,” Stevie assumed.
Lori nodded. “Both Friday and Saturday. Dean cleared it with Twyla.”
Etta’s sleepover would make Turbo happy.
Long pause from Lori. Her lips pinched. “There’s something you might want to know, or might not . . .” she began hesitantly. “Locker room talk from Dean. There’s a Rogues all-night party at Rock Creek Cove on Friday. It’s for the single players. Bonfire. Booze. Naked water polo.”
Single players would include Joe. His posse. Baring it all.
Stevie’s chest squeezed. She had difficulty breathing. Joe’s actions shouldn’t surprise her. Not one bit. She had no reason to feel hurt. To feel left out. But she did. Disappointed, too. He was done chasing her. She wondered if he’d leave her at the altar on Saturday. Depressing thought. The photo shoot meant a lot to her. She needed a backup plan.
“Thanks for letting me know,” she managed.
“I’ll be back at Unleashed Sunday morning, before the exhibition game. Want to go together? We can cheer on Dean,” Lori said.
“I want,” Stevie agreed. Her heart was not in the game.
The Scotties’ owners honked behind them. Punctual. The husband unloaded the dogs. “Much safer,” he said, admiring the van. “No exhaust trail when you leave.”
Lori next drove Stevie to pick up her red Mazda Miata. With the new alternator, it ran like a charm. Stevie was glad to have her own transportation again. She no longer had to depend on Lori for a ride. She followed her friend back to Unleashed. No cruising the main beach drag.
Lori headed upstairs the moment she entered the house to change clothes for her date with Dean. Turbo wandered toward her, looking for Joe. “Want to play in the backyard?” she offered. “I have a few free minutes.”
The rottie shot down the hallway. Stevie followed more slowly. It was early evening, and the air had cooled. The yard was clear of other dogs. Geriatric Anastasia was sleeping. Turbo had the agility equipment to himself. He climbed the piles of dirt and howled. He ran and ran, as if being chased. He brought Stevie a tennis ball. They played catch until her arm grew tired. Turbo dove into the crawl tunnel and never came out. Time to call it quits, she decided. She called to him, with no response. She could see his outline in the spy holes. Her calling “Treat!” didn’t draw him out, either.
Difficult dog. “Don’t make me come after you,” she said, issuing a warning. What could she do but push him through the tunnel? With a long-suffering sigh, she crossed the yard. Hands on her hips, she challenged, “Out, now.” No movement whatsoever.
She bent down, angled her shoulders into the tunnel. Leaned on her forearms. Glared at the Rottweiler. “Your ass is grass, buddy,” she mumbled as she wiggled deeper inside.
Eight
Turbo’s ass was grass? Joe arrived just in time to overhear Stevie’s irritation. He stood at the back door, looking out. Watching her wiggle her butt as she inched into the crawl tunnel. He barked his laughter. Unable to resist, he pulled his iPhone from his pants pocket and took her picture. A sweet-cheek memory.
He stepped outside, walked across the yard to her continued mumbling. He could see the stub of Turbo’s tail wagging through the spy holes. His boy was playing with her, but Stevie didn’t find it amusing.
Joe snuck up behind her, braced his legs, and leaned down. Doggy-style came to mind, inappropriate but fitting, as he grabbed her by the hips, and hauled her out. With her back against him, her ass fit his groin. Nicely. His dick jacked.
A small scream died in her throat when she realized it was him. “You scared me,” she accused.
“You could’ve gotten stuck.”
“Hardly,” she huffed. She swatted his arm. “Stop pressing me.”
The pressing felt good. He liked holding her. He surprised them both by kissing her neck, right below her ear, where his hickey had faded. The contact was arousing. She stiffened slightly, but didn’t shove him away. He breathed her in.
“You sniffed my hair.”
“I like your perfume.” Faint citrus.
“Don’t smell it all up.”
He nuzzled her ear, flicked his tongue to her lobe. Then nipped, gave a gentle pull with his teeth. A sexual tease. He absorbed her shiver. He kissed her again, and her elbow caught his thigh. Dangerously high. Too near his boys.
He muttered, “You have bony elbows.”
He eased back, uncomfortably hard, and shook out his leg. Making an adjustment. Stevie faced him now. She dipped her head to hide her awkwardness. Long hair would’ve concealed her blush. Short hair opened her face to his view. He tipped up her chin with his thumb. Her eyelids fluttered, not flirty, but nervous. She worried her bottom lip. Peaked nipples were visible beneath her polo. Her legs squeezed together. He’d bet she was wet.
He had provoked. She’d panicked. “Don’t be embarrassed,” he said. “Desire shows itself.” He was still half-cocked.
“I don’t want you.”
“I say you do.”
“Believe what you will.”
“I’m a believer.”
She blew by him, all heightened color and heaving breasts.
“Turbo,” he called to his dog. The Rottweiler shot out of the tunnel as if he’d been fired from a cannon. He barreled toward Joe, body-slammed him. Joe barely kept his balance. He knuckled Turbo’s ears. “I’m glad to see you, too.” The rottie accepted his greeting, then hauled ass after Stevie.
“It’s feeding time,” she called over her shoulder. “I’m off your clock. Take care of your dog.”
Joe tracked them to the kitchen and found Stevie reading a note from Twyla posted beneath a Saint Bernard magnet on the front of the refrigerator. He scanned it, too. Braided rug is fully repaired. Entertaining George at the guesthouse.
He grinned. “‘Entertaining,’ huh?”
“Cards,” she explained, clearing his mind of sex. “My aunt plays gin.”
“What do you play?” he asked. Opening a cupboard door to the left of the sink, he removed a dog dish and a bag of kibble. He gave Turbo dinner. Gone in thirty seconds. Joe poured out more, called it “dessert.”
“Cards are fun,” she told him, “but I also like Jenga, Yahtzee, backgammon, Scrabble.”
She went to the pantry off the kitchen for a package of light butter flavor popcorn, then placed the bag in the microwave. She leaned against the countertop, asked, “Your board game of choice?”
Loaded question. “Adult XXX. Dirty Minds, Lust, Sexdrive.”
“You’re making this up?”
He shook his head. “I recently played Sexdrive.” He and his party posse. “Challenges of sexual know-how, show-how, and tell-how. Players answer questions or perform ‘body shop’ tasks to show what they know about sex. The goal is to obtain your ‘sex driver’s license,’ move to the ‘inner course.’”
“Is there nudity?”
“With the advanced version.”
She went so still, he wasn’t certain she was breathing. He stuck his finger under her nose to be sure. She swatted his hand away. Neither spoke. Pop-pop-pop broke the silence.
The microwave beeped; the bag was ready. She opened it, tipped the contents into a large plastic bowl. “Invitation to your popcorn party?” he asked.
“I’m headed to the sitting room to watch TV.”
“So was I.”
She cut him a curious look. “Why aren’t you out with your friends?”
“You are my friend.”
“No, really.”
“Pax took several single players and couples sailing. Sunset’s a nice time to be on the water.”
“Why didn’t you go?”
“I was at the Dodge dealership, wrapping up paperwork on the Sprinter. I missed cast off.”
“I’m sorry.”
“There’ll be other times.”
“Twyla’s very grateful for the van.”
“She’s a good woman. I don’t give many gifts, but when I do, I like them to be meaningful.”
“You have a place in her heart.”
“What about yours?”
“I don’t need mine broken.”
He frowned. “I’d never purposely hurt you.”
“I’d never take that chance.”
Her response was telltale. She was protecting herself from him. That explained a lot. Why she was so standoffish, sarcastic, despite their sexual burn. He sensed there was more to it. That she still hid something from him. A secret? Hopefully to be revealed. When she was ready.
“I need to check on the Afghan hound,” Stevie said, as they left the kitchen.
Turbo took off ahead of them.
Stevie next.
Joe followed.
Dusk snuck into the house, leaving deep shadows in the hallway. She flipped on lights. Anastasia blinked awake in the Geriatric Room. Plenty of leftover noon kibble in her bowl. Soft chewy snacks on a tray. Fresh water. Stevie left the door cracked in case she wished to join them.
They took the stairs together. The staircase reminded him of the bridal shoot. “You prepared for Saturday?”
“Pretty much. You?”
“Ready or not, I’d do anything for Turbo.”
She scrunched her nose. Unexpectedly cut him some slack. “Don’t feel obligated, Joe. Your dog can stay—you, too, even if you back out of our deal.”
She mixed him up. “Are you wanting to replace me?” That didn’t set well. Women desired him. Yet Stevie remained distant.
She stopped on the landing, the popcorn bowl clutched to her chest, looking serious. “Your call. You dislike weddings. You’ve said so. I have four days until the shoot. Enough time to find a substitute groom if necessary.”
He had an escape. Yet he didn’t want to run. “I’m cool.”
“No freaking out at the last minute.”
“Under control.”
She smiled her appreciation. Her first real smile of the night. Bright eyes. Color in her cheeks. Pretty curved lips. A natural beauty. “You nervous at all?” he asked her.
“I’ve yet to pick my dress. You’ve yet to try on your tux. Enough said.”
“You could model the gowns for me tonight.”
“Bad luck for the groom to see his bride in her wedding dress before the ceremony.”
“Superstitious? It’s make-believe, sweetheart.”
“No fashion show.”
“Planning to wear our garter?”
“Something blue? It’s still under debate.” Her expression softened. “Something old from my aunt, a lace handkerchief. Something borrowed from Lori, a pearl bracelet. I know it’s all pretend, but I want it to be perfect.”
“I have something new for you.” The bridal thong.
Her expression showed apprehension, then curiosity. “What?”
“To be presented prior to the shoot.”
“I’d rather know now,” she insisted.
“I’m not telling.” He left her in suspense.
They continued to the sitting room. A small space with a short fabric couch, ottoman, an overstuffed chair, TV mounted on the wall, narrow bookshelf, and a round game table. Turbo claimed the chair. Stevie sat on the sofa. Joe dropped down beside her, settled deep into the cushions. Purposely crowding her. She squeezed sideways, gained an inch. An inch he soon took back with a shift of his hip. The Afghan hound slowly found her way upstairs. She curled up on the floor at one end of the couch.
Joe dug into the popcorn. Salty, buttery. He went for a second handful, only to skim Stevie’s thigh when she held the bowl away from him. “One piece at a time. Don’t scoop with your palm.”
He laughed at her, earning her frown. “One piece is girly.”
“I want the popcorn to last.”
He took a single piece, tilted back his head, tossed it in the air, and caught it in his mouth. “Hardly worth the chew.”
“The remote.” She felt around between the cushions. The back of her hand brushed his hip, butt, low on his back. “Sorry,” she mumbled.
“I’m not. Keep searching.”
Remote found, she turned on the TV. Channel surfed. “Preference?”
she asked him.
“Sports.”
“Second choice.”
“The Walking Dead.”
“Reruns. Next.”
He eyed the TV listings in the corner of the screen. “Supernatural starts in an hour.” It was fantasy horror, and Joe’s all-time favorite show. “Claiming it.”
“I like Sam and Dean,” she tentatively said.
The two brothers followed in their father’s footsteps as supernatural hunters, fighting evil beings. Monsters, demons, and gods that roamed the earth. Joe rubbed his hands together. “I like Crowley.” A demon and the current king of hell.
“No surprise there.”
“I have a hellhound tat.”
“Good for you.”
“Want to see it?”
“Mmm-hmm, no.”
“Got to, babe. Chaos is worth a look.”
An intake of breath. “You named your tattoo?”
“After my own state of mind.” Joe lifted the front of his T-shirt, hooked his thumb in the waistband of his jeans, and slid them down his abdomen, one inch, then two. A hint of his hip bone appeared. Just enough so she could glimpse the red eyes of the mythical beast at his groin.
She darted a glance. Stared overly long.
So long, he had to ask, “Want to pet him?”
She blinked. “Your best pickup line?”
“It works.”
A soft release of breath. An inquiring whisper. “Why a hellhound? ”
He told her. “I read The Hound of the Baskervilles as a kid. One of the few stories I finished.”
“Detective Sherlock Holmes.”
“I got caught up in the mystery,” he admitted, straightening his jeans, but leaving his T-shirt untucked. “The legendary beast left an impression. Too bad the demonic dog turned out to be no more than a mix of bloodhound and mastiff, painted with phosphorus to give it a hellish appearance.”
“I read the book, too. I saw the 1959 movie on late-night TV. The Gothic setting gave me the shivers.” Her brow creased. “Dartmoor in England’s west country, I believe.”
“The 1939 film is scarier. Black-and-white feels more menacing than color. More horror elements, too. A lethal tarantula.” He scooped a handful of popcorn. She didn’t complain. Once he’d finished it, he went on to say, “The Rogues’ players got inked two years ago. Team unity. The hellhound fit me. Strong. Fearless. Aggressive.”
