by Kate Angell
“Nothing carnal?”
“Don’t need a tat for sex.”
There was a break in the conversation, and they simultaneously reached for the popcorn. Touching fingertips. Palms. He ran his thumb over her wrist. Her pulse jumped. Arousal raised goose bumps on her forearm. He affected her. She got to him, too. Want surged hot and vital. He shifted on the sofa. Drew the hem of his shirt over his ridged zipper, attempting to hide what could still be seen.
Back to the TV. “We’ve got time before Supernatural. What do you want to watch?”
A corner of her mouth twitched in a subtle grin. “It’s All About Me.” She located the channel.
A bridal show? There went sixty minutes of his life he’d never get back. Joe sat in silence, squinting at the screen. Not wanting to watch the program full-on. He didn’t need to be brought up to speed on what was happening. The reality show was scarily explicit and would shock any groom as brides morphed into unidentifiable creatures under the stress of wedding arrangements and unrealistic expectations. Their worst sides were quickly revealed as they stepped on anybody who got in their way. Each of these brides selfishly believed it was her day, the groom insignificant. Damn.
He ate popcorn, but found it difficult to swallow, as one wife-to-be tried to select the perfect wedding gown. Trying on dress after dress. “Brunette’s picked twelve effing gowns.” He snorted. “She’s driving the bridal consultant crazy. Me, too. The first one looked the best. What’s her problem?” he asked Stevie.
She explained, “The bride wants to be sure there’s no dress better than the one she chooses. A friend of mine once tried on forty-five.”
“Women need to make their minds up quicker.”
“She wants to be her most beautiful.”
“How many dresses would you try on?” He seemed concerned, for no apparent reason.
“I have three available for the magazine photo shoot. It’s still a tough decision. Each one is unique.”
“Coin toss?”
“Could come down to that.”
Joe’s hands were sweaty by the time the bride finally selected a dress. She returned to the first, but only after running the sales associate in circles. The poor woman scurried from the dressing room to the revolving couture racks, hauling heavy layers of satin and lace. Long and short veils. He grew tired and irritable just watching her. Still he couldn’t look away. A wedding train wreck.
The bride soon met with a professional wedding planner. Joe edged forward on the couch cushion and took in the reception consultation. “Bride wants a confetti cannon fired as the couple leaves the church?”
“She’s decided to change out the colorful paper for white rose petals. That sounds romantic.”
The planning continued: The formal reception would be held at a prominent hotel with a lavish sit-down gourmet dinner. Menus were discussed. Six courses. Joe curled his lip over the main item. “Pan-seared Chilean sea bass with coconut shellfish broth. Why not just steak and potatoes? ”
“Too hearty,” Stevie explained. “Sits heavy on the stomach. Guests would be yawning at the table, wanting a nap. The bride’s going for elegance.”
Elegance, his ass. Seating of the bridal party and decorations came next, giving him heartburn. He noted the enormous hanging centerpiece to be displayed over the head table. “Those floating white orchids seem to defy gravity. Impractical.”
“Quite lovely, actually,” from Stevie.
“White this and white that.” He liked color.
“To symbolize innocence and purity.”
“Are the brides on this show virgins?”
“Doesn’t say in the program details.”
“Couples need to know whether they are sexually compatible before exchanging vows. No man wants a surprise mannequin in his bed.”
“‘Mannequin,’ huh?”
“A woman who just lies there.”
The wedding coordinator guided the bride around the Crystal Ballroom. Five-tiered prism chandelier, thick Victorian columns, pale paneling, and wide-arched windows. Stevie sighed. “Check out the dance floor.”
He did and gagged at the absurdity. It was a raised clear acrylic platform with bright yellow, pink, and purple flowers lit from beneath to create a garden in the middle of the ballroom. He had an alternate plan. “They could just set pots of flowers around the perimeter.”
“Not the same effect. This bride’s going for an illusion. Fantasy. Magic.”
“The fairy tale ends with the ring on her finger. She looks the type to put more effort into the wedding than into the marriage itself.”
“How can you tell?”
The back of his neck prickled. “Gut feeling. The chick is bitchy.”
“The strain reveals the worst in her character.”
“I think the show reveals her real self.” The camera focused on her sending a nasty text to her mother. Arguing over the cost of her wedding. She’d already hit six figures. “Where’s the groom?” he wanted to know.
“Most men leave the planning to the bride. They’ve selected the woman they wish to marry, they’ve proposed. They’re done.”
Joe grinned then. “Involve the guy, and fire-breathing, car-crushing robots might arrive at the reception. Xbox games on the tables. Camera drones overhead. Cool.”
He ran his hand down his face when the discussion on-screen turned to having a private jet to take the married couple to an exclusive destination. He held up his hands. “Too much for me.”
“Yet you watched the entire show,” she teased.
“Sucked in. I’ve never seen anything like it before. Never plan to again.” He fell back on the couch. Reached for a handful of popcorn. Scooped. “We’ve watched what you wanted. Now it’s my turn.”
Stevie clicked the remote, located Supernatural. His show. He exhaled, and his body sagged against her. All tension left his expression. His shoulders. He stretched his arm along the back of the sofa. His hand brushed her shoulders. His fingertips, her upper arm. Lightly stroking.
“What are you doing?”
“Getting comfortable.”
“You’re making me uncomfortable. You’re too close.”
“I need to be close.”
“Why?” She elbowed him.
“To kiss you. Practice for the photo shoot.”
“There’s no kiss scheduled.”
“Last frame. Always a kiss.”
Her breath caught. She jarred the bowl of popcorn on her lap. Half the snack rolled over the rim. Joe helped clean her up. She went fast. He, slow. His fingers collected popcorn from between her legs. Lingered over the pieces at her V.
She shoved his hand away. “All done.”
“Not done, babe, just getting started.”
“Watch your show.”
A corner of his mouth curved. “Catch you at the commercial.”
He’d warned her of his intention. Prepared her for his kiss. The idea was daunting, nerve-racking. Yet it left her expectant. Conceivably it would be no more than a kiss on her forehead. Possibly, parted lips and tongue.
Her breathing deepened. Her belly butterflied. If she was smart, she’d hop off the sofa, take the Afghan hound downstairs, outside, and settle her in for the night. Wash out the popcorn bowl in the kitchen sink. Then head back upstairs for a bubble bath. Early to bed.
Rational thought vanished when it came to Joe, however. The lines between right and wrong faded. One kiss would break her promise to her cousin Dean. She was a woman of her word.
All the same, the longer she remained, the more susceptible she became to the Rogue. To his kiss. They sat so close, air couldn’t squeeze between them. Joe dwarfed her. A tilt of his shoulders, and she nestled against his chest. His very wide chest. Solid and muscled. His mouth interested her. Full lower lip, narrower upper one. He was an experienced kisser. Should she leave or stay?
She stayed. Apprehensive. Aroused. Afraid.
Joe flagged his hand before her eyes. “You okay?”
; Her “Fine . . .” sounded weak.
He bumped his knee against hers. “You’ve been lost in thought. Staring at the television screen, but not watching the show.”
“I’m watching.”
“What was the last commercial for?”
She’d missed the ad. “Cereal.” Wild guess.
“Super Poligrip. Not on my breakfast table.”
Denture adhesive cream. She blushed. Supernatural returned. Her commercial window for a kiss disappeared. Had he played her? Wound her tight, let her spin? She’d waited, wanting him, and he hadn’t made a pass. She felt let down.
She huffed. He heard her. “There’re more commercials to come.” Humor was in his voice.
“I don’t care.”
“Yeah, you do.” He was so self-assured. “You expected me to kiss you within the first ten minutes. Give it time, babe. Anticipation. Sexual psych.”
The postponement rode her last nerve as she sat through the next set of commercials. Her chest squeezed. Her stomach cramped. Ford trucks drove her back to the demon hunters Dean and Sam, brothers on the run. Chasing the king of hell, Crowley. She got lost in the action of the show. Her gaze was on the TV and not on Joe.
He took her unaware, waiting for no product promotions. Devious man. He smoothed his mouth over hers in the softest kiss ever. Gentle, pleasurable, skilled. It was short-lived, yet it had the greatest impact. Her scalp tingled. Her tummy fluttered. Her toes curled.
The man could kiss. Her lips parted slightly. The tip of his tongue touched inside her lower lip. He tasted her. But he never gave her time to respond. To fully kiss him back. He detached. Practice over. She sighed against his mouth. Which he heard.
“No sound effects at the photo shoot, Stewie.”
“No visual aids, Joey.” He was stiff.
He laughed at himself. “I’m better than PowerPoint.”
He tucked her into his side. This man who cruised through life without commitment. She felt amazingly safe and protected. Reality reminded her that he had a party posse. Hot, sexy babes who were all about him. Women who would play naked water polo on Friday nights. Not her sport.
A potato chip commercial, and Joe kissed her forehead.
A kiss on her nose during a pet food ad.
Supernatural ended. Once again, Crowley had evaded Dean and Sam.
Joe never took her mouth again. Disappointing.
Instead of kissing, he wanted to talk. “I’m your groom for the afternoon on Saturday. Is the magazine only taking pictures, or will an article be attached?”
“No article was mentioned. Not yet, anyway.”
“Your sixty-second bio, just in case.”
“Born in Roanoke, Virginia.”
“Richmond, for me.”
“Stop taking my seconds.”
A sarcastic, “Sorry.”
“My mom is a triplet; Twyla is one of her sisters. I’m an only child. With lots of cousins.”
He interrupted once again. “You mentioned a male cousin who always had your back.”
Dean. “Our families are close.” Enough said.
“Education?” he asked.
“A degree in professional bridal consultation.”
Pained expression. “Yanking me, right?”
“You almost believed me,” she teased.
“College of William and Mary. Williamsburg. Psychology. I’m in your head.”
No smile from the man. His body tensed. He removed his arm from across her shoulders, distanced himself. “You’re analyzing me?” The possibility seemed to bother him a lot.
“Not officially. I’ve yet to set up practice,” she said honestly. “I see what I see. On the surface, the obvious. You’re complicated. Mental bumps and bruises. Darkness and shadows.”
His gaze narrowed. “Blame my childhood.”
“We all grow up,” she dared. “Elect our adulthood.”
He leaned forward, rested his elbows on his thighs. Said, “I like who I am.”
“Do you?”
“I can live with myself. Back off, Stevie.” Firm and final.
“If you ever want to talk-”
“I don’t.” He pushed off the couch. Stood over her. Suddenly withdrawn as he recited his own rundown. “University of Virginia, Charlottesville. Sports medicine. Preventive care to rehabilitation. Fallback career if baseball fails. Broken home, which you’ve already guessed. I haven’t seen or spoken to my parents in years. One younger brother. A hellion. Can’t hold a job. Jason walks the fine line between justice and jail.”
He jammed his hand through his hair. His jaw was set. “I work my ass off at baseball. Play hard outside the park. I have a few select friends. Hangers-on come and go. I know who’s using me and who’s got my back.” Pause. “March birthday. I like to travel. I sleep in the nude. I’d have sex twenty-four/seven if time allowed. That’s it. We know each other well enough now. I don’t do close.”
Her heart squeezed. Hurt. “I never thought you did,” she whispered.
“I’ll need an overnight for Turbo on Friday,” he went on to request.
No explanation. She already knew why. Naked water polo. He and his posse. “I’ll put his name on the weekend list.”
A short nod, and he whistled for his dog. They left the room together. Solitude sat heavy on her chest. She hadn’t meant to provoke him. Their sixty-second bios had ended the evening poorly. A hostile silence lingered in the room. Television no longer appealed to her.
Joe’s reputation accounted him a hard-ass. Destructive. He didn’t always play fair. Regardless, she’d witnessed his good side. He’d saved her from boardwalk security. Requested a wig for young Ashley. Bought a transport van for Unleashed.
Throughout their time together, she’d been caustic. He hadn’t cared. He’d tenaciously pursued her; kept the beat going between them. They’d practice-kissed, in preparation for the photo shoot. She’d liked it. He had a sexy mouth.
Her mention of psychology had flipped his switch. He’d shut down. Lost trust in her. She’d had no ulterior motive. His past was relevant, yet evaluating the man served no purpose. He needed to work through his own issues. He obviously had a few.
She would leave him alone. Let him return in his own good time. Hopefully he would be true to his word, and wouldn’t stand her up on Saturday. Fingers crossed.
Nine
What happened with the Rogues, stayed with the Rogues. What happened at Rock Creek Cove never happened.
Friday night, and Joe lowered himself onto a beach chair on the banks of Rock Creek, a hidden inlet notorious for skinny-dipping, naked neon Frisbee, and nude water polo. Night crowded him. Tightened his breathing. Tiki pole lights flared, their orange and red flames mirrored in the water. Inhibitions were left on the shore. Eagerness and expectancy sent naked bodies into the cool depths. Women shrieked, bounced, as the chill crept up their thighs. Nipples puckered. The ballplayers claimed “shrinkage.” Laughter and teasing filled the air. A good time—for all but him.
Joe took off his tennis shoes and socks, and let the rippling waves and wet sand suck his toes. Water swelled about his ankles, dampening the frayed hem on his jeans. A missed throw by Jake Packer into the opponents’ goal smashed the shoreline. Splashing him. The ball floated back into play, accompanied by giggles and profanity.
“Who is she, Zoo?” was asked of him. Impatiently.
One of the girls in his party posse passed him a beer. Alyssa was hottest of his twelve groupies. Wavy dark hair, exotic amber eyes, and a suggestive body. Men projected their fantasies onto her. She sat beside him on a beach blanket, her long legs curled beneath her. Her ample breasts and rounded ass nearly escaped her bikini. Tempting. Accessible. She was just waiting for him to unhook her top. To release the string ties at her hips. To get into the game. He had yet to make his move.
She rested her hand on his thigh, her fingertips straying toward his zipper. He took her hand, stilled her strokes. Asked, “Who’s who, ’Lyssa?”
“T
he woman who’s got you thinking about her when there’s naked water polo being played in front of you.”
He took a pull on his longneck Red Dog. “I’m watching.” Half truth. He’d seen enough to know the score. “Three to one. Pax’s team is ahead. Sam’s side would be doing better if the guys kept their eyes on the ball instead of on Cady’s breasts.”
Incredible double Ds. A total turn-on for his buddies. Joe was certain that Sam Matthews was sweating bullets in the cold water. His teammate was interested in the brunette, but he hadn’t acted on his attraction. Out of respect for Joe. Cady was part of his posse. Party girls he had personally selected. Babes who stuck by him. His teammates might come on to his girls, but they never took them home.
Wild Cady had recently written a children’s book. She’d shyly shown it to him. An inner glimpse of her softer side. She had a big heart. A love for kids. She deserved a decent guy. She glanced at Sam as often as he looked at her. Their gazes locked, and they lost the next point. The ball dropped between them. Sam retrieved it. Homed again on Cady, indifferent to the outcome of the game.
Alyssa nudged Joe. “Why aren’t you naked?”
“Why aren’t you?”
She drew his hand to her mouth, deep-throated his middle finger. Swirled the tip. “I’m waiting for you.”
It would be a long wait. His ass wasn’t leaving the chair until he cleared his head and came to a decision. One that involved Stevie. She staggered him. Stuck on his mind. The fact that he liked her, sarcasm and all, shook him. She gave him a hard time. And a hard-on.
He was a man of raw sex appeal. He raised women’s heartbeats. Stevie quickened his pulse. Gentle was new to him. Their practice photo-shoot kiss had nearly undone him. Soft and slow. She had wanted their kiss to continue. He’d heard it in her sigh. A significant longing. He’d put on the brakes. They had chemistry. A subsequent kiss with tongue and touching would’ve led to sex. Assuredly. He’d been a week without a woman and had been horny as hell, sporting a boner and blue balls. Not to his liking.
