“Come help me, please?” Lacey whispered to Tessa.
When Tessa stepped away, Zoe dropped right into the empty seat next to him. “So.” She grinned, a smile full of meaning and interest.
He gave one right back. “Let me see if I have this right,” he said, pointing at her. “You’re the instigator, correct?”
She shrugged with a smug smile. “Guilty as charged. I was also the party girl, but my wild child days are over now.” She rubbed her belly again and notched her chin toward the doctor. “All settled, content, and in love.”
“Sounds good.”
“Does it?”
He laughed, her meaning obvious. “I like that you all look out for your friend.”
Her expression grew suddenly serious. “We more than look out for her,” she said. “We love her and want to see her happy.”
Then shouldn’t he leave her alone? Because he could never be real, could never be anything but heartache for her.
“Tessa deserves to be happy,” he said.
Jocelyn moved a chair closer, jumping into the conversation. “Yes, she does,” she agreed. “She’s been through a lot.”
He nodded. “She told me.”
“Do you like her?” Zoe asked.
He looked right into the bright-green eyes that pinned him with a look full of warning and curiosity.
“Very much.” Not a lie, not even close. “In fact,” he said, thinking about each word before he said it, “I like her…a lot.”
“Then you should know her soft spot,” Zoe said.
“Zoe!” Jocelyn chastised, leaning into the conversation.
“Not that soft spot.” She grinned. “The one that could implode this budding relationship.”
Jocelyn rolled her eyes, but Ian was intrigued. He might need to implode the relationship. “What is it?”
“That girl will run, and I mean she will haul ass fast and furious, if you keep a secret from her.”
He blinked at her, losing the fight not to let anything show on his face. Including dismay. “Excuse me?”
“Zoe’s right,” Jocelyn said. “Secret-keeping is her number-one, do-not-violate code. Although”—she winked at Zoe—“a couple of us have broken the rule and paid the price.”
“What’s the price?” he asked.
“Oh, she’ll cut you off,” Zoe said. “I mean, with us, we had to make her understand why we kept our secrets, but with a guy? She’ll be gone before you get up to brush your teeth if she finds out you kept something from her.”
Oh, bloody hell. “Then I won’t.”
“Keep something from her?” Jocelyn asked.
He smiled. “I won’t ever leave her alone in bed.”
Zoe let out a hoot. “Dude, are you legit?”
Only three years of fighting natural physical responses gave him the ability to keep from giving away the truth in his expression. “I’m as legit as they get.” The lie tasted like pure shit, but he said it anyway. What the hell else could he do?
This was for his kids.
Chapter Eleven
With Lacey’s excited cooing and Zoe’s unsubtle hinting and Jocelyn’s quiet nodding of approval, Ian was fairly certain he’d passed the Friend Approval test. Of course, the real test would be in five, four, three, two…
“You want to come in?”
Score. But was it the right move? He eased the truck into Park and took a slow breath. “I guess.”
Tessa’s smile wavered. “Well, that’s damning with faint enthusiasm.”
He turned, instantly sorry he’d replied that way. “It’s not that I don’t want to, Tess.”
She waited for him to continue, but he reached across the small space that separated them and twirled one strand of her hair around his finger.
“It’s that I really do,” he said softly.
“Worried about work complications?”
He was worried about every complication as he barreled forth with his plan to pretend to be completely into Tessa. The problem was, a few hours ago, kissing her on the sidewalk so overwhelmed him with guilt that he’d sprung tears. What unpardonable sin might he commit to if he actually got in bed with her and…let go of control? He couldn’t take that chance.
Caring about her was not in the cards. That pinprick of guilt stabbed again, somewhere between his cold heart and burning gut. It was easy enough to soften that stab, and he did, pulling her closer and letting their lips touch lightly.
He felt her sigh into his mouth, a little bit of surrender and uncertainty and desire.
“This might be harder than I thought,” he murmured, the thought slipping out as easily as the next kiss.
“What might be?” she asked.
Lying. “Waiting.” It was the first thing that popped into his head.
“I don’t get it. You didn’t want to wait the night I met you. You wanted to take off my clothes and, let’s see, do something unspeakable to my rack.”
Just the words on her lips shot a gallon or two of blood due south. “I still do.” He ventured his hand a little lower on her breastbone, nearly touching her breast. “More, in fact.”
Her only response was two raised eyebrows in question. But he heard the question, read the confusion in her eyes. What happened between now and then?
He’d found out he needed a wife. “That night, I wanted to…” Fuck. Shag. Screw the pain away. “Do what I generally do with women who don’t matter.”
She inched back with a small grunt of revulsion.
“Don’t take that the wrong way.”
“There’s a right way to take it?”
“Take it this way,” he said, cupping the back of her head with his hand and threading some hair through his fingers. “The bar pickup was meaningless, fast, easy, and fun. But now I know you. Now I…need you.” Again, not a lie. In fact, it might have been the most honest thing he’d said all night.
“You need me?”
He closed his eyes, fighting the urge to explain any more. “I want you. I like you. I dig you. I’m into you. I—”
She put a hand on his mouth. “I get the idea. Just so I understand…you’re holding back because you think that…this might be…” She dragged out the last few words, clearly unwilling or unable to put any in his mouth.
“I think this might be real,” he whispered. The guilt pinprick turned into a nine-inch chef’s knife and stabbed right into his chest. Instantly, he leaned closer and tried to stop the pain with a long, sweet, wet kiss.
When it ended, she didn’t even open her eyes, her breath already tight. “John Brown, you are the master of mixed messages. Give me one straight answer. Do you want to come inside or not?”
“Yes, but I’m not going to,” he said. “Because I won’t leave.”
After a second, she nodded once, quickly. “I get it. Good-bye.” She attempted another exit, but he grabbed her again.
“You’re mad at me,” he said.
She bit a soft laugh. “Not really. Confused.”
“Understandable. Let’s not rush things.”
She searched his face, long and hard, the confusion darkening her eyes. “Why is it that every instinctive female alarm system that’s hardwired into my body is screaming a red alert right now?”
Because that female alarm system was in excellent working condition. “Not sleeping with you doesn’t mean I don’t want to. It means I do. More than once.”
“Okay,” she whispered. “I like that.”
He slowly took the keys out of the ignition and gave them to her. “Let me walk you to the door.”
“No, that’s okay.” She gave a tentative smile. “I might never let you go.”
For some reason, the words got to him.
“Thanks for dinner and coming to the party.” She opened the door and stepped out, walking to the front of the bungalow. He watched for a moment, then he climbed out, closed the driver’s door, and took a few steps to his motorcycle.
As he was about to get on, he looked up
and saw her slip into the front door, imagining her leaning against it inside, sighing, maybe a little let down, maybe a little excited, definitely a lot baffled.
What the hell was he doing? He couldn’t use this woman like this. He was a bastard, hurt and angry and desperate, sure, but she didn’t do anything to deserve this.
Fuck this lying.
He pivoted, his mind dead blank for a moment, then he sprinted toward the small porch, his feet pounding on the two steps as he bounded to the door, which opened exactly the second he reached it. “What are you—”
“I have to tell you something,” he said, surprised at how strangled the words were.
“What?”
“I have to tell you…” He put his hands on her shoulders, the confession jammed in his throat now. “I have to tell you…”
Suddenly, his head thrummed with blood and fear and the echo of Henry Brooker’s statement of raw fact.
Ian, you live with this lie or you die.
“Tell me what?”
“That I…” Lie or die. He closed his eyes and pulled her hard against him, finding her mouth and slamming his over it, squeezing her whole body as if he could kiss her from head to toe.
She stiffened, bunching his shirt under her fists, a soft whimper in her throat.
Lie or die.
The three words ricocheted in his brain, so he kissed harder, opening his mouth and entering hers, tasting heat and wine and the sweet flavor of her giving in. Her fingers loosened, flattened, and traveled over his chest with appreciation. Her tongue matched his, licking and flicking in a mating dance, and her hips rocked gently at the place where they met so naturally.
Lie or…
Kiss. It was all he wanted to do. Kiss. Touch. Taste. Smell. Press his hard-on into her pelvic bone and ride. The reverberations of Henry’s words faded into her tender moans and disappeared into nothing as he let his hands travel over her back, her hips, and cup her backside. Henry’s warnings went silent with the thrum of blood and the steady, heavy insistence of his body.
He broke the kiss only to trail more down her neck, walking her backwards into the entryway, unable to stop his hands from roaming up her waist to the sides of her breasts. To her nipples, so hard his mouth watered to suck on them.
“John.”
He barely heard the name, it hardly registered. He didn’t have a fucking name anymore; he just had need. Kissing her mouth again, he turned her to the wall, using it for leverage to roll against her.
Breathless already, she let him, lifting her chin to offer him her throat and breasts, bracing herself as he clutched her breast with one hand and gathered up her dress with the other. He wanted under. In. All the way—
“John.” She added pressure, pushing him back an inch, needing air. “Is this what you wanted to tell me?”
Was it? Wasn’t he going to tell her the truth? Or was he going to fuck her in every possible way?
God, he liked this woman. This hard-on was real and way too connected to his brain, and that alone was a lovely and unwanted change.
“Actually, no,” he whispered, opening his fingers to let her dress fall back around her legs. “I was going to tell you…”
A secret she had no reason or desire to keep.
He put some more space between them, taking his hand off the sexy curve of her breast and placing both hands on the wall, holding himself up and not giving her a way to escape.
She still fought shallow breaths, her eyes dark with arousal, her cheeks flushed, her lips a little swollen from his brutal kisses. She looked pretty. Hot. Ready. Willing to take him and trust him and he…
He was a total and complete fake who needed this woman to fall for him and marry him and give him the only thing he really wanted. Without ever knowing the truth.
Self-loathing rose up, replacing his fiery blood with ice. “I was going to tell you…that…I…” He closed his eyes, unwilling to look at her when he lied. “I want more than a one-night stand.”
“You told me that.”
“I wanted to emphasize it.”
When she didn’t answer, he opened his eyes and she was staring hard, clearly trying to weigh that statement with the man who’d pushed her up against the wall with his demanding dick and hungry hands.
“Me, too,” she whispered.
“That’s…good.” No, it was bad. Bad, bad, bad.
She smiled, reaching up to stroke his cheek. “Look, John, I can do casual sex, honestly, I can. I think I’ve proven that in the last four minutes. I can even handle a little sideline fun with a colleague. But if you want something that lasts more than a few days or weeks, then I need to be sure you remember that…” She struggled for a word, biting her lip. “You remember what’s important to me.”
She wanted a baby. She didn’t have to remind him; he remembered.
He backed away, and she winced ever so slightly. Enough that he saw the vulnerability that he could crush like a roach under his boot. That he would crush, when he had what he wanted…and she didn’t.
There was no way. No way he would ever dream of creating another child that grew up disconnected to him. And no way he’d—No. He couldn’t. He couldn’t tell her the truth, ever.
“That’s fine,” she said quickly, adding some pressure to push him back another inch, his answer obvious by his silence. “Just so we’re clear.”
He dropped one arm and she instantly stepped to the side and let out a soft, wry laugh.
“Is something funny?” he asked.
“No, just that, wow, we made progress tonight, huh? Met the friends, made out, almost had had the baby talk. What’s left?”
He reached for her face, holding her chin and stroking her bottom lip. He shouldn’t have picked her. She was too tender. Too precious. Too real.
All the things he wasn’t.
“There’s plenty left.” Assuming he had the balls to go through with it. Did he?
Time would tell. He hesitated for a minute, then lifted one hand in a halfhearted wave, walking out to the porch. When he reached the driveway, he turned to see her silhouette still in the doorway.
His heart hitched and he looked away, hating that the image was burned into his brain, where he had a feeling it would stay all night long.
Chapter Twelve
Two days later, Tessa lounged on her back porch, angling her laptop screen so the afternoon sun didn’t cause a glare. That way, she had a perfect view of the gorgeous lines of the dreamy, feminine, lace-layered wedding dress on the home page of All Gussied Up, the Web site run by the wedding consultant with pink hair.
She’d meant to spend this quiet Sunday boning up on each of the VIP guests, but for some reason she’d yet to click to Gussie McBain’s bio, staring at the dress instead.
“You’d look amazing in that.”
She jumped a foot and stabbed the Escape key, spinning around at the man’s voice. And not just any man—the man she’d spent the last two days allowing far more of a hold on her thoughts than he should have.
But look at him. And look she did, devouring the white T-shirt molded to substantial muscle, the faded jeans clinging to powerful thighs, his honey hair tangled from the wind and face shadowed with unshaved stubble, his hand clutching—a duffel bag?
“Hey, what’s up?” she asked, going for casual and friendly but getting a nervous hitch in her throat that she cleared away.
“I’m moving in.”
Her eyes widened and he laughed, the sound rolling right through to her toes.
“Next door,” he said, half lifting the bag in the direction of the bungalow that used to be Zoe and Pasha’s. After Pasha died, Zoe and Oliver had moved off the property and the bungalow had been empty. So of course Lacey would offer him the house built for sole purpose of housing Casa Blanca’s top staff.
But why hadn’t Lacey told Tessa?
“Well there goes the neighborhood,” she quipped, repositioning the laptop and sitting up so she wasn’t flat on her back in front of h
im.
He grinned, climbing up the single stair to her deck as though she’d invited him. There was one other chair, but he dropped the bag and sat down on the chaise next to her, taking his time to check her out from head to toe.
“Nice.” One syllable, one smile, one long look. “To see you,” he finally added.
“You, too.”
“It’s been thirty-eight hours. Did you miss me?”
Her jaw loosened, then she laughed. “You’re counting hours?”
“Mmm.” He leaned forward like he might kiss her but took the laptop instead, turning it to face him, opening and clicking. “Wedding dresses?”
“Research on our important guests,” she shot back.
He studied the Web site but she studied him, counting golden lashes and remembering how his lips felt.
After a second, he closed the computer and carefully put it on the cocktail table next to her. Then he leveled her with his direct attention, placing his hands on either side of her to pin her on the chaise.
“How many times did you think about me?” he asked.
She laughed again, shaking her head. “I lost count after two.” Hundred. “You’ve got a big ego.”
“I’ve got a big…” He leaned lower and she braced for something sweet and dirty. “Crush.”
She closed her eyes. “That’s not what I thought you were going to say.”
He brushed her cheek with his, chuckling low so she could feel his chest rumble. “Come to the kitchen with me,” he said into her ear.
“I thought you were moving in.”
“I am.” He leaned up, jutting his chin to the duffel bag. “There’s my stuff.”
“That’s it?”
“I travel light.”
Because he had no roots. “Isn’t the kitchen closed after brunch now?”
“Yep, but I have my own research to do. I want to get the lay of the land, try a new recipe, and”—he ran a finger over her arm—“hang out with you.”
There was no way to say no. After she showed him around the bungalow next door, they walked through the gardens toward the resort.
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