by Kyra Jacobs
“I appreciate the compliment, but your sister was right,” Chris said. “With your help, this program could become a reality a whole lot faster.”
He came around the table and angled for Stephanie, his assessment of her body rising from her seat not subtle enough for Miles’s taste. Miles offered a handshake to block the other man’s advance. “We’ll be in touch.”
Evantston’s smile never wavered as he shook hands then bid them good day.
“What was that for?” she hissed as Evanston stepped out of earshot.
“Oh, come on, Steph. That slimeball was totally coming on to you.”
“First of all, he is not a slimeball. He’s a very good friend of Livvy’s. Second, he was not coming on to me—he was excited to hear how I thought Michigan could put together a program like the one Liam”—her lips screwed in a moment of silent fury—“I helped found in Florida. And third—since when the heck is whether a man’s flirting with me or not any of your business?” She jabbed a finger not-so-subtly into Miles’s sternum.
And damn it if that fire in her eyes didn’t turn him on.
Wait. Turn him on?
Oh, no. It had to be the stress. Yes, that was it. After fretting half the day about his upcoming phone interview, and then the interview itself, Miles’s brain was fried…which left other parts of his body to do the thinking. Judging by the silent fury burning in her eyes, he was about 99.9 percent sure the feelings were not mutual. Not that he wanted them to be.
At least, that’s what he told himself for the hundredth time this week.
And it was only Monday.
Miles pried her hand from his chest and took a step back but kept his voice low. “I was just looking out for you.”
“Maybe I don’t need to be looked after.”
“Why do you always have to be so darned stubborn?”
“Why do you always have to be so darned—” Stephanie clamped her mouth shut.
“So what?”
“Nothing.” She pushed her chair in and started for the lobby. “Absolutely nothing.”
Miles watched her go, mentally kicking himself. He hated to see her pissed off at him. Hated even more the thought of spending the evening at home alone. He followed after her, lowering his voice as she started down the hall toward her suite…and ignoring the pleased-as-punch look on Ruby’s face as they passed.
“Don’t you think we should talk about this?”
“No.”
There it was again, that winded sound in her voice. Miles frowned, worry nagging at him. “But what about the job offer? And this charity event on Thursday?”
Stephanie stopped before the door to the Chippewa Suite and rubbed a fist to the center of her chest. “I’m going to turn down both.”
“What? Why?”
“Because I c-c… I c-c…” She tried once more, but this time nothing came out. It was as if she couldn’t talk, couldn’t breathe.
“Shoot, you’re hyperventilating.” He looked to her hands, but they were empty. “Where’s your key?”
“P-pocket.”
He looked from her face, past her chest—which was perfect, by the way, but rising and falling much too fast, the breaths coming much too shallow—and down to her capris. Countless times in his younger years he’d envisioned what it would be like to get into then-Stephanie Johnson’s pants, and this wasn’t at all how it had gone down. She raised a shaky hand to her forehead, breaking his reverie. He had to get her inside before she fainted on him.
Then again, if she fainted, wouldn’t that require some mouth to mouth?
Good Christ, man, get it together.
Miles moved behind her to give himself a better angle, and the scent of her citrusy body wash assaulted his senses. He slid his right hand down into her front right pocket and tried to hold his breath. Because between her smelling good enough to eat and the knowledge that his hand was mere inches from third base, breathing too deeply would surely derail his thoughts. And now was not the time for a train wreck; Stephanie needed him.
“Wrong. Pocket,” she wheezed.
“Sorry.”
He extracted his hand and tried not to notice how thin her Capris were. Or that the panties beneath them felt as though they had a lace-fringed waistband. His own pants suddenly felt uncomfortably tight.
Focus…
A step to the left, a new angle, and he was sliding his other hand down into her left pocket.
Bingo.
“All right, let’s find you a chair or something.” A quick flick of the wrist, and he had the door unlocked and swinging open. “And maybe a glass of water.”
They stepped inside, and Miles helped her to a soft loveseat in the large suite’s sitting area. In no time he was kneeling before Stephanie, a glass of water at the ready. When she didn’t want a drink, he set it down and began rubbing the palm of her unfisted hand. After a few minutes her breathing slowed and color began to return to her cheeks.
“Thank you,” she finally managed to croak out.
“Better?”
Stephanie nodded. Her gaze shifted to the floor. “I just…I thought I was ready, you know? But then I started thinking about all those people that would be at this event, and…”
She pulled her arm back and hugged herself tight, eyes glazing over with tears.
“Oh, hey now. It’s okay.” He rose to sit beside her and pulled her trembling body into his arms. “I’ve got you.”
She leaned into him but kept her arms wrapped around her own midsection. Stephanie had never been an overly emotional woman. In fact, in college there were times he thought her outer coat was made of tougher stuff than his own. Her divorce had really done a number on her.
“You want to talk about it?”
She shook her head.
“Does this happen often?”
“Less than it used to.” She whispered. “Crowds. I just can’t do crowds. Especially ones filled with local golf pros who would recognize me in a heartbeat.”
“Explains why you arrived wearing those ridiculous sunglasses and Michigan State cap.”
“Ridiculous?” Her brows drew low. “What’s so ridiculous about them?”
Miles kissed the top of her head, relieved to hear the familiar Stephanie beginning to return. “Is that a trick question? I mean, surely you’ve noticed that each lens is about as big as a grapefruit.”
“You got a problem with grapefruit, buddy?”
She pulled back from him. Her arms went from hugging her midsection to fists planted on her hips. Oh yeah, she was back.
“Not unless they’re perched on your face, pretending to be sunglasses.”
“Uh huh. Well, for your information, Metro Boy, those sunglasses are all the rage in Florida.”
“Of course they are.” He leaned away from her, watching for any jab she might throw. “It’s Florida. Old people capital of the world. Not only do they love grapefruit, but they probably need huge sunglasses to protect their cataracts. And that’s Metro Man to you, missy.”
“First you insult my fashion sense, now you’re calling me old?”
“I wasn’t calling you old, just your three-million neighbors whose fashion sense seems to be wearing off on you.”
“There are more than just old people who live in Florida, thank you very much. And I happen to like the way I look in those sunglasses, so drop it.”
“If that’s what you want.” Miles shrugged. “Who am I to tell you how to dress?”
“Exactly. Glad you see it my way.”
Oh, if I had my way, I’d suggest you dress entirely differently. Like not at all…
Crap. Don’t think like that.
Stephanie’s stomach growled loud enough they both heard it. She offered him an embarrassed smile and looked like her old self again. See? Piss her off and she’s good as new.
“Come on, let’s go into town and get you something to eat.”
“Why, do I scare you when I get hangry?”
He barked out a surpr
ised laugh. He hadn’t heard her term for hunger-induced anger fits since their college days. “Darn straight you do. Besides, we have some planning to do, don’t we?”
“I don’t know…”
“Look, it’s up to you. But dinner tonight is on me, and I say we go.” Her stomach rumbled again. “Clearly, your stomach agrees with me.”
“Maybe. But I just don’t know if I can manage being out right now.”
Miles gave her a wry smile. “Trust me—where we’re going, you won’t have to worry about anyone recognizing you.”
Chapter Eight
Stephanie had been in some quaint local dives before, especially after all those years of tagging along while Liam was traveling from town to town on the PGA circuit. But this? Wow. This place should have posted some kind of redneck disclaimer outside the door. Then again, it was a giant old barn that’d been transformed into a bar. That should have been warning enough.
“You come here often?” she yelled over the country music blaring from enormous speakers wedged beneath the stairway they were climbing.
“Couple times a month.”
He stopped after clearing the top step and turned to offer her a hand…which she ignored. Her ego was bruised enough from him seeing her moment of weakness earlier, and she’d be darned if she’d do it again. Miles smirked but said nothing as she stepped past him and angled for a table in the far corner upstairs.
Seated, she glanced around to take the place in. Oh yeah, it was a barn, all right—plank walls riddled with knot holes, stalls that had been converted into booths, a crazy high roof. What had once likely been an earthen floor had been upgraded to dark wood or painted concrete—she couldn’t tell from this distance. The center of the building had been left open, though, with the second floor hugging its perimeter and supported by thick, wooden beams below. A long, smooth-topped wooden bar had been set up toward the back of the first floor. Tending it was a big, burly-looking bartender, a wall of colorful bottles behind him.
A middle-aged woman with her hair piled high approached them, a short black apron around her waist with an order pad and pen peeking out from its shallow pockets.
“Rare I see you here on a Monday, son.”
Miles flashed the woman a smile and stretched an arm to rest along the back of the chair beside him. “My friend here is in town for the week. Come to find out, she’s never had your wings.”
The waitress gave her a quick once-over, and Stephanie was relieved to see zero recognition dawn on her face. Instead, she simply stared, unimpressed.
“You don’t say.”
“Tell you what, Mel—why don’t you bring us a pitcher of the usual while we figure out our order.”
The older woman turned to go.
“And two snake bites.”
Stephanie looked at him in surprise. She hadn’t done a snake bite since, well…since college after she’d passed Algebra 215 by the skin of her teeth. Miles had been a great tutor—she’d never have made it without him.
He shrugged at her now. “What? I thought it’d help you unwind a bit, get your mind off things. Don’t tell me you don’t like them anymore.”
“No, it’s just…” She shook her head. Surely, he didn’t remember that was her favorite shot. It’d been a million years ago. Probably it was his. “Nothing. So, good wings, huh?”
“Not good wings—the best in town. I know the place looks a little rough around the edges, but we won’t be bothered up here.”
“You don’t think so?”
“Nah, it’s too early for the usual drunken bar brawls and flying bottles. Best part is, you’re safe here. Seriously, look around—do any of these patrons look like they follow golf?”
She did as he suggested. A couple biker guys. College kid and his girlfriend making out. Old creepy guy sitting at a table nearby watching them make out. Eww. “No.”
“See? No one here to recognize you.”
Her gaze shifted back to Miles and a wave of gratitude washed over her. “Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it.”
“Okay.”
“No, really.” He reached for a menu, wedged between the condiment conglomerate on their table and the wall. “Don’t mention it. If word gets out that I’m off the market, it’ll ruin my reputation.”
Stephanie laughed—man, it felt good—and reached for her own menu. “You have my word. Especially since this is in no way a date.”
“No?” He glanced up over the top of his menu with raised brows.
“Of course not. It’s a fake engagement, remember? We can’t exactly go out on a date if we aren’t in fact dating.”
He looked back to the menu and nodded. “So, you still into all things hot and spicy?”
“Do birds fly?”
Miles flashed her an amused smile. “Good. ‘Cause they have the best hot wings.”
“How hot?”
“How hot can you take it?”
“As hot as you can give it.” His eyes widened a fraction, and Stephanie wanted to insert-foot-in-mouth. “I mean, get it. Them. As hot as you can get them.”
Mel returned with an alcohol-laden tray, sparing Stephanie from the risk of digging that hole any deeper. Their waitress set out their drinks, took their order, then retreated once again. Stephanie reached for her shot of tequila and threw Miles a skeptical look.
“Mid-state Suicide? Are you trying to help me relax or kill me?”
Miles laughed and reached for the pitcher to pour himself a beer.
“Hey,” she said. “You know the rules—shot first, beer second.”
“Oh, no, honey. The shots are for you. One to take the edge off, the other to keep it off.”
“But what about you?”
“Someone’s gotta drive us home tonight.”
Drive us home.
Longing pierced her heart. She’d gone without the true feeling of “us” or “home” for longer than she’d realized. Maybe even since she’d gotten married and moved away. Miles, though, had it made. He’d remained where his family was, stayed true to his roots. She envied him for that.
But on the heels of that envy came anger—for the poor choice in husband she’d made—and her bruised ego flared painfully once again. No way was she going to drink and wallow in front of Miles tonight. Besides, if she got him drinking, too, it would keep them out longer. The last thing she wanted to do was go back and sit in her room, hiding from the rest of the world the way she had every other night the past six months.
Stephanie sprinkled salt on her hand, licked it, tossed back the tequila, then bit into one of the lime wedges Mel had left behind. When the fire in her throat died down, she plucked the lime from her mouth and licked her lips. “Suit yourself. Chicken.”
His eyes narrowed.
She pushed the remaining shot across the table. “Bawk…bawk bawk bawk.”
Without taking his eyes off her, Miles snagged his cell from the corner of the table where he’d placed it. He glanced away only long enough to swipe the screen and dial. “You got anything going on? Good, ‘cause those million and one favors you owe me? I wanna cash one in tonight.”
One nod later the phone was gone and Miles was reaching for the tequila.
“Nobody,” he said, “calls me chicken.”
She watched him down the shot, a thrill of satisfaction settling upon her. Or maybe that was just the alcohol kicking in. “Nicely done, Mr. Masterson. It seems you haven’t cashed in your Man Card after all.”
“Keep with the teasing, and you’re gonna get yourself in a world of trouble, missy.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time,” she laughed.
Miles grinned and poured her a beer, passed it to her, and raised his own. “To the good old days.”
Stephanie sighed. What she wouldn’t give to go back to those days—before marriage, before her ex-husband’s ego had swollen to titanic proportions—even if it meant reliving that moment in college when she realized she’d fallen for Miles but he clearly hadn’
t felt the same. God, it’d been hard, watching him go out with a different girl every weekend.
But then Liam had come along and offered her a one-way ticket out of town.
Away from her overbearing mother, her fading soccer career, and the man she couldn’t have.
Tonight, though, she was pushing all that aside. Enough sulking and regrets—Stephanie missed having fun. With a smile she raised her glass to clink it against his.
“To the good old days.”
…
Miles hadn’t been this drunk in ages. Years, maybe. At first, he and Steph had paced themselves. A shot or two here, a refill or two of beers there. The woman could hold her liquor, he’d give her that. But the more glassy-eyed she’d become, the more her defenses came down.
And damn, she was beautiful when she wasn’t trying so hard to be somebody else.
Whatever marriage had done to her, or maybe all those days of trying to play the role of a professional golfer’s wife, it was clear Stephanie hadn’t been able to let her hair down for far too long. After watching her crumble post-interview back at the inn, his goal had been to get some food in her, maybe cheer her up. But as the drinks kept coming and his thoughts grew fuzzier, Miles found it wasn’t just her getting cheered up, it was him, too. Sharing stories, laughing it up—he hadn’t had this much fun with someone of the opposite sex since college.
Since Stephanie.
“I can’t drive us home,” she whispered so loudly the bouncer turned his head as they stumbled toward the front door together.
“Me, either,” he said. “You live too damned far away.”
Stephanie burst into a fit of giggles. Miles mouthed “DD” to the bouncer, who waved them on and turned his attention back to the dance floor, which had gotten louder and rowdier since half past that last pitcher of beer.
Good as his word, Brent was parked a short ways from the front door in Kayla’s Impala. He rolled the window down and shook his head as they approached. “Damn, cuz, just how much did you two put away?”
The sight was so unexpected, big strong Brent in Kayla’s laser blue cop car wannabe, that Miles took one look at the scene and keeled over with laughter.
“Shh, Miles.” Stephanie tugged at his arm. “Brent will be on to us if you can’t keep it down. He’ll know we’ve been drinking.”
