Crush on You

by Christie Ridgway

  Gentleman to the marrow, he hastened toward the sedan and then eight pairs of female hands reeled the Italian Stallion into the dark leather interior. Stevie, acting as chauffeur, snapped closed the locks once the door was shut behind him.

  Gil blinked at the legion of young women in cocktail dresses. Then he grinned. “All right, I’ll go along quietly, sweethearts, as long as you promise there’ll be handcuffs later.”

  Alessandra shook her head. Her cousin’s easy way with women reminded her of Penn—but she wasn’t thinking of Penn tonight. This was a girls’ night—Gil really didn’t count in this particular instance—and she was determined to keep her focus on something other than Pining Penn and the Hollywood hottie he couldn’t forget.

  Stevie pulled out of the parking lot and onto the street as she called through the open privacy panel. “Sorry, bud, this celebration’s not for you . . . it’s Clare’s bachelorette party.”

  “Oh no,” he said, a look of panic crossing his face. “Don’t make me—”

  “You’re the Man of Honor,” Giuliana reminded him. “It’s your job to be there.”

  “Nobody told me, and if they had I wouldn’t have—”

  “Exactly,” she continued. “That’s why we decided to make it a surprise for you . . . as well as for Clare.”

  “She doesn’t know about this.”

  “Nope. Another limo is kidnapping her, too.”

  Alessandra didn’t understand the look of dread on her cousin’s handsome face. “How bad can it be, Gil? You know you love the ladies.”

  “Yeah. Love ’em.” He closed his eyes. “Is there a beer lurking in that fridge?”

  Two of the single girls cheered, and then a double-fist of longnecks were passed down the row. Gil took them both, hammering down one, then the other. He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth and said just a single word more. “Again.”

  A two hundred twenty-five pound man could pack away a lot of alcohol to little effect, Alessandra discovered as they made their way into the small restaurant they’d rented for the evening on the outskirts of Edenville. It was a mom-and-pop place that was usually open only for breakfast and lunch, but was available for special evening events. The bridesmaids had decorated with flowers and streamers and paper wedding bells. Alessandra’s added touch was a R2-D 2 dressed as a bride and C-3PO in groom-wear.

  When she set them on the table they’d designated as the bar at the rear of the room, Gil appeared woozy for the first time. He grabbed another beer from the ice bucket and rocked back on his feet as he stared at the Star Wars robots. “Those are wrong,” he muttered. “Some pairings are just not meant to be.”

  Alessandra frowned. “Is it some sort of geek sacrilege? I don’t know all the rules.”

  “Me neither,” Gil muttered. He threw himself into a chair at a nearby table. “For example, I thought these kind of parties were man-free zones.”

  “Except for those men willing to striptease,” Stevie said, striding up to them.

  Gil jumped from his chair. “I’m not—”

  “Kidding, big boy.” Stevie pushed him back into his seat. “We nixed the nude dancers because we figured Clare’s mother and in-laws-to-be would faint from the fun of it.”

  Gil drained his latest beer. “Don’t tell me they’re going to be here, too.”

  Commotion at the doorway drew their attention. Another contingent of women had arrived, including Clare, her mother, and some of Jordan’s female family members. “Great,” Gil said. Standing up, he reached for another beer, then started toward the newcomers. “Better get this over with.”

  Giuliana brushed past him on her way to join Alessandra and Stevie. Her eyebrows rose in question. “What’s with the death march? Gil looks like he has an appointment with Madame Guillotine.”

  Stevie fished a bottle of water from the ice. “I never waste my time trying to figure out men.”

  Stepping closer, Giuliana tapped her plastic glass of wine against Stevie’s beverage. “A woman after my own heart.”

  “Uh-oh,” Alessandra said. Her sisters sat down at the table Gil had vacated and she took a third chair. They were in an out-of-the-way corner, far from the celebrating crowd, but she lowered her voice, anyway. “Jules, does this mean it’s definitely over between you and that guy from Redondo Beach . . . Dusty?”

  “Dustin.” She studied the wine in her glass. “He started talking the whole shebang. Living together. Marriage.”

  “And you weren’t ready,” Stevie supplied.

  “I know I’ll never be ready for what he wants. He’s crazy for kids.”

  Alessandra’s gaze jumped to meet Stevie’s over their older sister’s head. They exchanged an unspoken, Huh?

  “You, um,” Alessandra cleared her throat, “like kids.”

  “I like kids, I just don’t want them,” Giuliana said, her tone flat. “So Dustin and I broke up. What was the point?”

  A breakup, a no-babies decree, where to start? “Well.”

  Stevie drummed her fingers against the tabletop for several moments, then spoke. “All right, I’ll just spit it out—and you can say I’m taking this wrong, but I can’t keep quiet. When you say you don’t want kids, Jules, it feels like you’re rejecting what we had. That somehow our family, that me, that Allie . . . that you don’t value us.”

  Giuliana didn’t look up, didn’t reply, and Alessandra jumped into the silence. “A woman isn’t required to want kids, for goodness’ sake. You know that, Stevie. We all know that. As a matter of fact—”

  “Don’t tell me you don’t yearn for little fat-cheeked bambinos, Allie,” Stevie interjected. “You’re the most traditional of the three of us.”

  “You say that because I was going to be married at twenty. But have you ever thought that maybe I was too young to make that kind of decision? Maybe it was a mistake and nobody saw that through the romance of it all . . .” Her voice drifted off as she registered the shock on both her sisters’ faces.

  Where had that come from? Why had she spoken aloud private musings that only showed up in the middle of deep, dark nights? Heat flooded her face. “Anyway, how is the Nun of Napa going to make any of those fat-cheeked bambinos you’re talking about? Immaculate Conception?”

  Pity supplanted the surprise on Stevie’s face. “Okay, I’ll give you that. Your sex life is arguably the worst of anyone’s in this room. Maybe in the entire valley.”

  Alessandra sniffed, ignoring the guilty image of a naked Penn Bennett beside her in bed. He was out of her mind, remember? “Thank you.” Then she frowned. “I think.”

  Giuliana suddenly grabbed her hand. Then Stevie’s. “You’ve got it wrong,” their sister said in a fierce whisper. “I value you, insults and nosiness included. I cherish you.”

  Tears stung Alessandra’s eyes. She looked over, to see Stevie suffering the same. “Then stay,” their middle sister said. “Allie wants to make a go of the winery, and we can’t do that without you.”

  “I can’t guarantee that will happen if I move back,” Giuliana said. “If we survive the summer—and that’s a big ‘if’ right there—that’s just the beginning.”

  Alessandra squeezed her sister’s fingers, her throat tight. “If we survive the summer, then we set the next goal. Making it to New Year’s, then making it to the one hundredth birthday next June. I’m sure we can do it, Jules. Say you’ll stay.”

  A small smile curved Giuliana’s mouth, then she shrugged. “I already gave my notice. Since I’ve been on a leave of absence since March, they weren’t surprised.”

  Stevie’s jaw dropped, then she cuffed her big sister on the side of the head.

  “Ow!”

  “When were you planning on telling us?” she demanded.

  “I only made the call today. With Wedding Fever giving us the promo . . . I decided to take a page from Allie’s book and have some faith in happy endings.”

  Stevie beamed Alessandra’s way. “Gotta love the little sap.”

  “Hey.
” Alessandra’s glare softened as she turned her gaze on her oldest sister. “But are you sure, Jules? What about . . . are you okay about being so near, um, Liam?”

  Her sister’s gaze dropped, but her voice held firm. “Of course.”

  Alessandra took her at her word. She knew she was smiling, because this was great, the Mouseketeers were a trio again and it was the kind of distraction that would keep her from thinking of Him-Who-Was-Heartbroken. “Then let’s tell everyone!”

  Giuliana laughed. “This is Clare’s big night. And I’m not sure ‘everyone’ will really care.”

  “At least let’s tell Gil.” Getting the news outside their small circle of sisters would make it feel more real. “He’s going to be so happy for us.”

  Their three heads turned toward him.

  Alessandra’s exuberance dipped. Clare stood at the front of the room, surrounded by other women. Her face was flushed, and she had a near-empty glass of wine in her hand. From the looks of things, it wasn’t the first she’d drained. The usually reserved Clare was chatting away, making large gestures with her free hand.

  One wild motion almost cold-cocked Gil, who sat on top of a table behind her, staring at the bride-to-be.

  “Eek,” Alessandra said, expressing what she guessed they were all thinking. “The look on his face says . . .”

  “Misery,” Stevie put in.

  “Heartbreak,” Giuliana added.

  Oh, crap, not Gil, too? “He’s in love with her,” Alessandra pronounced, then groaned.

  Unrequited love. It was wrenching to watch. It was painful to contemplate. It was all around her.

  And then Penn was in her head again, just like he shouldn’t be. The damn man never stayed banished for long. She recalled the tension in his arm, the tick in his jaw, the trampy tart for whom he still carried a torch. Geez, but he had lousy taste in lovers. Present company excepted.

  “What should we do?” Stevie asked.

  Giuliana shrugged. “What can we do?”

  “Just be there for him,” Alessandra mused. “Provide comfort, distraction . . .” Sex.

  Oops, there she went thinking about Penn again.

  But the man hovered in her mind, even as presents were opened, appetizers eaten, a sugary cake consumed. He was still there as she played a few silly shower games, “winning” a plethora of gag gifts, including a pair of velvet handcuffs that she tried to pawn off on Gil, but somehow ended up back in her possession. As Stevie commented, quite the haul for the woman with the worst sex life in the county.

  And who couldn’t put from her mind a man preoccupied by someone else.

  Gil figured nothing short of a direct lightning strike would rouse Clare—a long shot since she was passed out in the back of Stevie’s limo. The driver met his gaze in the rearview mirror as she pulled in front of his half of the duplex they shared.

  “Will you be all right with her?” she asked. “It might take me a while to get back . . .”

  “Sure.” There were five other young women slumped in the passenger area under varying influences of alcohol, sugar, and risqué party games. Instead of making the duplex the last stop, however, they’d decided it should be first. If Clare came around during the miles of winding road ahead, the outcome might require a full interior detailing of Stevie’s fancy vehicle.

  Better to get Clare stationary—and close to the facilities—sooner than later.

  To that end, he took her up in his arms and carried her from the car to his front door. One of the departing young ladies managed an admiring—if drowsy—yeehaw! of admiration. Clare herself didn’t stir until he placed her gently on his couch. Then, just as he was drawing a blanket over her, she sat up, looking as bright-eyed as morning.

  “Hey!” She glanced around, her expression puzzled. She pushed the woven fabric aside, revealing the red dress she was wearing. It had drawn his gaze all night, the color as sweet as a cherry Popsicle, the low cut and short skirt something that had made him sweat beneath his calm façade.

  “Is the party over?” she asked.

  In more ways than one, he thought, dress going out of his head as he damned Jordan Wilson for his continued silence. When Clare broke it off with her fiancé after she heard the truth, she’d have yet another pre-wedding ritual to regret. “We popped the cork on the last bottle of champagne an hour ago,” Gil told her.

  She pouted, an action so un-Clare that he couldn’t help but smile. “You had fun,” he said. It was hard to be angry about that.

  “I like champagne.” Then she frowned, her fingers going to her head. “Is it the bubbles or the ugly truth? Did I really see R2-D2 and C-3PO in wedding wear?”

  He dropped next to her, now grinning. “Alessandra said they were bride and groom wine bottle covers that she altered for tonight’s event.”

  “Poor robots,” she said, but it was accompanied by a goofy smile.

  He shook his head. “Poor Clare. You’re going to have a hell of a hangover tomorrow.”

  Her cheek landed on his shoulder. “But for now I feel sooo wonderful.”

  Sliding a hand around her, he tried adjusting her position, which only led her boneless body to half-sprawl over him. That goofy smile lit up her face again as she gazed up. “You wanna hear a secret?”

  No, and he didn’t want to tell one right now, either. This wasn’t the time. “First rule of over-imbibing: Do not drunk-dial, drunk-text, or drunk-tell.”

  “I’m not drunk!”

  Bombed, then. “Okay, baby, whatever you say.”

  Her smile turned smug. “I love the way you call me baby.” She sang the phrase as a catchy little tune.

  His heart jolted. “You do?”

  “It’s from a Gap commercial.” Her eyes closed. “In my favorite ones, the people dance. In khakis, I think. You look scrumptious in khakis.”

  “ ‘Scrumptious’?” He laughed, because it was a word he’d never imagined in Clare’s vocabulary. “You really are toasted.”

  She jerked straight, then put her hand to her head as if it was spinning. “The toast! Your toast. I didn’t imagine that either, did I?”

  He shifted on the cushions. “I don’t know what you mean. Yeah, I gave a toast. Someone told me I had to, being I’m the Man of Honor.” And even knowing everything he knew, he hadn’t been able to find a way out of it.

  “Say it all again,” Clare demanded.

  “No.” When she continued staring at him, he shook his head. “No. I don’t even remember—”

  “I’ll help.” Her voice lowered in a terrible imitation of his own. “ ‘To the girl on the playground . . .’ ”

  He groaned. “Clare . . .”

  She grabbed one of his hands in both of hers. “Please. If you love me, you’ll say it again.”

  If you love me . . .

  He closed his eyes to savor her touch. “To the girl on the playground, to the girl at the prom. To my friend, to my fellow on this road, to the female in my life who makes me laugh and think and slay all her spiders.” Opening his eyes, he took a breath and then drew the back of his free hand against her warm cheek. “Be happy. Be healthy. And most of all, be yourself.”

  Clare let go of his hand and fell back against the cushions in a mock swoon. “You’re amazing. Every woman in the room must have fallen to her knees following that little speech. I can’t believe it didn’t get you laid tonight.”

  “Maybe I still have hopes.”

  She froze.

  Damn! Hell! Crap! What had made him say that, and say it in the voice he usually saved for when he had something by Marvin Gaye oozing through the air or his favorite seduction song of all time, “Cyprus Avenue.”

  Her gaze drifted to one of the silent speakers in the corner of the room. “What? No Van Morrison?”

  He laughed. Whew. “We’ve been friends too long if you know all my moves. You find them humdrum.”

  She rolled her head on the cushion to look at him, her blue eyes a little sleepy now. “I don’t know about that. Wh
en I was considering who could be my last single girl fling, the only one who came to mind was you.”

  It was his turn to freeze. “Come again?”

  “Last. Single. Girl. Fling.” A pause. “You.”

  Reserved, quiet Clare wouldn’t dream of a last single girl fling. But if she did, wouldn’t she wish for a fling with . . .

  Her best friend. The Man of Honor.

  Of course she would.

  He was the one whose refusal she counted upon. His Clare could be daring if she had that safety net in place. She’d insisted on climbing a tree knowing he’d do it for her. Her decision to go camping came with the full expectation that he’d never make her face the wild beasts of the night alone. Yep, her safety net. That’s all he was to her. That’s how she saw him.

  And it was starting to piss him off.

  He’d smiled, sacrificed, stayed silent for so effing long. There’d been dozens of women in his life—the Italian Stallion loved women—but this one, this particular woman thought she had him pegged.

  Clare presumed she could thrill herself by throwing out the word fling because it wasn’t dangerous. Not when her best bud would let her play with matches without ever letting a single one catch fire.

  Bullshit.

  “It’s that damn red dress,” he murmured, then he reached out and hauled her against him. A squeak of surprise came from her mouth, but he muffled any further sounds with his lips. Hers opened beneath his, and then his tongue stroked into her mouth, and he could taste the tart bubbles of the night’s champagne . . . and the strawberry lip gloss of her teenage years, the chocolate of their hundreds of shared Milky Ways—her half always larger—even the graham crackers and milk that were a kindergarten snack.

  One of her hands landed on his thigh and it was his brain revolving in a drunken spin. He slanted his mouth to take the kiss deeper, his heart slamming like a piston. His inner works needed a mechanic, he thought, pulling Clare into his lap, and she was here, the fix he craved.

  Her free arm curled around his neck and he stilled, just reveling in the feel of her light weight against his groin, the side of her breast against the wall of his chest. She squirmed, her ass against his hard-on, and he groaned at the goodness of it, and slid his hand up her thigh, over her belly, to cup the mound of her breast.