Crush on You

by Christie Ridgway

  He should apologize now. With a sigh, he glanced at his best friend, waiting patiently for him to compose himself, just as she’d done that night. “I’m sorry. I’m so damn sorry.”

  He saw her swallow. Then she stepped closer. “Make it up to me, then. Jordan got his, now you give me mine.”

  His eyes closed. Damn it. Damn them both. He refused to look at her.

  So he felt her next step instead of seeing it. Felt her naked toes bump his. When had she taken off her shoes? Then her hands slipped around his ribs and yanked his body against hers. Her body naked except for bra and panties.

  When had she taken off her clothes?

  Without his permission, his hand cupped the back of her head and brought her face against his chest. “I don’t know if I can do this, Clare.”

  Her hand slid to his crotch, into the notch of his open jeans and right over his hard shaft. “Feels like you’re perfectly able to me.”

  He groaned, pushing his hips into her unfair caress. “This isn’t right.”

  Her mouth pressed a kiss on top of the slamming pound of his heart. Her tongue gave him a delicate lick.

  His control broke. He scooped her up in his arms, then bore her down on the bed. She gasped, her eyes wide and fixed on his face.

  Oh, crap. Gentle, gentle, he told himself and loosened his hold on her. He lifted his weight so he wasn’t pinning her. “Are you breathing?” he asked, anxious. He had to outweigh her by more than a hundred pounds.

  “I don’t think so,” she whispered, her voice hoarse. But her arms twined around his head and brought her mouth to his. “Who needs air?”

  Yeah. Who needs air? She didn’t allow him any, either, as she took him into a series of hot, wet, deep kisses. There wasn’t any air between their bodies, either, thanks to the slim legs wrapped around his thighs. The rasp of the lace of her bra was an aphrodisiac in itself, the thought of what was beneath her panties enough to get him burning, and desperate to shuck his jeans.

  But she was like a clinging vine, a limpet, her skin and limbs sticking to him like they’d stuck together all their lives. He laughed, burying his face in the crook of her neck and breathing in her intoxicating scent. “This has gotta be done clothes-free, Clare.”

  “What?”

  He loved the dazzle in her eyes and rolled so that she was on top. “C’mon, pretty woman, show me what you’ve got.”

  Her hands went to the clasp of her bra at her back. A blush rushed over her face. “I . . . we never played doctor. Weird, huh?”

  He sat up so that he could handle the fasteners himself. “We were saving it for when we had something worth exploring.” The bra dropped to the bed and his breath caught. “Oh, Clare.”

  She was small and delicate, and her whole body shuddered when he covered her little mounds with his big hands. Her nipples were pebbles, smaller than pebbles, against his palms. So much blood rushed out of his head, he had to fall back to the pillows.

  Then Clare, so, so pretty, went to work, her breasts swaying as she kissed down his torso, paying attention to the ridges of white flesh on his ribs that were the aftermath of a shirtless skateboarding spill. When she reached his waistband, she drew free both his jeans and underwear, her mouth following the path of the retreating cotton. When she placed tiny kisses along the line of his knee-surgery scar, he almost came.

  “Get up here,” he growled. And then he yanked her to the head of the bed himself and went about proving he knew all her secret spots, too. There was the tiny mole on the underside of her chin, the tracery of blue veins in the inner crook of her elbow, the old softball injury on her kneecap, the—

  Her fingers took hold of his hair. “What do you have there?” she whispered.

  He glanced up at her. “The blast-off button.”

  She laughed. “What?”

  “Trust me, I’m a mechanic.” And she did trust him, she let him have everything, her legs pushed wide, her heels in the mattress, her arms welcoming as, after he’d made her cry out in climax, he slid inside her, one quarter inch at a time.

  “You’re hung like a horse,” she said, her voice breathless.

  “No, just proportional.” But he slowed his progress into the hot tightness of her, knowing with each small increment gained that she was cemented more firmly in his heart.

  “Gil?”

  But he was afraid to look at her. He was getting too close, they were getting too close, and he couldn’t risk her knowing that this would be the pinnacle of his sexual life. And wasn’t that depressing? One night with the woman he loved.

  “Ahh.” He groaned as he stroked the final distance. They were groin-to-groin, breast-to-chest, and he couldn’t regret it. Wouldn’t.

  They moved together easily. She clung tightly to him through every swing of his hips, but when he was only holding on by his pride, he managed to work a hand between them. To touch her again and take her high.

  His own release exploded as she came.

  “Blast off,” she murmured as they lay next to each catching their breath. “Can you make it like that every time?”

  “Oh—” But he swallowed the “yeah” he wanted to add. This wasn’t an ongoing state of affairs. This was a payback affair. Her way to settle the score with—

  “Jordan,” she said, reading Gil’s mind again.

  “How do you do that?” he asked. He lifted on an elbow and pushed the hair off her forehead with a finger.

  “You’re hung like a horse,” she said, “and your mind works in obvious ways.”

  “Hmph.” He dropped back to the pillows.

  “It’s why I know that you’re in love with me.”

  Oh, shit.

  “You wouldn’t have done this with me unless you were.”

  “I’ve slept with plenty of women I didn’t feel the slightest thing for,” he blustered, then shut up, realizing how low that made him sound.

  She laughed.

  “You know what I mean,” he grumbled.

  “But none of them were me.”

  The pooch was screwed. He didn’t even know what the hell that phrase meant—and if he hadn’t just had sex with his best friend, he would have asked the brainiac for the answer.

  “But don’t you worry,” she added. “I know this will all work out. I’ll even forgive you for lying to me.”

  “I thought I was getting forgiveness for lying with you,” he said drily.

  “Hung like a horse and sometimes funny, too.” Clare sat up, holding the sheet to her breasts. Her gaze met his. “But it’s okay with us now because I lied to you, too.”

  He was wary. “How’s that?”

  “This wasn’t about a power balance with Jordan. I gave him back his engagement ring this afternoon.” She held up her bare left hand.

  Huh. He hadn’t noticed. His heartbeat started picking up. His mouth dried. “So . . . so what was this about then?”

  She shrugged. “I wanted to see if you were any good in the sack before I committed myself to saying that I’m in love with you, too.”

  He stared at her. That beating heart was in his throat, his ears, shooting around his insides like a pinball. “Clare . . . Don’t kid me.”

  She threw herself on him. “I love you I love you I love you.” Her mouth peppered his face with kisses. “But you know that already. Listen, my BFF, and believe. I’m in love with you.”

  Oh, God. He cradled her in his arms, holding her against his trembling body. Made weak by 110 pounds of geeky girl. He’d be her bodyguard, and a damn close one. She was never getting away from him again.

  “I’m so damn scared,” he whispered against her hair.

  But she heard him. Her head lifted and she gazed on him, puzzled. “Why? And why didn’t you say anything since . . .”

  “Since those three hellish nights on Daphne’s couch,” he admitted.

  She smiled at him, tracing his mouth with her finger. “Why didn’t you say anything since those three hellish nights at Daphne’s?”

 
; “First, tell me when you fell in love with me.”

  “I can’t tell you when I fell in love with you—that might be on Daphne’s couch or at a softball game or maybe the night you took me to the prom. I can say I realized it when I kept replaying in my mind your toast at my bachelorette party. ‘Be happy,’ you said. ‘Be healthy. Be yourself.’ And I realized the man who saw me for myself, who cared for me for myself, was you.”

  He wanted to write that she loved him in the sky. Take out a full-page ad in the newspaper. Call up everyone in the skinny Edenville phone book and leave that exact message on their answering machine. Clare loves me. Instead he kissed her, but she still wasn’t giving up on her question.

  “Why?” she asked again.

  Why hadn’t he let her know.

  Sighing, he cupped her face in his hands. He’d been a coward. “Because I was afraid, Clare. Telling you would be risking everything we’ve had all these years. Did I dare that? If this didn’t work out between us—who was going to comfort me through the fall?” It could still go wrong.

  “That’s not going to happen,” she said, reading his mind again. Her arms tightened on him, as if the geek was the bodyguard after all. “And furthermore, if there is any trouble, we’ll be falling together. My mom’s going to be homicidal when I tell her I’m canceling the wedding.”

  17

  “Build me up!” the crowd of boys and girls shouted, their voices echoing off the cinderblock walls of the Edenville Kids’ Club, essentially a large rec room with linoleum floor, beanbag chairs, and a Ping-Pong table. Penn grinned at them and Alessandra took that as her cue to pass out the T-shirts advertising his show. Len Withers caught her eye and nodded with approval. An old family friend who ran the community rec center, he’d hit her up for an introduction to the TV star.

  It was clear from the call he’d made to her that Len had an agenda, and his wish had been granted, because here stood Penn Bennett for a special evening with the kids and their parents. First he gave a short demonstration of simple home repairs that a grown-up could accomplish with a child’s assistance. Following that he gave an even shorter speech aimed directly at the kids that was less about repairs and more about reliance on self.

  If the smoothness of his delivery didn’t confirm he’d done something similar before, the fact that he concluded the visit with yet another freebie did. Out of a cardboard box he’d lugged in from his truck, he pulled small plastic cases stamped with his show’s logo. They held a selection of basic tools.

  Alessandra wished she hadn’t tagged along for the event. Every smooth move he made, every practiced smile that flitted across his face soured her mood. She couldn’t wait to get home and get away from him.

  The last attendee trooped out, a five-year-old charmer in platinum pigtails who had given him a hug and a kiss in exchange for the kit. Restless and still irritable, Alessandra sidled up to him as he swung the door shut behind the child. “It’s always about the blondes with you, isn’t it?”

  He swung toward her, his eyebrows arched. “What bug bit the nun on the ass?”

  Her glare should have melted his half-smile. “I’m no nun, as you very well know,” she muttered.

  “What bug bit the nymphomaniac on the ass?”

  She wasn’t that, either. Hadn’t she stayed clear of Penn and sex for the last few days? She should have stayed clear of him tonight, too, but she’d hoped for a distraction from her fractious mood. She couldn’t explain her edginess. Jules was committed to Tanti Baci now, the cottage was nearly ready for its debut, and Penn . . .

  Frowning, Alessandra watched him fiddle with the rheostat light switch by the door. “What are you doing?”

  He crossed to the box of tool kits and yanked one out. “Hey, Len,” he said to the older man who was tidying the puzzles and books at the back of the room. “You mind if I fix this switch? I also noticed the sink back there is dripping . . .”

  “I’ll be grateful for whatever you can do,” Len said, approaching the exit with car keys in hand. “But I’m expected at my daughter-in-law’s for dessert. Can you two turn off the lights before you leave? The door locks automatically.”

  “Gotcha,” Penn said, and went back to his repair as the other man left the premises.

  Leaving her alone with the infuriating handyman for additional minutes. Dropping to one of the small tables, Alessandra contemplated his efficient movements, his confident stance, how handsome he was in worn jeans and distressed-leather moccasins. All Mr. Hollywood, she thought, her lip curling, her mood starting to smoke. She crossed her arms over her chest. “My, my, my. You’re quite the hero, aren’t you?” she said.

  He glanced at her again, that surprise once more on his face. “What?”

  “It’s a comment. About how good you are at playing the leading man.”

  He narrowed his eyes at her. “Where’s this coming from? I did this gig as a favor to you.”

  Other favors, too. Finishing the cottage. Ending her five-year celibacy. Each pricked at her. “And it’s why I felt obligated to assist tonight. But the fact is, you sop up the attention.” She knew she sounded surly, but she didn’t care. “Don’t you ever get tired of people fawning over you?”

  “What the hell?” He turned and folded his arms over his chest. He looked a little hot under the collar, too. “Is it that you’re afraid I’m going to push Saint Tommy off the Edenville pedestal?”

  Her temper felt like a weight that hung from her eyebrows, pulling at her head and making it ache. “Don’t talk about Tommy,” she snapped.

  “Or maybe it’s you.” The edge to his voice matched hers. “You don’t want to lose your standing to someone else. The Nun of Napa has been revered here for five long years, thanks to her tragic loss and subsequent martyrdom.”

  “I—”

  “Did you ever think it might be better for all concerned to take off that damn weepy wedding dress you metaphorically don every day and start living your life again?”

  Her throat closed, but she refused to let him see he’d made her angry enough to cry. So she turned away, tamping down her ire as she crossed to the teacher-sized desk at the back of the room. There was a calendar there and some stacked notes. Obviously where Len did his paperwork. She pretended an interest in a garishly painted rock paperweight, holding down a check.

  “I’m just making the point,” she mumbled, aware of her pettiness, but powerless to stop it, “that you don’t need to personally fix every leaky faucet and faulty light. You could just donate some money or something.”

  She heard his sigh from across the room. “Why are we fighting?”

  “I don’t know.” Moody, miserable, she idly nudged the rock paperweight.

  “Well, whatever, whyever, let’s get over it, huh? I’m only here until Sunday, and I don’t want to be constantly trading snipes these few short days left.”

  His words didn’t sink in as she stared at the check anchored to the desk. Oh, wouldn’t you know. It was made out to the kids’ club. Five figures. A personal check signed by Penn.

  You could just donate some money or something.

  Great, now she felt both crabby and small. Wait . . . what had he just said? Short. A few short days left. Something cramped inside her at the spot between her breasts.

  “You’re . . . you’re going?” She should be relieved, she thought. Even if she was stuck here with him now, soon he’d be gone for good.

  “On Sunday. But don’t worry, until then I’ll be available for any emergency fixes at the cottage.”

  “My personal handyman.”

  He pressed the rheostat on, off, then spun the dial. It didn’t stutter or blink, but performed without a flaw. Shoving the screwdriver in his back pocket, he turned to face her. A faint smile crossed his face. “Like I told you, I’m good with my hands.”

  She tilted her head, struck by a new thought. “How come?”

  He headed for the sink at the back of the room. “How come I’m good with my hands? I’m guess
ing you don’t want to hear about those Lights Out parties I went to in seventh grade.”

  Seventh grade? Yeesh. “No. I’m being serious.”

  “In college, I got a bachelor’s in Commercial Construction,” he said, fiddling with the faucet handle. “But my real education came from living in a sequence of crappy apartments. On TV they have supers in tool belts who live in the building. In real life, you better learn to fix the toilet and sink yourself. And if you’re poor, the toaster, the TV the neighbor’s throwing out, and the hole in the drywall the cockroaches are using as a hallway.”

  Alessandra repressed her shudder. She thought of Liam and Seth who had grown up with luxuries and comfort. Without cockroaches. “It would be natural to resent your half brothers,” she mused aloud.

  “What?” He turned to face her. “No. It’s no more their fault than mine who contributed half our DNA and how Calvin Bennett handled that.”

  “You must have wanted a father.”

  He shrugged. “I made one up. Yeah, I felt the lack when the other kids in school had dads to talk about—even if their folks were divorced. So I created one of my own. He was a soldier, stationed in Hawaii, which made him too far away to visit.”

  “Hawaii?” she repeated with a little laugh.

  Penn shrugged again. “Might as well have been Timbuktu as far as my mom’s ability to pay for airline tickets was concerned. Plus it sounded exotic. Waikiki. Diamond Head. Pearl Harbor.”

  Poor kid. Though she knew Penn the successful television star wouldn’t welcome her pity, she couldn’t help but feel for Penn-the-boy, who had learned to fix things in his world as best he could. Another ache had her rubbing her chest and she bowed her head, exhausted by the emotional overload. Since the day he’d shown up in her life, she felt as if she’d been swinging between depression and delight, never quite finding her balance.

  Would that sensation go away when he did?

  Because he was going away. In a few short days.

  Her head lifted. “You’ll be back though, right? You don’t blame Liam and Seth, so you’ll be back for weekends, holidays . . .” Her words died off as she read the answer on his face. “You’re leaving Edenville forever?”