by Liz Crowe
“I’ll come to your stupid Memorial Day thing,” he said.
“I knew you would,” Jax said, getting up and smacking him on the shoulder. “Thanks for this. We needed a break. I’ll tell Skye to add you to the guest list.”
“Yeah, okay,” he said, tugging his phone from his pocket and pondering it a few seconds, trying to remember which woman he’d been with most recently who seemed worth a potential replay. He rarely asked for their contact info. Wade almost never anticipated a do-over, a second go-round. But his nerve endings were twitching and humming in a way he knew nothing but a hard fuck would allay.
He found a name, smiled, and sent her a text.
She was there within the hour, and he lost himself in her, using some of his oldest, favorite moves and toys—the cuffs, a paddle, the works. When he woke the next morning, the other side of the bed was blessedly empty.
Chapter Four
“So, as you can see, this house hits all your hot buttons,” Sam said, her voice hoarse from running her mouth non-stop for the last five hours. She leaned on the counter of the seventh, or maybe the eighth kitchen of the day, watching as the out-of-towners tromped through the place, muttering under their breath, comparing it to the other houses in wherever it was they’d come from. She’d forgotten already.
Sam felt a weird, off-her-game kind of wooziness that seemed to permeate her from head to toe. She straightened and attempted to look more alert when the couple made their slow way back through the huge kitchen in the mini mansion.
“All right, I think we’ve seen enough,” the tall, snooty woman said, looking down her aquiline nose at Sam. “You told us you had one more, right? One slightly bigger than these others?”
Sam nodded and flipped the pages of her tour itinerary. “Yes, this one, right here. I think it might be—”
The woman snatched the paper from her. Sam bit her tongue against the urge to remind her that she had the same stack of listings herself but had left them in the car. After a few seconds, the woman handed the papers back with a fake smile. “Perhaps,” she said, fluffing her hair. “Let’s look at it anyway.”
“Yes, let’s,” Sam said, grinding her jaw in frustration. They exited, and she locked the place up, sensing a buzz in her skirt pocket when a text message hit her phone. She pulled it out, anticipating any number of people, including her assistant, a buyer waiting for an answer on an offer, and at least two sellers she’d been courting. It was none of those.
Hey, it’s Wade Roberts. Remember me? I was wondering if you might consider coming by on Tuesday, say around six p.m.? I really do want your opinion, now that I have your competitor’s.
As she contemplated this message, her ears flaming hot and her face no doubt as red as a beet, she saw another one hit, this one from Skye:
Be sure and bring your suit tomorrow. You are still coming to the BBQ, right?
Sam sighed, ignored them both, got into her car, and forced herself to sound perky and confident as she drove the annoying relocating doctor and his witchy wife to their final stop.
**
Sam woke on Memorial Day morning bright and early, had her allotted one cup of coffee, and opened her laptop, eager to finalize some deals before she took the afternoon and evening off—something she really didn’t want to do but had promised her friend she would. Work was the one thing that truly soothed her, she acknowledged as she watched her email inbox populate with the various good news-bad news combination of messages.
Sam spent a couple of hours between back-and-forth negotiations on behalf of her first-time buyer, soothing the frazzled ‘we don’t have offers yet’ nerves of two of her more high-maintenance sellers, and sending along the information about that last obnoxious new-money mansion she’d shown the day before. Finally, she pushed away from her kitchen table and stood for a stretch.
She’d bought one of the downtown high rise condos a few years ago and still adored its anonymity, not to mention the rooftop pool area where she’d go most Friday evenings with her glass of wine and trashy novel to relax before bed. The kitchen was austere black and white with touches of stainless. The light colored hardwoods gleamed. The master suite was big and had a deep soaking tub in the bathroom that she used at least twice a week.
With a sigh, she hauled out her yoga mat and flipped on a streaming service she’d found that allowed her to do exactly forty minutes of exercise a day—about the only time she could allot to it. Sam hated exercising. Truly despised it. But given her tendency to push into double digits with her jeans size, thanks to an innate inability to deny herself when it came to food, she forced herself to endure it.
With stretches, ab crunches, and weights completed, she lay sprawled on her back and ticked ‘stay under a size ten’ off her to-do list for the day. Unbidden, and without warning, the image of Wade Roberts wafted across her brain. The memory of his biceps as he hauled himself up and out of the pool, the incredible terrain of his back, shoulders, and ass, and that full frontal he’d treated her to made her shiver and roll onto her side, eyes clenched tight shut.
She had no business thinking about him, naked or otherwise. He was an inconsiderate ass, and she would not be meeting him, listing his million-dollar plus house, or anything else. Especially not the anything else.
But he was so flipping hot. Hotter than any real man had a right to be.
Sam sighed and pushed herself up, stripping out of her shorts and sports bra before heading to the shower. Hot men were off her agenda. She’d dated one in college, and he’d spent half the time she thought they were together screwing every girl on her dorm floor and the other half turning her into an emotionally dependent wreck.
Sam had never considered herself pretty or desirable. She’d been the fat girl in high school and had endured all the teenaged ugliness until she graduated and had taken a long look at herself in her purple graduation gown.
The summer between high school and her freshman year of college Sam had gone on an absolute tear—going entire days eating nothing but lettuce, tomatoes, and cottage cheese in between bouts of running, sit-ups, push-ups, doing anything and everything she could to wrestle her stubborn body into a size eight.
She did all this alone—as she’d done most things in her life. As an only child of moody, reclusive college professors, Sam had learned early in her life that if she wanted entertainment, she would have to take care of that herself. And she’d never felt comfortable with girls her own age once she was labeled as the class cow in sixth grade.
When she’d checked into her dorm, she’d felt slim and, if not pretty, at least not like a fatty. After a semester spent taking diet pills and partying, thanks to her roommate’s eagerness for that versus actually going to class, she’d worked herself down to a size six—the smallest she’d been since she’d been six, most likely. And she loved it.
Then she’d met Tommy.
Sam sighed and put her hands on the cool expanse of tile in the shower, willing all that out of her head. It served no useful purpose anymore. Besides, she’d rebounded from him and his four-year reign of emotionally abusive terror.
When she emerged from the shower, already contemplating an excuse to skip Skye and Jax’s cookout, her phone was buzzing its way across her dresser. Wrapping up in a huge cotton towel, she answered it, putting it on speaker so she could keep getting dressed. “Hey, Skye. What’s up?”
“Just making sure you aren’t figuring out a way to not show up today. I know how you are.”
Sam smiled and picked up her hairbrush. “I just got out of the shower, as a matter of fact. Are you sure I can’t bring anything?”
“Girl, please,” Skye said. “The pig’s been in the pit for twenty-four hours, and I’ve got deviled eggs, broccoli slaw, potato salad, and every other damn thing coming out of my ears. Oh, fair warning, Jax is gonna try and fix you up.”
“Again?” Sam frowned at her reflection, noting that her eyes were bloodshot from lack of sleep these last few nights. Nights she’d spent
tossing and turning in between some of the most erotic dreams she’d ever had, starring that asshole, Wade Roberts.
“Yeah. Sorry. It’s a new guy, Calvin—Cal—Morrison. He’s a transfer. Just moved here last week.”
“New guy, huh?” Sam pulled the brush through her wet hair, then slipped off the towel, forcing herself to look at her figure in the mirror. It had taken her several years post-Tommy to be able to do that. The bastard had done such a number on her, she reflected as she ran her hand down her decently trim waist and hips, not thrilled with the tiny bulge of her belly, but figured it was better than starving herself. “He need a place to live? I’ll sell him something.”
Her friend laughed, making Sam smile. She’d never had a close girlfriend. Once Tommy invaded her life, he’d more or less cut her off from other friends. Skye was just the right mix of easy-going and nosy. Sam had come to rely on her in ways she never thought she would another person.
“I’m sure you will. Hey, did you ever meet up with Wade?”
“Nope,” she said. “He blew me off.” Sam gnawed on her lower lip a few seconds, wishing she could tell Skye the whole story.
“Blew you off? Seriously?”
“Yeah, I’ll tell you about it later. I need to do a few more things before I—”
“I know, I know,” Skye interrupted her. “Always be selling, that’s you, my friend. See you around four-thirty.”
“Yeah, see you.” She was about to touch end call on her phone screen when Skye spoke again.
“Fair warning, Sam. Wade’s gonna be here today, too. Bye,” she said, ending the call before Sam could respond.
She blinked fast down at the phone, heart pounding so hard she felt it against the inside of her ribcage, like a quick, nauseating, drumbeat.
**
At four-forty-five, she pulled into the long drive at Jax and Skye’s ranch, jaw set, sweaty, nervous and pissed off over it. She pulled the Porsche in behind a sleek, black Lincoln Navigator with a ‘Hook ’em Horns’ license plate. After taking a long, deep breath, she grabbed the bouquet of expensive yet casual-looking wildflowers from the passenger’s seat and got out.
She’d not brought her suit. There was no way in this life or any other she’d feel comfortable enough to expose herself to a party of strangers, plus the one man she’d seen stark naked and who refused to exit her fantasies ever since. The only place she ever wore a bathing suit was at her own roof-top pool where she could remain anonymous—just another busy, young, professional condo-owner, taking a few laps, then drinking a single glass of red wine on a Friday night.
Lame, she thought as the Texas summer heat slapped her in the face, along with a layer of dust from the driveway. Sam squared her shoulders and reminded herself that she had closed three real estate deals in the last week that had netted her over sixty-thousand bucks. Her own damn bucks. No one else’s. Size ten ass be damned.
But the insidious whisper of ‘you don’t belong here’ followed her as she put one flat-sandaled foot in front of the other on her way toward the sound of a party. It had taken her almost as long as it had to look at herself naked in the mirror to be able to attend a large social gathering without the need to throw up, cry, or bolt.
Sam raised her chin, fixed on a smile, banished the negative from her brain and walked around the side of the sprawling ranch-style house to the party area Jax and Skye had built between the house and Skye’s commercial bakery.
“Sam!” a voice called out.
She sucked in a breath and walked up the steps to the flagstone patio surrounding the pool. She hugged Skye, handed over her flowers, and pulled her hair up off her neck with a ponytail holder.
As if predestined, her gaze landed square on Wade Roberts. He stood a few feet from her dressed in a pair of board shorts and nothing else, a bottle of beer dangling between his first and second fingers. His stance—at once cocky and relaxed—sent a jolt of lust, the likes of which she’d never experienced, from the base of her brain and down her spine before it settled low in her belly. She sucked in a sharp breath and grabbed the back of a chair.
“You all right?” Skye eyeballed her then looked over to see where Sam was staring. “Oh, yeah. Him.” She turned Sam away and guided her toward the bar where Jax was manning a blender full of greenish ice, talking to a tall, boyishly handsome, brown-haired man. “Cal, this is Sam—Samantha—Weaver. She’s the realtor we were telling you about.”
Cal stuck out his hand. She took it, her ears buzzing. “Here you go,” Jax said, pouring two salt-rimmed glasses full of his secret recipe frozen Margaritas and handing them to her and Cal. “Y’all go on and find a seat.”
Sam took hers and tried to glare at Jax, horrified and embarrassed at this blatant setup. But Cal just shrugged and held out his elbow. Still shaking, she took it and let him lead her to a covered area opposite the outdoor kitchen, full of rattan couches and chairs. She sat, sipped, made small talk, tried to be polite, all the while melting slowly but surely as she observed Wade. He flirted, cavorted, rough-housed in the pool, drank beer and caught her gaze just often enough to keep the melt-down going.
Before she knew it, she’d had two of the too-strong drinks, and her fingertips were numb. She and Cal were leaned back, shoulders touching, feet up on the ottoman in front of them. He was nice, she realized, smiling into her third drink. And calling him boyishly handsome didn’t do him credit. But when he shifted to put an arm around her, she stiffened.
The music seemed to blare extra loud, hurting her head. Laughter, screams, conversations—they all pressed in on her, making her heart pound even harder. She lurched forward, drunk, she knew, and about to be rude to this nice man who’d been flirting with her for the last hour.
“Sam, you all right?” Cal had taken her drink before she dropped it. “Hey, whoa!” His voice wavered. His face got wobbly in her vision as she tried to get to her feet.
“I’m . . . I’m good,” she insisted even as her knees buckled beneath her.
Her one thought before blacking out was that it sure was lucky she’d fainted at a party full of damn paramedics.
Chapter Five
Wade somehow knew she’d be there and had convinced himself it didn’t matter. That he’d forgotten all about her. Wade had done plenty to exorcise her, thanks to a couple of hotties he’d convinced to tag-team him. He’d not had a good three-way in years, had forgotten how awesome they could be, and had made a mental note to find willing participants more often.
But when she emerged at the top of the steps to the patio holding an oversized bouquet, his heart felt like it had damn well stopped, before stuttering ahead, skipping a few beats and making him clammy all over. He sipped a beer and watched her as she hugged their hostess, handed over the flowers, and reached back to pull her long, sleek black hair up in a ponytail.
He knew it was ridiculous. He’d seen her all of a few seconds that day at his place. What in the hell made him think he wanted anything from her?
But he couldn’t drag his gaze from her as she stood and chatted a few seconds with Skye before making her way over to the bar where Jax was mixing up some kind of disgusting, girlie crap in a blender.
The sway of her hips in the short, denim skirt mesmerized him as he sipped, frozen in place while the party marched on all around him. Her arms were strong-looking, not bony twigs like a lot of the women he’d been with lately. She had a red, tight-fitting tank top tucked into the skirt, which emphasized her drop-dead perfect hourglass figure.
Wade was shocked to find that his damn mouth was watering. He’d always appreciated a woman with an actual figure. Women should have some flesh on them, he’d always declared, even though his string of recent bedmates were more the social X-ray, scrawny types. Disgusted with himself, he put the bottle to his lips as she shook the hand of some kid who stood next to Jax.
Wade’s entire body went on a high possessive alert he hadn’t experienced since his wife revealed the fact that she’d been boning some surgeon. He gr
ipped the now-empty bottle, knowing he must look like a complete idiot, gawking at the woman since she’d arrived.
When Jax handed her and the young man a couple of margaritas, and the punk had held out his elbow for her, the top of Wade’s head felt like it would blow off. He swallowed hard and made his wobbly way over to the huge cooler, overflowing with Shiner Bock, Budweiser, and some other of the more frou-frou beers people were into these days. Cap popped on his second Shiner of the day, he knocked back half of it, straining his eyes to see her again.
But she’d disappeared into the gloom of the covered part of the patio with that punk kid.
Wade took a long breath. At that moment he met Jax’s gaze. The man was frowning at him. Wade shrugged, flipped his friend off for no real reason, polished off the brew then turned to find some girl to flirt with, maybe to lure into Jax’s house for a quick screw to take off the edge.
After an hour or so, he let himself believe he’d forgotten her. Between a rough game of water polo, then chasing a giggly, probably-too-young-for-him female around a while before cornering her behind the outdoor kitchen for a kiss and a grope, he felt a little more like himself. Skye and her catering crew were setting out tables full of food. The pig had been dug up and hand-shredded, and it smelled like a slice of pure heaven.
He put down another empty, refusing to count them in his head. He’d already promised Jax he’d stay the night anyway and had narrowed his fuckable targets down to a couple of likely prospects—if he could manage to get it up. He was well on the way down the road to drunk, not to mention obsessed with that damn realtor lady.
“Shit,” he muttered when he stumbled on his way to the john after disentangling himself from the clutches of some random woman in the process. Once he’d taken a leak and re-emerged, he sought out a water bottle to alleviate dehydration due to beer. As he lifted the water to his lips, he heard a yelp. His professional side kicked in, shoving the boozy, horny bullshit out of his brain.
