by Liz Crowe
“Help me out and take this over there. I gotta find a clean shirt.”
He took her case and put it on a tall chair. She opened it and pawed through the mostly unfolded mass of clothes until she located a Detroit Lions T-shirt.
“Turn,” she said as she started unbuttoning. She had on a sports bra, and they were tucked into a corner, mostly shielded by a wall of people still milling around looking lost and angry. He raised an eyebrow, moved in front of her, turned and folded his arms. She noted that he’d formed a sort of hot adorable man-boy shaped wall of his own.
She stripped off the coffee-infused blouse and tugged the tee down over her head, tucking it into her jeans. On a whim, she loosened her ponytail and fluffed out her curly brown hair a little as she appreciated the klutzy guy’s most impressive rear view. Damn, Sam, she thought, biting her lip at the sight of his ass perfectly framed in the tight, dark jeans. This might actually be fun.
“Okay,” she said, stuffing the befouled shirt in the front zipper pocket of the case, away from the rest of her stuff. “I’m good.”
Cute guy turned and smiled at her, and Paige actually experienced a distinct tingle down her spine. She blinked. “So,” adorable man said, sticking his fingers in his jeans pockets. “I guess I owe you a coffee.”
“Screw that,” she said, doing a flirty hair-flip over one shoulder and pushing the handle of her rolling bag at him. “This calls for a Bloody Mary.”
“Little early for booze, isn’t it?”
She smiled her best smile at him. When he actually blushed, she thought she might die right on the spot.
“Never. Come on. I know one of these bars actually makes decent ones.”
Chapter Three
As Joey followed the mystery girl through the throng, dragging her janky rolling luggage, he tried very hard not to stare at her ass. He always had been a bit of an anomaly among his peers when it came to women. While he wouldn’t call himself celibate per se, he truly was not a fan of one-nighters or quickie one-offs—experiences that most of his fellow former Rangers claimed to prefer, since it didn’t require them to commit or attach any emotion to women.
But right then, right now, right this minute, he was as randy as the proverbial sailor on shore leave. Odd since he’d been feeling perfectly normal, sexually speaking, not giving it much thought one way or another as he sipped his doctored up coffee and strolled aimlessly around the airport.
The girl whose name he still didn’t know was ducking and weaving through the crowds like an expert, her body mesmerizing him in a way he’d not felt since he’d been a sophomore in high school and had his cherry popped by a senior girl who’d remained his obsession for the whole summer.
Joey could count his sexual experiences on one hand, but he would admit to having a thing for older women, thanks to his first, very positive, very awesome experience. That steamy Michigan summer he’d spent working out to get ready for football season, mowing lawns for cash, and stacking boxes in a liquor store in exchange for the odd illicit six-pack and a little more cash. And getting his young, innocent brains fucked out nightly by the girl—Felicia—who’d claimed she had spent the entire year before “watching him.”
He shivered as the long ago memories hit him—the smells of the damp basement where they’d consummated, repeatedly combined with the flowery lotion odor of her skin, the salty tang of her pussy, and the urgent, needy smell of his own sweat and spunk. The watermelon flavor of the gum she preferred, the hard, canvas cot that had given him rug burns on his knees, and later, his spine when they’d decided to try it with him on the bottom.
“Hey, cutie, you coming or what?”
Joey blinked and realized he’d stopped in the middle of the crowd gathered outside a fake Irish pub located about halfway down the middle of the terminal.
“Uh, yeah, sorry.” He felt his face flush. Her smile widened. His dick hardened.
Shit, this could get interesting.
He tugged the Ranger-labeled T-shirt down over his crotch and moved closer to her, sucking in a deep breath of her lilac-scented hair. It was a mass of corkscrew curls that framed her face and tumbled down her back. His palms itched to touch it.
“You’re not some kind of a creep, are you, hot stuff?” The girl glared up at him. Joey took a step away from her, almost tripping over some guy who’d moved in behind him.
“No, I’m not. Just a klutz, I guess.” He shrugged, moving into a bit of an “aw shucks, ma’am” mode that worked when he would seek out a woman—usually one older than him. Which was another thing odd about his current reaction to this girl—she was probably his age, if not younger.
Weird all the way around, he decided as he followed her into the crowded depths of the pub, admiring the way she hovered over a couple who were obviously not drinking anymore, merely loitering at a tall bar table, heads close together. She cleared her throat. The couple sprang apart and got up from the table. The girl sat and patted the chair next her.
“I’m really not in the habit of drinking this early with a total stranger,” he said, sticking out his hand. “I’m Joey. Joey Preston. And you are . . . ?”
She grinned and tucked a wild strand of hair behind her ear, which made all the spit in Joey’s mouth dry up. “God, you even have an adorable name. I’m Paige. Paige DiFerrari, and I need vodka, so sit your sweet ass down so we can get served.”
He glanced around, giving himself a minute to absorb the fact that the more she talked, the more he wanted to kiss her.
All right, Preston. Get a grip on yourself. Have a Bloody Mary and stand down already.
He sat. She leaned forward on the small, messy table and raised her hand for the harried waitress, giving him a glimpse of skin between the bottom of her T-shirt and top of her jeans. He stifled a groan.
“So, Joey—God, is that really your name? Okay. Fine. So, Joey, what brings you to Detroit Metro this fine, foggy morning?”
He swallowed hard and met her gaze. Her eyes were an odd yet incredible shade of goldish green. And that wild halo of hair was making his palms itch again. He felt like he was in a movie going in slow motion as she tugged her hair up into a messy ponytail, her full lips still split in a grin. A drop of sweat formed on his temple. He swiped at it, embarrassed and ever more confused about his reaction.
“What? Oh, yeah. I’m from here. Well, close to here, anyway. Chelsea, Michigan. That’s about thirty minutes west of Ann Arbor. Our claim to fame is Jeff Daniels. You’ve heard of him?”
Paige leaned on one elbow and studied him. He sensed himself babbling but couldn’t sort out what else to do at the moment. “I was in the army. Then I left, and I’m . . . uh, I’m in private security now. A firm based out of Florida. I was here visiting my aunt and uncle. They’re in a retirement community, but it’s more like a condo. They sort of raised me, but they sold their house last year without telling me, and I . . .” He stopped when he couldn’t help but notice the way her lips were twitching.
“Go on. You have the coolest voice.” She leaned back and crossed her arms.
“Oh, well, thanks. You do too, I mean . . . shit.” He shook his head and closed his eyes. When he opened them, two giant glasses stuffed full of celery, olives and limes were on the table. Paige plucked out the stick of olives and stuck one in her mouth. Joey concentrated hard on not drooling.
He sipped, surprised to find that he enjoyed it. He wasn’t usually a huge fan of booze harder than beer. He sipped again, then again, noting that his dick was slowly relaxing, along with the rest of him.
“And you? What brings you here?”
She downed the rest of her drink and held up her hand for another. “I work in Detroit,” she said. “Been there a little over a year.”
“Oh.” He rattled the ice in his glass and tried to keep up with her. “Cool. Doing what?”
“I’m a glorified secretary really. For Braxton Gill.” She hesitated as if waiting for him to be awed by this name. “Anyways, he’s a sports agent. A big t
ime one. I played soccer in college, and since I wasn’t good enough to play any further, I got a business degree, hoping I could get hired to do marketing or something for a team. I ended up waiting tables for two years before this job came along.” She sighed and stuck her finger into the empty glass, digging out the last olive. “Much to my parents’ satisfaction.”
Two fresh drinks were plunked on the table in front of them. Joey blinked at his, not quite as intimidated by it, but still not convinced getting shit-faced at ten a.m. on a Thursday was a good plan. “Where’s home, then?” he asked, stirring the drink around a little before tackling it.
“Kentucky,” Paige answered, smiling around the rim of her second drink. “Lucasville. It’s basically a suburb of Lexington now, but it used to be a horse town, full of big thoroughbred farms. Now it’s full of obnoxious mini-mansion neighborhoods named after those farms.”
“Ah,” Joey said, wincing at his inability to form a sentence. “I see,” he mumbled, downing half the drink to cover his embarrassment.
“Anyways,” she continued, seeming not to notice that he sounded like a lunkhead. “I couldn’t wait to get out of there. Small towns suck.”
“I grew up in one,” Joey said, sensing the second drink was way more potent than the first one. “I liked it. I still do.”
“Well, I hated it. And I still do.” She frowned down at her phone’s cracked screen. “Sorry, gotta take this. Hey, Les,” she said, her voice taking on a fake-sounding brightness. “Yeah, I’m stuck for real. Sorry.” Joey watched as Paige put a hand over her eyes and slumped back in her chair. “I realize that, but I can’t . . . it’s not . . . calm down. I’m sure she’s fine. You know how Mama gets. I know you all have the dang thing organized within an inch of its life, so it’s all over but the singing now, right?”
He smiled and sipped, hearing her accent deepen into something quite charming the longer she talked.
“I promise, I swear on a stack of Bibles, I will get there just as soon as I can.” She rolled her eyes and held the phone away from her face so she could stick her tongue out at it. “Leslie, I realize this is an important weekend for you. I’ll be there as quick as the weather lets me. Gotta go now. Bye.” She stabbed a fingertip at the phone screen and heaved a long sigh before grabbing her drink and downing the rest of it in one long gulp.
Joey didn’t know whether to be impressed or worried. He opened his mouth to say something, but she held up a finger and looked at her screen, her mouth still full of vodka-infused tomato juice. She held up two fingers, then three, then four. Then her phone buzzed again, and she stabbed at the little green answer icon, albeit a little more viciously this time. “Yes, Mama. No, Mama. I wasn’t mean to her. Yes, I know she’s stressed. She says you are too. Y’all should pour yourselves a shot of bourbon and relax. What? It can’t hurt anything. Betcha anything Daddy’s already done it.”
She leaned on one elbow, mouthed the word “sorry” to him, then dropped her chin into her hand and kept the phone to her ear, saying “Yes, Mama,” and “No, Mama,” every few seconds. Joey sipped and took advantage of the opportunity to study her face. Paige had high cheekbones, a slim nose, and a slight olive tint to her skin. She wasn’t even his usual, preferred body type. He typically liked women curvy with soft edges and full hips and tits to match. Paige was borderline boyish, angular with slim hips, waist, and shoulders, but not petite since she was probably at least five feet eight or nine inches tall. And athletic-looking, without a doubt.
She frowned at him, catching him doing the none-too-subtle checking out. He gave her a wry smile.
“Mama, so help me, if you don’t stop it . . .” She sighed. “I am sorry. I know this is a stressful weekend, and I’m truly sorry, but if you don’t stop asking me about boyfriends—” She seemed to stop mid-thought, and her mouth hung open as she stared at him.
Joey raised an eyebrow at her.
“Well, all right, if you must know, I’m bringing him home with me. Yeah, he’s from Michigan. We met, you know, up here.” She winced and mouthed, “I’m sorry” at him once more before she said, “His name is Joey. Joey Preston.”
Joey sucked in a breath at the same time he took a drink. A bad plan. He spluttered, choked, and drooled as she kept talking, all the while shooting him apologetic glances. “No, no, I’m not keeping him a secret, Mama. We just weren’t, you know, ready. I thought I’d, uh, surprise everybody.”
Joey wiped his lips with damp cocktail napkins, his mind spinning in a million directions at once while she kept talking, digging them both deeper into this whopper of a lie. “He’s, um, he works in private security. No, I don’t know the name of the company. He’s ex-army. Yes, he’s a very brave young man.”
Joey rolled his eyes but his chest tightened, and his jaw hurt since it was clenched so tightly. “Does he have a what? Oh, right, a tuxedo. Well, ah, no. I’m sure he has something suitable. No, I don’t think I could guestimate his measurements.” She gave him a blatant once-over. His face heated up, which made her smile. “Well, if you must know, Mama, we are not . . . I mean, we haven’t . . . you know.” A loud burst of noise came from the other end of the phone. “Yes, Mama, I know that. Okay, so I’m gonna go now. Joey and I need to see about the fog and . . . stuff.” She winced again. “Okay, bye-bye, Mama. Bye now.” She ended the call and looked up at the bar’s ceiling, then down at him.
He held up his glass. “You could have at least made me out to be this major stud, you know. I mean, jeez. We haven’t even . . . you know?” His every molecule was suffused with a rush of lust at that moment, thinking about how very much he wanted to “you know” with Paige DiFerrari, even if it meant getting dragged to a family wedding in Kentucky.
Chapter Four
Paige’s entire face, scalp, and both ears were burning hot by the time she finished the call with her mother. She had no real idea what had possessed her to concoct such a story, but she was so sick and tired of all the nagging about her single status, about how she was inviting trouble by living in a big city all alone, and probably fornicating all over the place without the hint of matrimony.
“Okay, so let me explain,” she started, her voice weak-sounding as she shook the ice in her second empty glass. “Hey, uh, miss?” She snagged the waitress. “We want another, but we’re gonna skip the bar fruit. And the tomato juice. Bring us two ice cold shots of Stoli and two slices of lemon. Thanks.” She patted the woman’s arm then turned her attention back to the adorable man she’d just co-opted into a massive lie.
Joey raised one of his expressive eyebrows at her. She swallowed hard, and then grabbed his arm, knowing the booze was making her forward but not regretting it. She loved the feel of his bunched muscles under her palm.
“My parents are like something straight out of the fifties when it comes to my sister and me. It was all I could do to convince them to let me move to Detroit. And they still don’t like it. They think I’m, I don’t know, whoring around and sleeping with anything with a dick or something. Or that I’ll walk out the door of my apartment and get shot and gang raped, because, you know, ‘Detroit.’” She hooked her fingers around the word. “My little sister, Leslie, is marrying her college sweetheart, Robbie, this weekend, and I’m supposed to be there in . . .” she stopped and checked her watch, “an hour, had everything gone to plan. There’s a big barbecue party tonight at our house, a brunch for the bridal party tomorrow, the wedding’s at four-thirty, then there’s a huge, obnoxious reception at one of the old remaining horse farms that got converted into a banquet hall. God,” she said, flopping back and feeling stupid, and more than a little tipsy. “I don’t want to go. I mean, I love my sister, but she’s always been better at every damn thing, and if my Mama reminds me one more time that she’s a whole three years younger than me, and she’s snagged a husband . . .” She looked down at her hands. “I don’t know. I’m sorry. You don’t have to come with me.”
The shots appeared with a couple of sad-looking lemon wedges. Paige
stared at them, waiting for Joey to tell her she was out of her mind and that she should seek professional help before he bolted.
Instead, he picked up his shot, tossed it back and squeezed the lemon into his mouth, then swiped at his lips at the back of his hand. After a few seconds, she did the same.
“Guess you’d better fill me in on the family,” he said. Her heart fluttered—actually fluttered—at the sight of his wide, gorgeous smile in the middle of his perfect face. “So I can at least pretend we’ve been hanging out long enough for you to invite me along for such a blessed event.” He leaned forward. Paige bit her lower lip, unaccustomed to the way her body responded to his proximity. She shifted forward and mirrored him, trying to ignore the distinct, almost-forgotten sensation of dampness in her panties.
“All right then,” she said, looking up at a couple hovering over them, vulture-style, before tossing money on the table and standing up. Joey stood up too and swayed ever so slightly.
“I need to walk and find some water,” he declared, grabbing her suitcase handle. “Let’s go.”
Paige felt the warmth currently inhabiting her lower half spread upward, making her tingle all the way up to her scalp. When he put a hand on her lower back, she didn’t move away from him. When he draped an arm over her shoulders once they’d made it back out into the still teeming terminal hallway, she leaned into him. When he whispered in her ear, “I’ll do this pretending-to-be-your-boyfriend thing since I don’t really have anything else to do this weekend,” she shivered all over. When he took her earlobe between his teeth for a split second, she honestly thought she might have orgasmed.
“Good,” she said, moving away from him, nervous now and wondering what she’d gotten herself into. By way of a distraction, she sidestepped him and jumped on the moving sidewalk, letting it carry her along as he strolled beside her. “So, my family,” she said, leaning on her hand and loving the warmth of his arm next to hers as he walked and kept smiling that amazing smile at her. “There’s my sister and me,” she began, allowing herself the singular pleasure of leaning against his shoulder.
