ANTE UP (7-Stud Club Book 3)

by Christie Ridgway

  Grimacing, Cooper rubbed harder at his head and a new pain there.

  “I wish,” he muttered.

  “What was that?”

  “Hart and I don’t have heavy conversations,” he explained, turning his back to contemplate the workbench littered with leftovers from dozens of household projects. “What do you say to a guy who’s lost his whole world?”

  “It’s terrible.”

  “Isn’t it?” he asked, then spun around to face her. “Can you explain it? Why one of the best men I know should have his reward for loving be to lose the very one who holds his heart?”

  Her eyes had widened and she clutched her sangria tumbler to her chest.

  His head dropped back. “Sorry,” he told the exposed beams in the ceiling. “I’m a little edgy today.”

  Especially with Willow sitting there, just a wisp of gauze covering bare skin. Making him want to touch, to take, to forget in sex.

  “I’ve never lost anyone I cared for like that,” she said.

  He returned his attention to the workbench, gathering together small boxes of nails and screws. “Kim wasn’t even thirty.”

  “Too young.”

  “Yeah,” he agreed. “Too young.” He glanced behind him to see her taking another healthy swallow of her drink, and wondered if she realized his sister’s recipe called for a lot of rum to go along with the oranges, apples, and red wine. It was excellent, don’t get him wrong, but pretty boozy unless you made sure you loaded up on food at the same time.

  Now she stared into her nearly empty glass as if the secret to the universe was in the jumble of fruit slices at the bottom. “Have you ever asked him if he considered loving her not worth the losing of her?”

  Cooper cringed. His skin literally shrank onto his bones. “Like I said, I don’t get into those kind of discussions. Hell, he probably wouldn’t have that conversation with me if I tried. Need to talk film trivia? I’m your man. The ins and outs of obscure professional baseball rules? I can go on for hours about that.”

  “What obscure professional baseball rules?”

  Facing her, he narrowed his eyes. That flush on her cheeks was back. It’s possible she was looking a little boozy. “Willow…”

  “I’m serious.” She did look curious. “I would really like to know one obscure professional baseball rule.”

  His mouth twitched. Curious and absolutely serious.

  And boozy.

  And sexy.

  “Runners get to advance a single base if a pitched ball gets stuck in the mask of the catcher or the umpire.”

  She blinked, seeming to let that sink in. “I guess that’s fair. Now, give me your favorite piece of movie trivia.”

  No deliberating required. “The name of the skyscraper in Die Hard—it’s Nakatomi Plaza.”

  “I don’t think I’ve ever seen that movie.”

  His jaw dropped. “Maybe the best Christmas movie ever! We always watch it during the poker group’s annual holiday party.”

  She laughed.

  God, it was pretty. She was so damn pretty, he thought.

  “Wait. I think I know something of the plot,” she said now, her lips turning down in a frown. “A terrorist movie is your favorite at Christmas?”

  He grinned at her. “Clearly, you don’t know men that well.”

  Her smile died and she stared into the bottom of her sangria again. “That could be very true.”

  Shit. Oh, shit. “I was just kidding, Willow. You know, teasing…”

  Her head came up. Her gaze pinned his. “Do you find me attractive?”

  Okay. Boozy, sexy, and yet still able to go right for the throat. But he hadn’t lived in the world for this long and been raised with a sister not to get this right, he thought, even as panic bubbled. “Your butt looks just fine,” he said. “Very nice, as a matter of fact.”

  She stared at him.

  Okay. Not right. The woman somehow obliterated his usual facile charm and almost all his wits.

  She hadn’t asked about her ass. Just general attractiveness. Already he thought he was getting way too close to the deep end but he had to try to keep swimming anyway, when she looked so solemn. “Um. Of course anyone would find you pretty.”

  “Like a…like a flower?”

  “Sure,” he said, grasping at the answer.

  Another frown. Deeper. “Nobody wants to have sex with a flower.”

  He’d been with women. He’d had girlfriends, some who’d lasted weeks, a couple whom he’d been with for months. Each one had gone on their way with easy goodbyes and easy smiles, because he knew women. How to talk to them.

  He didn’t know what to say now.

  “Tell me this.” Her chin tilted upward. “When was the last time you had sex?”

  A glance upward, toward the garage’s ceiling, told him a sudden rain shower or a bolt of lightning wasn’t going to save him. “It’s not something I, uh, keep on a calendar,” he said.

  “We haven’t slept together in months. Months and months.” She set aside the sangria cup and looked down at her hands, small, slender, one finger bound with that ring. “He has a chronic illness,” she whispered.

  His mouth went dry. “Brad?”

  “Yes. It’s not a secret. It’s called Meniere’s disease.”

  Now Cooper regretted having had a single bad word or thought for the guy. “I’m so sorry.”

  “And it’s not life-threatening.”

  He let out a sigh of relief. “Good to know.”

  “It mostly caused him bouts of dizziness, but that’s pretty much controlled now with medication.”

  “Oh. Well.” A thought struck. “Maybe the medication…” He gestured in the vicinity of his waistline.

  A puzzled expression crossed her face. “Upsets his stomach?”

  “No.” He gestured lower. “You know.”

  Her gaze drifted to where he’d indicated.

  Cooper manfully suppressed the urge to place both hands over it.

  “Oh,” she said, her lashes sweeping down. “That’s not a side effect.”

  “Terrific. Excellent. Then maybe you just need to uh…set aside some time?”

  How did this conversation get started? He couldn’t believe he was advising a woman he’d kissed the day before on how to seduce her man the afternoon after.

  A crease developed between her brows. “You need time?”

  Christ, no. With Willow in his arms he’d be ready to go in 3-2-1. “Candles? A romantic dinner? A little cuddle time around the TV, maybe.”

  This was killing him, killing him.

  Her big eyes were trained on Cooper’s face. “And it’s always…good? The end result, I mean?” She swallowed. “There is an end result every time?”

  “For her?” Insult edged his voice. “I might be a commitment-phobe, but I take my responsibilities for my partner’s orgasms very seriously.”

  “I mean for you.”

  He barked out a laugh. “Of course. I…” His voice trailed off and he took a sharper look at her. Flushed cheeks, bright eyes, and maybe she’d been enjoying the sangria, but she seemed sober enough now.

  And maybe a little desperate.

  She’d been hurt, he thought. Was hurting. Doubting.

  And that man of hers wasn’t reliably hitting the finish line, even months and months ago when they were having sex. Weird.

  “I can’t answer what might be going on with your fiancé,” he finally said. “But Willow…”

  Looking into her eyes, he felt a shift, something opening inside him. He tried resisting, but she was so damn pretty and so damn…pretty.

  He had no better way to explain any of this. For so long he’d found it easy to keep his autonomy high and intimacy at bay. But now…all the different pieces of her called to him—her confidence in her design work, her emotional honesty about her wants and needs, the vulnerability in this moment she’d let him see.

  “I find you prettier than any flower.” Words came from a deepness in his
heart he’d never known before.

  “You want me?” she whispered.

  “If I were free to touch you, I’d show you how much I want you. How beautiful I find your body, what I’d give, how slow I’d go to arouse you. I’d make you beg when I was rough and cry when I was tender. I’d be both.”

  Her body still as a statue, she looked as if she wasn’t breathing.

  “If you were free to touch me…” His voice roughened. “If you were free to touch me, I think you’d take me apart and put me together again so I wouldn’t recognize myself in the mirror.”

  And at that, Cooper Daggett, connoisseur of women, life-long easy-going charmer of the fairer sex, escaped from the garage as if all the spiders in the world were after him.

  Chapter Eight

  Dusk grayed the warm evening as Willow approached the front door of Brad’s side of a well-maintained duplex. An investment property of his parents’, he’d moved in upon his separation from the Marines. He’d been against returning to his childhood bedroom, even for a short while, and the coinciding vacancy at the duplex had seemed to make it an ideal location.

  She hadn’t asked him to move into her small garden-style apartment. Then, she’d supposed that after years of military housing he would appreciate some privacy. Now, she thought it had only added to the distance that had seemed to already be growing between them. Tonight, she was taking measures to close the gap.

  It was imperative.

  If I were free to touch you, I’d show you how much I want you. How beautiful I find your body, what I’d give, how slow I’d go to arouse you. I’d make you beg when I was rough and cry when I was tender. I’d be both.

  Even the memory of Cooper’s words made a shiver tease down her spine.

  She’d wanted him then. She’d wanted him to make that promise come true. But after he’d strode off and she’d been alone in the shadowy garage, a cooler head had prevailed. Not only was she pledged to Brad, she loved Brad.

  He was the solid ground beneath her feet, the boy knight-in-shining-armor who had been her shield in her pre-teen and teen years, the promise of the kind of future that she’d always wanted, as long as she could remember.

  Cooper…

  A rogue. Charming, and sexy, of course. But most importantly, an unabashed bachelor of the type who thought commitment was a four-letter word.

  That didn’t make him a bad person, not when he was so upfront about it, and honestly, maybe it was part of the charm.

  If you were free to touch me, I think you’d take me apart and put me together again so I wouldn’t recognize myself in the mirror.

  Tempting, right? Oh, so, tempting.

  But believing that she might be able to change Cooper into the kind of man she wanted in her life was foolish beyond foolishness.

  So she’d gone back to the women on the dock, switched from sangria to iced tea and some of the finger sandwiches and other food provided, which had neutralized the red-wine-and-rum buzz. The eight-layer dip and crunch of accompanying tortilla chips had snapped her good sense right back into place. On the drive back to Sawyer Beach—one of Sophie’s friends had given them a ride—Willow had decided not to waste any more time before getting her relationship with Brad heading in the right direction.

  A wedding date must be set.

  With that resolve at the forefront of her mind her knuckles hit the front door with a brisk knock.

  Behind it, she heard a muffled masculine tone and pinned on the kind of smile a woman offered to her fiancé when they didn’t get enough time alone together. The door swung open, and instead of her handsome, brawny farmer type, she was looking at a dark-eyed, dark-haired Romeo.

  They stared at each other for a moment.

  “Ben.”

  “Willow.”

  They spoke together.

  “I was just coming…”

  “I was just leaving…”

  Their voices synced. She had a wild urge to laugh, which would be odd in the face of the spooked expression he wore.

  Which itself was odd.

  Then Brad stood at the other man’s back. “Hey, Will,” he said. “I wasn’t expecting you…was I?”

  “I hope I’m not interrupting a work thing.” She looked between the two men. “Are you guys busy with some project?”

  “No,” Brad said. “It’s okay. Come in, Willow.”

  “As I said, I’m on my way out.” Ben traded places with her and they all lingering there for a moment in a knot that felt strangely, awkwardly charged. “So, um, later.”

  “Later,” Brad said, shutting the door even as he drew Willow farther inside.

  “Bye,” she called as it clicked shut, then frowned at her fiancé. “He’ll think I’m rude.”

  “No, it’s fine.”

  He moved toward the kitchen. “Do you want something to drink?”

  She continued staring in the direction Ben had gone. “He’s not married, right? Does he have a girlfriend? Maybe we should ask them to dinner or something.”

  “There’s not a girlfriend,” Brad said. “What did you decide about a drink? I think I have some of that sauv blanc you like in the fridge.”

  “Really?” Pleased, she drifted in that direction. That he’d stock her favorite wine meant she’d not been completely supplanted in his mind by the new job and the life changes wrought by the necessary career shift.

  He seemed to be searching through his cupboards for a glass. “The stemmed ones are on the top shelf, back far right,” she reminded him.

  “Yeah, okay,” he muttered. “Ben uses the stemless ones.”

  Ben?

  As Brad poured her wine then rummaged to put together cheese and crackers, she moved to the small built-in desk in one corner. Leave it to Brad’s mom, Margie, to have hung a corkboard over it and probably, in this particular case, provided some photos to hang there as well.

  “Your mom’s been going through her albums,” she said.

  “It’s not like we have pictures anywhere but on our phones these days,” Brad said, nudging the wineglass in her direction. “She says these are doubles so I pinned them there, knowing she’ll expect to see them the next time she stops by.”

  “You’re a good son,” Willow said and leaned closer to inspect the photo of his first car, a Pontiac Firebird. “Your dad was so proud of you when you finally got it running.”

  There was another photo of the two men grinning, Brad in his uniform. “You two look so much alike.”

  “He expects us to be alike in everything,” Brad said darkly. “He looks in the mirror and thinks he knows me to the bone.”

  If you were free to touch me, I think you’d take me apart and put me together again so I wouldn’t recognize myself in the mirror.

  She shook Cooper’s words out of her head and refocused on Brad and his obvious discontent. “Is everything okay?”

  “Everything’s fine,” he said, and she could tell he made an effort to put a smile on his face. “What’s up with you? Why did you come by?”

  She hesitated now that the moment had arrived. Coward. She glanced back at the photos on the board. “Remember you taught me to drive in your Red Vixen?”

  He laughed.

  Yay!

  “I did not call the car the Red Vixen,” he said. “That was on you.”

  “When I was sixteen, I desperately wanted to have a cool car with a cool name. You gave me a taste of that.”

  He snorted. “And embarrassed the hell out of me by insisting on using that nickname in front of my friends.”

  She smiled at him. “You let me. You loved me that much.”

  His expression turned serious. “Yes, Willow. I loved you that much. I love you now.”

  Beaming at him, she picked up the wine and then took a swallow. “Glad you remember it, because I think it’s time. Really time.”

  “Time?” he asked, cautious.

  She wiggled the fingers of her left hand. “To do something about getting this ring a matching band.�
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  Brad’s eyes suddenly flashed. “Is this because that client of yours—Cooper?—made some crack about it at pizza the other night?”

  Blinking, Willow set her wine aside. “No.” Well, maybe Cooper had something to do with it, but she and Brad had been engaged for four damn years! She wanted to be married, to be in a settled life and have the stable family she’d been wanting forever. Temper ignited a little fire in her belly. “This is about us. About us getting on with all the things we planned.”

  “You planned.”

  She stared at him. Her Brad didn’t talk to her like that, didn’t look at her like that, as if he half resented her. Hurt doused the flames and she swallowed hard, trying to figure out her misstep. Being angry wouldn’t improve matters. “I didn’t get here on my own,” she reminded him.

  He averted his head, looking out the window over the sink. “Honey,” he said, in a voice both soft and sad. “You’re right. And we need to talk.”

  Alarm set her heart thumping against her ribs. “Are you sick again? Is the Meniere’s causing you more trouble?” Or maybe it was some other health issue.

  “Oh, fuck,” Brad said, and dug his fingers into the inner corners of his eyes. “It’s not that, Will. Nothing’s changed there. All’s under control.”

  She blew out an audible breath. “Good. My imagination was heading down a scary path.”

  “Can we sit down?” He gestured toward the living room, where a large sofa and love seat—a plaid that she’d advised against but he insisted upon despite her protests—were gathered by the prerequisite big-screen TV mounted above a console.

  She told herself it was ridiculous to feel as if she was traipsing toward the guillotine. This was Brad, her Brad, her other half, if you could possibly match up her five feet five with six plus feet of hunky former military man.

  He flung himself onto the love seat and she perched on a couch cushion. “What’s going on?” she asked.

  His wide chest expanded with a long, indrawn breath. “I don’t know if this is going to work, honey.”

  For a moment, her mind refused to take in his meaning. “This?”

  “The engagement…the other.”