by Sabrina York
She was keeping him at a distance.
Still. After all they’d shared.
He would allow it, but not for long.
He swallowed his frustration, bent his head and kissed her, appreciative when she stepped closer and nudged his crotch. It occurred to him that, at some point, he was going to need to dare her to give him a CPBJ right here in her bakery. Or maybe dare her to let him eat a cream puff off her.
Then something else occurred to him, absorbed him, consumed him. He pulled her closer and rubbed his crotch back and forth over her belly.
“What are you doing?” she hissed, glancing over her shoulder into the kitchen.
“You remember that Brazilian Wax you so brilliantly suggested?” he asked.
“Yeah.”
“It itches.”
Chapter Nineteen
The next day he was miserable. For one thing, his crotch was on fire. For another, Tara called around three to tell him “something had come up and she couldn’t make it after all.” But, she added, he should go on to the island without her. The cool thread winding through her tone set his teeth on edge.
He’d pledged to be patient with her, and he had been. He’d thought he was making progress but the niggle of doubt he’d felt earlier widened into a gaping chasm.
Deep in the heart of his soul, he was worried.
Worried that she was slipping from his reach. That she was getting ready to dump him the way she’d dumped every guy before him.
To make things worse, when he got to Ash’s place, he discovered he didn’t have the house to himself. He recognized Parker’s pristine roller in the foyer, and Richie’s sloppy backpack next to it. He didn’t mind Parker, but Richie was kind of an ass.
Maybe it was a good thing Tara wasn’t coming. He didn’t fancy spending the weekend with her…and Richie.
Figuring his friends were at Darby’s, he dropped his bag on the hardwood floor next to the others, and headed out into the night. The bar was quiet for a Friday night, the lull before the weekend storm, but there were enough people there that he had to hunt for his friends. They were in the back, drinking whiskey and playing pool and chatting up two pretty blondes. Parker’s face broke into a smile when he saw him and he waved. Richie was more boisterous. “Devlin! My man!” he bellowed.
Apparently Richie had been drinking for a while.
Devlin sincerely hoped he wouldn’t be cleaning up vomit this weekend. That would be the icing on his misery cake.
But he didn’t want to think about cake. Cake made him think of bakers and that made him angry and impatient and sad. What he wanted was a drink. So when Parker called, “Come on over,” Devlin did.
Richie waved to the two girls. And yes, they were girls. Co-eds. Really, Richie? “Meet Mia and Fransheene.”
“Francine,” the smaller one said, holding out her hand.
“This is Devlin Fox.”
To his chagrin, their eyes lit up. “The Devlin Fox?” She spoke with a hint of a lisp, but he suspected it was affected.
“Aw-thome.” Oh holy crap. They both had speech impediments. God save him from almost-teenyboppers. “The guy from the internet?”
Yeah. He supposed that was where he was from.
Fransheene fluttered her lashes. “Ohmygod. You’re like, totally famous.”
“Only partially,” he murmured, but no one got the joke.
Richie pointed at Charmaine, who was already on her way over, and bellowed, “Get this man a drink!”
He didn’t want to wait. He picked up one of the shot glasses on the table and tossed it back and raised a finger to Charmaine for another.
Richie gaped at him. His lips worked. “Dude,” he said. “That was Fransheene’s drink.
“Francine,” she said, and then she sidled up to Devlin and batted her lashes again. “But I don’t mind sharing.”
Egads. Was that her hand on his butt?
He sat down. Just so she had to let go of his ass. The foursome abandoned their game and joined him at the table. What followed was an awkward conversation about the trials and tribulations of college dorm life, and like-grody-cafeteria-food and ohmygod-finals. He tried to participate, but the banality of it all made his head spin. And his mind was beset with other things. Such as, had she really hesitated before she said “see you soon?” And that pause before “Something came up.” Did that hint at a prevarication? It was difficult sifting through the swirling emotions and doubts and fear—especially with all the chirping in his ear.
He blew out a breath of relief when Mia and Fransheene announced to the assemblage that they were going to powder their noses. Also, Charmaine brought his next drink.
He tossed it back. The movement made him dizzy.
Parker cleared his throat. “You might want to slow down, buddy.”
Richie snorted. “Parker, you’re such a pussy.” He leaned toward Devlin and hissed, “You really shouldn’t have taken Francine’s drink.”
“Why not?” And why was his mouth filled with cotton wool?
Richie’s lips parted, as though he was going to say something, but then glanced at Parker and blew out a laugh. “Oh, nothing, ass wipe. I bought it for her is all.”
“Richie.” When Parker frowned, he was really good at it. He was a lawyer after all. Devlin imagined there was call for him to frown with regularity. “Did you put something in that girl’s drink?”
“What!” The word exploded from him and Richie slapped his chest with a palm. “I am wounded. Wounded I tell you.”
“Goddamn it, Richie…”
“I didn’t. I did not. I swear. May my cock and balls shrivel up and blow away if I’m lyin’.”
“You better not be.”
“I swear.”
Devlin watched his exchange through a haze from afar. It was a nice afar. Warm and comfy and there wasn’t any bothersome lingering trace of…whatever he’d been thinking about before.
And…Ah. Yeah. Right there. That felt nice.
He became aware that both Richie and Parker were staring at him.
“Whaa?” The ‘t’ was too much effort, so he didn’t bother.
“Devlin, why are you rubbing your crotch?” Parker’s expression was a mixture of horror and amusement.
Devlin glanced down. Oh yeah. He was. It felt damn good. “It itches.”
“Ahem.” Sometimes Parker was such a…lawyer. “And why does your crotch itch?”
“Did some bitch give you crabs?” Richie waggled his brows.
Devlin frowned. “None of your beeswax why it itches.” And then he winced at his own unintended pun.
Wax?
Never again.
He caught a glimpse of the lisp sisters heading back to the table, giggling, and he grimaced. “I think I’m going to sit at the bar.”
“Dude. You can’t leave me,” Parker whispered.
Devlin clapped him on the shoulder. It took a couple tries. “You made your bed, dude. Lie in it. I’m going over there.” He notched his head toward the bar where Charmaine was drying glasses.
He stood, a difficulty, but he managed, and made his way across the room, relieved to finally reach a stool. He sat and tendered a smile. “Hey.”
Her response was a little cooler. “Hey.”
“Whiskey?”
She raised a brow, but gave him a healthy pour. Her gaze flickered down. “I see you’re dressed today.”
He grinned. Didn’t know why it was funny, but it was. “Yeah.” He shrugged. “So far. But there’s always hope.”
She snorted a laugh and resumed her work.
It was a nice, peaceful silence with absolutely no lisping. Still, he broke it. “My brother just got engaged.”
She shifted his drink so she could wipe the counter, though he clearly hadn’t spilled anything. That would be a tradgey. A tradagy. A tragedy. Yeah. A tragedy.
“That seems like a reason to celebrate. Not drink yourself silly.”
“I’m not silly.” But he was. “My love
life isn’t going well.” Mortifying to admit something like that to someone he barely knew, but guys did that in bars. Didn’t they?
“Really?” Her lips twisted. “Is this the same chick who left you bare-assed naked out behind the bar?”
“Um. Yes?”
“And it’s not going well. Imagine that.”
“She has commitment issues.”
Charmaine blew out a breath. “Who doesn’t?”
“Me.”
She studied him for a minute. “Look, you seem like a decent guy…”
“I am a decent guy.”
“You deserve a woman who wants to be with you as much as you want to be with her. If this chick isn’t into it, quit torturing yourself. There are a million fish in the sea.” She swept out her arm to encompass the bar, which was practically devoid of women at the moment. But that didn’t negate her point. There were a million women in the sea. A billion, probably. Well not in the sea, per se. In the metaphorical sea. But there were fish. And there were seas. And they wanted to be together…
Okay. Maybe he’d had a bit too much to drink. Point being, there were probably a million women who would want to be with him more than Tara did.
The thought did not comfort him.
He didn’t want a million women.
He wanted Tara.
“Damn it. I love her.”
Charmaine stilled. “You love her? The woman who stole your jeans and left you standing naked in the cold night?”
“S’wasn’t that cold.” He tossed back his shot, surprised to discover the glass was empty. And then, after a moment. “Yes. I do. Love her.”
“Have you told her you love her?”
“Oh, hell no. I couldn’t do that.”
She blew out another sigh, which made her bangs fluff up in a rather fascinating way. His eyes crossed, all on their own, as he fixated on it. “You have to tell her. It’s very important.”
“Can’t. She doesn’t like mooners.”
“Ah… Mooners?”
“You know. Guys who moon. Who get all clingy and shit.”
“Ah. That kind of mooner. I was confused.”
“You were?”
“This is the woman who stole your pants, after all, and left you bare assed naked next to a dumpster.”
Apparently, judging from her smirk, she was saying something clever, but Devlin couldn’t follow her train of thought. He shook his head to clear it which was a big mistake because then everything went all swirly and the room shifted. Gravity started tugging him to the right.
“Are you okay?” she asked from very far away.
“I’m fine.”
“Maybe you should lie down. Darby has a couch in his office. Do you promise not to throw up?”
“Throw up?” An excellent notion. The bar was lunging like a ferry in heavy chop.
“Oh, God. Here.” She set something before him. A glass full of air. No. Wait. Water. “Drink this.”
He did what she asked because it seemed like good advice. While he emptied the glass—which tasted phenomenal, by the way—she came around the bar and hooked her arm around his waist, mercifully keeping him from collapsing on the floor.
“How much have you had?”
He held up three fingers.
“Lordy. You don’t drink much, do you?”
He attempted to focus on her face. It was a challenge. If only she would quit moving. “Nope.”
“You are ass over elbows too. Come on.”
“Where are we going?”
“To lie down.”
“Excellent.” Tara didn’t want him. Not the way he wanted to be wanted. But there were a million fish who would love to swim in his ocean. Or something like that. He attempted to shoot Charmaine a sexy leer. Perhaps it wasn’t terribly sexy because she pursed her lips, and not in a kiss-me kind of way. In a lemony kind of way.
As he stood, he teetered, and grabbed hold of her for ballast.
That he grabbed her boob was not intentional.
Or maybe it was.
She sent him a scorching glare. “Don’t. Even. Think about it,” she snapped, removing his hand. “I’ve maimed men for less.”
He winced as he remembered who she was. Remembered the time she’d dumped a pot of coffee on him when he’d gotten out of line. Thank God it hadn’t been too hot. The memory sobered him. A little.
“Sorry.” She was really nice. And she was helping him stay off the floor. Which was also nice. As much as he liked sawdust on a bar floor, he didn’t like it in his nostrils. “Thank you.”
She sighed. “You’re welcome. Now come on. Let’s get you into the back. I have work to do.”
He only stumbled a couple times as they made their way across the hard planking. When they reached the office door she paused. “You should tell her, you know.”
Devlin blinked. “Tell her what?”
“Tell her that you love her, silly. That’s the only way you’ll know for sure if she wants you or not.”
“But what if she walks away?” God. He couldn’t bear the thought. “What if she cuts me loose?” Like every other guy she’d ever dated.
Charmaine tipped her head up and smiled at him. It was a soft, sad smile. “Then you’ll know it wasn’t meant to be, I suppose. Wouldn’t you rather know for sure?”
No. “I suppose.”
“Of course you do. Besides, she may surprise you. She may feel the same way for you.”
“Do you think?”
He probably imagined that look of pity in her eye. “Anything is possible. Who knows what she’s really thinking unless you ask.”
It all sounded very logical and profound. Devlin hoped he could remember it in the morning. Still, Charmaine’s words filled him with a giddy, ridiculous hope. “Thank you.” He bent down and pulled her into a hug. She allowed it, and even hugged him back. It was a nice, comfortable hug. He could probably sleep here. But something uncomfortable pinged in his crotch at the contact.
What was it?
Oh yeah.
Itchy.
His crotch was itchy.
He probably shouldn’t have rubbed it against her.
She yanked back with a snarl. Without her support he nearly teetered to the floor. “Sorry,” he slurred. “Didn’t mean to do that but I had an itch to scratch.”
“I see that.” Her tone was dry as dust.
“Not that kind of itch,” he felt compelled to explain as she guided him into an office cluttered with boxes and fishing lures and—thankfully—a sofa. He was getting wobblier and woozier by the moment. “She made me get a Brazilian Wax and it itches like hell.”
Charmaine gaped at him. “She made you get a Brazilian?”
“Hurt like the very devil.”
“I can imagine.” As she settled him onto the sofa, she tried to nibble her amusement away and failed. “Why ever did she make you do that?”
He grinned. It was probably a little lopsided. “Simple,” he said as she tucked a small pillow beneath his head. “I lost a bet.”
And that was the last thing he remembered for a long, long while.
When he woke up, it was morning, his head was throbbing and all he could think was, “As God is my witness, I will never drink whiskey again.”
Chapter Twenty
All right. She was a coward. She admitted it. She shouldn’t have canceled on Devlin. But as she’d watched Tina getting ready for her weekend with Charlie, humming to herself as she packed—humming—panic had descended.
Tina was in love. In love. And happy. She was ready to leave her career behind and commit herself to a man, one man, for the rest of her life. And she seemed happy about it. Deliriously happy.
The anticipation and hope on her sister’s face lanced her to the core.
Because it was a familiar look.
It was a look she saw often in the mirror as she prepared for a date with Devlin.
That realization, of course, had led to another horrifying epiphany. Her feelings for Devlin w
ere far too strong. She’d never wanted to be with a man, never enjoyed being with a man quite like this. She’d certainly never craved a man like this.
And the really scary thought? It wasn’t sex she craved. It was his smile, the sound of his voice, his laugh.
Stupid stuff like that.
When had this happened? How had she let him seep under her skin?
She’d always been able to keep a man at arm’s length. Until now.
And it terrified her.
So she’d called and canceled.
It wasn’t until Tina and Charlie were gone, and she was left alone in her empty apartment, that the hollowness hit her. Her life was a void. A meaningless string of pointless encounters. Even her bakery, which had always been the joy of her existence—ceased to excite her.
Her passion for her work had been an illusion. A construct to occupy her time, her emotion, her attention. A distraction to help her forget what she really wanted, needed. Craved. She saw that now. A bakery couldn’t love you back or hold you or kiss you. Or keep you warm at night.
Devlin could.
Oh, could he.
And she missed him. Even though they’d had lunch today, she missed him.
Shit.
She was going to have to cave.
Grumbling to herself, she tossed some things into a bag and raced to the docks to catch the last ferry. She barely made it. The ride over, which she usually enjoyed, especially in the evening, was a blur. She tried to focus on the passing scenery, all shadowed and speckled with the sparkling lights on the shore, but her mind kept drifting to him. Something he’d said or done or tried to get her to do. More than once, the memory ended with her grinning like a loon.
By the time the ferry docked, she was in a wad.
She walked to Lane’s house—now her house too, since she’d signed the infamous lease—and dropped her bag in the foyer. Her plan was to head straight over to Ash’s place, where Devlin was staying, but Kristi, who was walking through the kitchen with a mug in her hand, caught sight of her and waved. “Tara!” she called. “You made it.”
“Hey Kristi.” Instead of escaping, as she wanted to do, and running into the arms of the man she—well, into Devlin’s arms, she stepped into the hall. “What’cha doin’?”
