by Lisa Wells
He ignored her hand and pulled her into a suffocating bear hug. The smell of cologne caused her to sneeze. He jumped in surprise, and she smiled apologetically at him.
“How about it audience, can we get a round of applause for Bachelor Number One?” Matchmaker encouraged the audience to clap as a lovely young assistance escorted the rejected bachelor off the stage.
“Bachelor Number Two. Would you please reveal yourself to Lacey?”
A guy bounded out and stopped half way to Lacey. “Honey, give me a call if things don’t work out with the guy you chose.” He held out his hand and shook hers warmly. Then he pulled her toward him and kissed her forehead.
That was sweet.
Lacey began second-guessing her choice. Okay, it couldn’t really be called second-guessing. It was more like forty-third guessing. Bachelor Number Two looked like a man who had just stepped out of an underwear ad.
Ohmigod, you’re hot.
I should have chosen you. I should have never listened to Maddison. What does she know about picking a man out of a line-up?
Meow.
He was everything a woman could want in a Dibs date. Plus, he looked quite capable of giving her back her orgasm.
Lacey watched with regret as a different young lady escorted him off the stage. The audience showed their appreciation with over-the-top applause.
“Well Lacey, the moment is here. Are you ready to meet your Dibs date?” Matchmaker’s voice was laced with mystery.
Lacey clenched her hands. Her nails dug trenches into her palms. “Sugar, I’ve been ready since I found out I was going to be on the show.” She was impressed with the convincing way she managed to answer.
Matchmaker turned to invite the chosen bachelor to come out, but then stopped and turned back toward Lacey. “Before we reveal your pick, could you tell the audience why you chose Number Three?” Matchmaker looked at the audience. They were given a sign to cheer noisily.
Lacey nibbled on her bottom lip and contemplated her response.
What the hell, she’d tell them. “My best friend told me I should stop looking for Mr. Right and just have a great weekend with Mr. Wrong. I’m pretty sure Bachelor Number Three isn’t Mr. Right. So, I plan on having some fun with Mr. Wrong. Bachelor Number Two would have been my choice had I been looking for Mr. Right. Which I’m not - right now.”
“Well, I did ask didn’t I? Let’s hope Bachelor Number Three can handle that ego bruising response. Bachelor Number Three, come on out.”
Matchmaker stepped back, allowing Lacey a clear view of Bachelor Number Three.
Lacey squeezed her eyes shut. She hadn’t meant to insult him. Would a guy want to have sex with a gal who insulted him on national TV?
I’m not going to get anything back if he’s not willing to have sex with me.
Chapter 7
Covey James listened in blindsided disbelief. This was the second woman, in less than a week, to drop a bombshell on him while a camera was around to catch his reaction. The first woman, his grandmother, he would forgive anything. This dame, who called herself Lacey Valentine, he cursed.
He shook his head. Little Miss Fantasy Coordinator actually chose him. Why didn’t she choose Number Two? Even he would have chosen Number Two if he were a woman.
He looked at the two men he’d been competing with. Their sagging shoulders indicated their acute disappointment. Well, they were in good company; he was suffering from dissatisfaction himself.
What happened to the world he’d created where everything made sense? Or if not sense, there was logic behind its lack of sense.
Dammit, this woman had just destroyed his plans for the perfect weekend: go on the show; don’t get picked; get drunk in the hotel room; stay drunk; sober up; and start the search for a wife to fulfill his grandmother’s, before-I-depart-this-life, wish.
His grandmother had earned the right to change his plans for the future; Little Miss Fantasy Coordinator had not.
Now, thanks to her unbelievable decision to pick him, he was going to spend precious hours of his remaining unwedded status with a strumpet. He picked a piece of lint off his jeans and flicked it to the floor with the same disdain he was feeling toward this show.
This was all Casp’s fault. He had better stay out of his way when he got back home. He should be the one sitting on this stage. He’d be whooping and hollering in joy and lording it over the contestants that he was the chosen one.
Covey eyed his competition as they prepared to step around the curtain. The woman actually chose him over either of them. Who, in their right mind, would have chosen the man he portrayed himself to be? As far as she knew, he was a two-bit hick from the sticks.
He took off his hat and ran his hand through his hair. The female mind was God’s greatest screw up. It could, and would, malfunction at the most inopportune time for men.
Covey shook his frustrations off and prepared to meet Little Miss Fantasy Coordinator. He’d made a commitment; he’d go through with it. Like it or not. He jammed his cowboy hat back on his head and straightened his shoulders. With the enthusiasm of a man who just received a life sentence, he stood up and listened to her rattle on about why she picked him.
Her words elicited a wicked chuckle from him. Mr. Wrong? She thought he was all wrong. His mind played, what if, with her announcement. What if he could work her opinion of him to his advantage?
He jammed his hands in his pockets. Why in the hell did she choose me if I’m her Mr. Wrong?
He didn’t have to wait long for the answer. She was telling the audience how she came to her cockeyed decision to pick him.
“I chose him because he’s not marriage material.”
Well, of course, I’m not marriage material.
“There’s nothing about him I like,” she said with a voice full of derision.
Like? No one had ever told him he wasn’t likeable. I’m likeable. The woman’s a certifiable dingbat. She’s planning on having sex with a man she doesn’t even like. Who does that?
“If he was likeable, I wouldn’t have chosen him.”
Why the hell not? He looked out at the audience and nodded at them. It didn’t really matter why? The harm was done. He’d been chosen. He was going to spend the last weekend of his single life with a dingbat.
And, the way his luck was running, she’d more than likely inform him she was a vegetarian who didn’t drink beer, eat brats, or watch baseball. The three things he’d rather be doing while in New York than playing cowboy.
What had he expected the female contestant to be like? This type of show thrived on women wanting to prove their sexual freedom, and men wanting to get lucky. Which was, no doubt, why Casp signed up to be on it.
Well, Little Miss Fantasy Coordinator was in for one hell of a rude awakening. He was not happy to be picked; he was all but engaged. To whom, he didn’t know. But someone, and damn quick like. He had no business appearing on this show.
To make it worse, the show wasn’t going to air for six months. By then, he’d be married.
A new wife is not going to like this at all.
He dragged a hand across his face. Shit. This was not a minor detail he’d overlooked. He was going to be a happily married man when this show aired. The tabloids would explode with innuendo about the stability of his marriage and the other woman.
Perhaps, he could pay the station to have the show pulled. Or, at the very least, held until after his grandmother passed away. He didn’t want her to know anything about his stupidity. She’d be appalled, horrified, and fit to be tied.
He didn’t even have a clear idea on how long his grandmother had. She refused to talk about it and so did her doctors. They were all hung-up on patient confidentiality. There were too many damn lawyers making the rules these days.
Covey prepared to step out from behind the curtain. He paused. The woman was still babbling. He had no choice but to stand and listen to more of her responses.
“I just want to have a fun weekend, and the
n go home with no strings attached,” she was saying in a thick, sultry voice.
He had to admit, he liked her voice. He wasn’t going to like her, but the woman had one hell of a voice.
So, she wants a fun weekend. Was there anything wrong with him having a fun weekend with a woman before he took a wife?
His wife would just have to understand this happened before he met her.
He tried to visualize his wife for about the thousandth time in a week. Still nothing.
He wished it was possible to have a marriage, with no strings attached, the way Lacey wanted sex with no strings attached. And, it probably would be possible if it weren’t for his grandmother and her damn ring.
A marriage of just sex and companionship sounded perfect. As long as he didn’t give his heart away, or have children, he didn’t have to worry about getting it wrenched out through his nipples if something went wrong. Like an untimely death.
God, he would do anything to avoid the feeling of the pain of loss. He’d had enough of it for a lifetime.
He had no idea what kind of woman he was going to settle down with; but the chance of finding one who wanted what he wanted in a marriage was about as likely as finding a daisy at the North Pole. What if he couldn’t find someone to fall in love with before his grandmother died? What if he wasn’t able to fulfill her last wish? It was an unthinkable thought. He had to make her happy. She deserved it.
“I’m sure we’re not compatible beyond this weekend, let alone marriage,” Little Miss Fantasy Coordinator said, and the audience burst out laughing.
He laughed with them. The gal was slamming him big time. He liked feisty women. The next three days were suddenly veiled in shadowy promise. She had courage and spunk.
Getting laid wasn’t a bad replacement for getting drunk. Especially, since getting drunk wasn’t nearly as much fun as it was when he was in his twenties.
Getting laid didn’t leave you with a hangover or the taste of cotton in your mouth.
He looked thoughtfully at the curtain separating him from his date. This might not be so bad after all. He was still single. Perhaps, he’d go for it and enjoy what she was offering. They were both adults and they knew the score.
“Bachelor Number Three, come on out,” said the Matchmaker.
Covey squared his shoulders and walked around the screen to get his first look at his weekend fling. He just hoped she wasn’t a three-eyed pig.
When he saw her for the first time, a smile touched his lips and his steps faltered.
Little Miss Fantasy Coordinator was breathtaking. Whispery blonde tendrils escaped the curly mass of hair she wore pulled back from her face.
And, what a face. It was a display of feminine perfection. Seductress eyes, high cheekbones, pouty lips.
His eyes did a leisure drift down her voluptuous body. One look at her long, tanned legs and his body revved. When was the last time a woman impacted his desires so easily?
He boldly, if not quickly, brought his gaze up to her eyes. There was a momentary promise in their blue orbs. She tried to veil the message with mile-long lashes, but not before an electric current zapped him. If he took his cowboy hat off, there was a good chance all of his hair would be standing on end from the electricity oozing out of her.
By God, this little gal had touchable curves. The kind of curves that makes a man put down his beer and stare. The kind of curves that makes a man spend his entire paycheck on an evening out. She was the kind of girl who leaves a man senseless and worse, leaves him thinking like a good ol’ boy.
Perhaps, I’ll marry her.
Covey stiffened. Where did that thought come from? Of course, he couldn’t marry her.
His eyes traveled back to her legs. The way his heart beat skyrocketed at the sight, he knew he was going to enjoy tumbling her into bed. But, thinking in terms of marriage was absurd.
Or was it? Little Miss Fantasy Coordinator was a tall drink of spring water. Her legs gave new meaning to the word fantastic. Could he force himself to fall in love with her?
Covey grimaced and slammed the brakes on his thoughts. What was he doing? Why am I thinking like this about a woman who just called me Mr. Wrong and says she doesn’t like me?
Taking off his cowboy hat, he stepped forward and gave her a Texas smile. For once, his 6’4” didn’t dwarf his date. The tip of her head came to the bottom of his chin. She was the perfect height for standing sex. Bent over the kitchen table, sex. Up-against-the-wall, sex.
If she was a dingbat, you couldn’t tell by looking at the package. She looked more like Rodeo Drive
merchandise, hot off the runways of Paris.
Why in hell is she on this show? Why in the hell am I on this show?
She eyed him confidently and accepted the appreciation in his eyes with ease.
There has to be something wrong with you or you wouldn’t be on this show. “Howdy,” he drawled, in his best good ol’ boy tone. A tone he never used in his daily life.
Little Miss Fantasy Coordinator flinched.
It’s the good ol’ boy that turns her off. Now, he knew what made him Mr. Wrong. If I drop the drawl, will she like me? It was probably best to continue down this path. When the weekend was over, he didn’t want any messy endings. He’d had enough with Alice. How the woman had ever come to the conclusion she was the woman his grandmother saw in her vision was beyond him. She was skinny; Grandmother said she saw a woman with some meat on her bones.
He watched Little Miss Fantasy Coordinator bite her bottom lip. It was the kind of lip meant for a male to nibble on.
So, you don’t like good ol’ boys.
Standing before him was a well-built, knockout snob, and he was willing to bet his inheritance that she’d never had sex with a country boy.
Covey might not be a good ol’ boy, but he was definitely a country boy. He had a three-thousand acre working ranch to prove it.
He held out his hand.
She paused briefly before reaching out and placing hers in his.
Sexual tension sizzled between them. He raised his eyebrows and searched her eyes. Was she feeling the sizzle?
Her slender brows arched, and he saw a sparkle of fear dancing a two-step in her eyes. Fear, not lust. He didn’t want to scare her. He just wanted to keep her at a distance.
He looked out at the audience. It was time to get the show on the road. He needed to get her off this stage and alone so they could talk. With a cowboy whoop, he swung her into his arms.
A good ol’ boy would lay one on her; he heard his inner-self say.
In the brief moment it took his lips to capture her pink glossy ones, he saw her eyes turn three shades of blue.
The kiss was quick but thorough as he tried to figure out what was going through her brain.
He pulled his head back, reluctant to do so, and their eyes locked. She didn’t look too happy.
He hadn’t planned on kissing her on stage. He shouldn’t be happy about it, either. The kiss wasn’t going to look good to his future wife.
But, no man could have resisted her lips. They were begging to be kissed.
“Put me down.” The voice making the order was chunky with surprise.
He did as she asked. Only, he did it in a bad boy way. He made sure her body stayed in contact with his all the way down. He was rewarded with the feel of her heart thundering and a shiver sweeping through her. The combination spoke volumes to his male ego.
Smugness tugged the corners of his lips. She didn’t like him, didn’t want to marry him, but she was affected by him. It was time to test the package.
He slid his palms down her backside until they were cupping her ass. The package was nice.
Behaving like a good ol’ boy has its advantages.
Little Miss Fantasy Coordinator sucked in her breath, placed her palms on his chest, and took a step backward. Her head snapped back and a scarlet stain outlined her cheeks. She flung a bone-piercing glare his way.
He lifted his shoulders in a s
hallow gesture of couldn’t help myself. It might have worked if he hadn’t followed it up with an arrogant smile.
“Hello,” she said. Her voice had changed from the seductive purr she used when asking all of her questions, to a trembling growl of anger.
He swallowed hard on the desire it aroused. Everything about this little gal was hot.
Not that it mattered, but he couldn’t help wondering what the hell she thought Mr. Right was all about?
Her Mr. Right would, no doubt, be some computer geek with a portable device bearing a fruit logo and carrying a large diamond encrusted engagement ring. A geek wearing brown leather loafers with no socks.
Covey looked down at his cowboy boots.
Little did she know, he had a device he would like to introduce her to. It sure as hell wasn’t tattooed with a fruit logo, but it was currently housed in a fruit logo-bearing undergarment.
Matchmaker stepped between them and completely blocked Covey’s view of Lacey.
“Move,” Covey ordered him.
Matchmaker laughed and stayed put. “Lacey Valentine, what do you think of Bachelor Number Three? Did you make the right choice?”
Good question, old man. How will she answer? He waited for her response.
Nothing.
Matchmaker waited for her response.
Nothing.
The entire audience was waiting for her response.
Lacey frowned and looked at them all blankly. “What?” she asked.
Matchmaker rattled on. “Well audience, I would say by the way they’re acting, there just might be some fireworks later on tonight between these two. Don’t you agree?”
The audience cheered, and Covey heard men making rude comments.
Matchmaker placed two fingers on his tongue and then touched them to his butt and made a noise like a snake. “That is if they don’t have sex right here on the stage,” he said.
Covey resisted the urge to punch the man, and he witnessed Lacey rolling her eyes. She wasn’t impressed with him either.
They had something in common, after all. Would there be anything else?
Matchmaker grabbed their arms and attempted to turn them toward the cameras.
