“No, it’s fine.” I started lightly, “I grabbed a few other things to eat, and wear, on the way.” The toothbrush could be a pleasant surprise, but would he share my sense of humor?
“My car, my fuel, my card.”
“My holiday to my parents’, my card.”
“I’m driving, I’m paying.” Sexy asshole—I no longer had a car to drive, thanks to him.
“My way of thanking you for driving is by paying.”
The longer we stood in our ritual of bickering, the more childish it seemed. I should have just let him pay, after all his car was the opposite of economical to run. But I couldn’t stop this crazy dance we had going. Lightly disagreeing about any topic, but not so much that he could be tempted to kick me out of the car. And despite my best endeavors, our arguing didn’t make me look at him with any less desire.
I liked his intelligence and the way he had with words. Even the way he could circle around and change his opinion, and maintain he was right all along.
Two other cars had pulled in behind us and when their drivers joined our queue, our argument became embarrassing and the poor attendant started to lose his patience. Still, I couldn’t let it go.
I felt my face flush with frustration, my left arm wasn’t used to carrying so many packages, my right shoulder wanted another dose of pain killers and resented having to use the second crutch, and my ankle screamed out to be remembered. All the while, Noel waited for me to give up and let him pay. Who the bloody hell did Noel think I was and where did he get the money for not only the Jeep but the credit card I knew from shopping with Zara he couldn’t have applied for? It was by invitation only.
Who the fuck?
Exactly, and don’t you want to?
SHUT UP inner voice!
“Please, you are doing me the favor. This lovely gentleman is giving me a lift home for Christmas.” I pulled together as much sweetness and light for the attendant and our growing audience. “The least I can do is pay for his petrol and a couple of things to eat, otherwise I’m afraid of what he might ask for in payment.”
My innuendo was clear and rewarded in chuckles and Noel’s flush.
“You would have to be the most infuriating woman.” Noel shot at me as the attendant ignored his card.
“Mate, you should know. She’s your woman,” came the reply of one of the impatient customers. I would have said something, anything except—
I had caught one of the looks Noel threw Tristan even though the sexy paramedic was more Abbie’s type than mine. Then there were the jealous taunts and barbs when his doctor friend got flirty—
He hadn’t needed to put his life on hold to take me halfway across the country—
For all his stubbornness and banter, his layers started to peel away showing a man more complex than his tatty clothes would declare—
The man inside the sexy asshole exterior liked me and I needed to put away my protective claws because whether I was ready to admit it or not, I—
When he carried me across the road to his car, I’d had visions of being carried across a room to a bed.
Whether Noel wanted me or not, I didn’t mind the idea of being his woman.
Noel
“I can keep driving.”
“I’ve already booked and paid for the room. The next place isn’t until Pinnaroo.”
“I can drive for another seven hours.”
I don’t know why we needed to argue or at least disagree, about everything. Yes, I could keep driving, but a shower would be nice, and we could use a break from having to sit next to each other trapped in my car. It’d be a pleasant change to sit across from her at a table, savoring a decadent meal and wine. Flirting instead of arguing. Drowning in her aquamarines instead of ducking her harmless barbs.
Okay, I couldn’t wait to punish her by parading in the awful checkered board shorts she picked up and gave me as if it was a precious gift. Wander around our room—assuming I couldn’t get my own room—sans shirt. Let JoJo get a look at the abs and six pack I worked hard to develop. Hopefully, the shorts would hang low enough for her to start getting ideas about my lower v. Or at least get a glimpse of my Tommy Hilfiger undies.
Yep, not one item of clothing back home lacked a designer brand. Not just a designer brand, but whatever the designer was of the moment. I knew enough about dressing to impress to wear my clothes casually as if a mask to be affixed and removed at will.
My Christmas drinking clothes were not me. Not me at all. But even they were better than the joke gift JoJo had flung at me in the car.
To sully my body with holiday motive t-shirt and shorts, I had a sick impulse to take a photo and send it to my parents. With or without JoJo in the background just to make them second guess everything they thought they knew. A twisted way to guilt them into calling me—not because of my birthday—but to find out what loony bin I’d been admitted to.
Not a bad idea.
Maybe next year I’ll volunteer at a rehab centre instead of propping up a bar stool.
Without looking at JoJo, I found a country music radio station, just to annoy her before immediately switching back to my playlist; shuffling through songs until I caught the start of a smile. She’d turned up out of nowhere and transformed me into an emotional dipstick.
First, I cared whether she was injured more than my next insurance premium. Then, I’d gone out of my way to replace her phone immediately—instead of handing that over to insurance as another detail for Julie to sort out next year.
The whole hospital visit had been out of character. When was the last time I reached out to Peter? We usually only spoke at fundraisers where I handed over one donation from dear old dad, with a matching one from mum. Followed by knocking back my choice of grateful board—or should I say—bored wives.
JoJo wouldn’t even let me pay for a tank of fuel for my own car.
Which now carried the aroma of curries while she pulled apart a slice of freshly made naan bread from our last stop. Handing me slices as if we were an old, married couple.
“Aren’t you hungry?” JoJo asked as we drove past the welcome sign to Wagga Wagga with the abstract black crow insignia. Not that I was about to admit it to her, I still hadn’t recovered from the electric charge when our fingers touched over the first piece of bread. Unable to trust myself, I’d rejected the rest of her offers.
“Plug the address in.” Frustrated with my mixed feelings for JoJo, I didn’t mean to snap. Not my finest moment, in a day of stuff ups.
“One step ahead of you.”
Bloody woman could bust my balls for four hours about not being able to connect to her playlist but found the mapping app in thirty seconds.
“Turn right.”
Whatever. At some point I’d agreed to be part of her pact. Pretend to be a boyfriend for the parents for a day, two tops. Then we’d orchestrate a fake breakup of our fake relationship before I left her in Adelaide in her parents’ soothing arms.
“Ms. Methven, welcome to The Inn.” From her dour expression, our buzzing had dragged the scrawny blonde receptionist away from the intricacies of reality television.
“I sent an email, requesting twin beds or a second room?” I heard the hope in JoJo’s voice. To be honest, I’d tried not to think about our sleeping arrangements, figuring JoJo would set the lead and for once I’d follow without question.
“I’m sorry, Ms. Methven. We are fully booked, and you did originally ask for a king size bed.”
“I did, but hoped—”
“I’m sorry, Ms. Methven.”
“Then can we have extra pillows?” JoJo insisted rather than ask and the receptionist looked to me for answers.
Throwing out a cheeky wink, “Bad back—or at least I’m hoping to prevent one!”
As soon as the now giggling receptionist left to get the pillows, my arm stung from the whack. Damn the girl was a spitfire. JoJo might only have one good arm, but it could sure pack a wallop.
“And that was for?” I lifted a
n innocent eyebrow.
“Whose bad back are you trying to avoid?”
“Why darling,” I started at the return of our blushing receptionist, “Hopefully if we use the pillows under your hips, you’ll still be able to walk tomorrow, unlike last time.”
Touch down!
JoJo couldn’t drag me to our room quickly enough—and given she needed the next round of pain meds stuffed in her overnight bag in the back of my Jeep, her hobbling was as erotica as a bunch of drunken bridesmaids doing the chicken dance at the end of a night.
And still, I couldn’t stop smiling at the thought of sharing a room for a night.
JoJo’s blonde curls hid a sarcasm I craved—just to figure out if I was man enough to beat her verbal sparring. Her body was lithe and yet with curves my hands ached at the opportunity to tame.
Bullshit.
JoJo Methven had to be the most frustratingly, infuriating woman I’d had the misfortune to meet. As each song on playlist started, I had waited for her look. A smile with her body gently rocking to the beat? Or a quizzical raise of her eyebrows questioning my right to download anything? Or an adamant shake of the head insisting next track, please.
Please wasn’t her question.
In the space of less than one day It was the requirement for her happiness.
And in the space of half a day, JoJo Methven no longer had to ask if I could guess what she wanted first. I’d become willing to give up the radio, my music and even the ability to pay for petrol, all to make her smile.
You tried to play this game of compromise before—and lost.
“Good choice,” I offered waving at the spread of food JoJo unpacked. Rather than sitting side by side at the small table that doubled as a desk and vanity, we shared the dishes on the bed—our bed. Plastic bag sliced open and laid down as a tablecloth. I really had to hand it to JoJo for one-armed ingenuity. My only contribution was elevating her leg onto the only chair, supported by some of the extra pillows she’d ordered.
“Your approval means everything.”
“Sarcasm will get you nowhere.”
“It got me from Sydney to Wagga!” she bit back.
“No.” Baiting her could be fun, or dangerous. I was willing to find out which. “Get it right. I am your white knight, rescuing a damsel in distress.”
Ready for the flying naan bread, I caught it mid-flight.
“What? No witty come back?” I mocked.
“I’m going for a shower.” JoJo pushed aside the containers and gave the familiar wince when her foot met the floor. She’d taken some pain meds when we first arrived. I’d learned to measure her pain threshold through silent signals. A slight bite down of her bottom lip meant uncomfortable but tolerable. A tight smile and clenched jaw needed to be read with the rise and fall of her chest. If she was holding her breath, JoJo was trying to ride through a shooting pain. Still breathing, and she wanted to be distracted from the pain. Since we could argue about anything, picking a new topic and offering an opinion usually worked.
JoJo seemed to do anything to avoid giving up a sound of pain. Her wince was my signal to up my game. Since she wouldn’t let me carry her through to the bathroom, the least I could do was give her something else to think about.
A reason to smile.
“Wait!” She’d either throw something harder than a piece of bread at me, or we’d both be a winner. “If I’m going to pretend to be your boyfriend, shouldn’t I know whether you wear lace or lycra?”
I expected an answer to my question. Even a scathing look to put me in my place. Nothing prepared me for her seductive turn. Well, as seductive as a one-winged dove in a moon boot.
JoJo eased out of the sling, not even looking in my direction as she tossed it aside. Hell, that made it even hotter—she was stripping for herself. The spaghetti strap of her sea-blue cotton shift took little effort to slip from down her shoulders. She shimmied it over her hips, and as much as I wanted to offer my assistance, I sat back and held my breath—in case any movement caused her to change her mind.
Blue lace. Not a sky blue, but a deep ocean blue with a tinge of green. Slightly deeper than her eyes but against her blonde hair, I almost disgraced myself on the spot. A faded tan line proving she favored a one piece over bikini. Her pale white stomach turned me on. Honored. She wasn’t a player, or some lucky dude would be halfway to Adelaide with her by now. No.
Without asking, I knew it was a rare privilege to see this much of JoJo. Emotionally naked, physically almost there.
Stunning.
Proud.
Mine—well at least in a messed up, fool-her-family kind of way.
JoJo didn’t need padding to give her curves, her pink nipple teasing through the blue fleur de lis. The boy cut panties curved across her hips with another provocative fleur de lis, this time pointed down between her legs.
Perfection, even down to the black moon boot.
“Can you shower with that thing on?”
“Are you offering to wash my back?”
“Or anything else that needs it.”
“The whole, break it then clean it philosophy?”
“If you want.”
“I’ll be fine.”
She might be, but I wasn’t. The woman had taken less than a day to get inside my head and turn me inside out.
Blue lace. My new favorite color.
JoJo
Leaving my phone next to the bed wasn’t my first mistake of the day but the one I was regretting right now. Without it, I couldn’t call Abbie, or Zara or anyone. Not only was I taking home someone for Christmas, but he had seen me almost naked! Well, he asked.
Lace or lycra.
Any other day, I would have been wearing cheap panties and whatever bra seemed clean. Today, on the spur of the moment, I’d picked out lingerie in the belief I could still be sexy and desirable. No man had seen my naked body in almost a year—and I figured at some point I could probably get a v-card refund.
Use it or lose it.
Without being able to share my news, I had to try and convince my left hand how to soap down my body without soaking my moon boot and while considering the man I was about to share a bed with.
Stubborn. Not necessarily a terrible thing, except for how he thought he was right even when he wasn’t.
Sarcastic. Smart with a slight burn. I could put his wins today down to my shock and pain meds. Tomorrow, he’d get more than he probably bargained for. My hands washed between my legs; the only action I’d be getting tonight.
Unless.
No!
At least I’d packed decent pajamas, not wanting my brothers or their wives running into me and seeing my normal singlet and panties. Wagga’s dry heat was sapping, but as long as Noel kept the air conditioner on, I could put up with wearing clothes to bed.
Unless.
No!
“Ready for bed?” Noel had already stripped down to the ridiculous board shorts I’d gifted him.
“Which side do you want?”
“I usually sleep in the middle.” A laconic smile. “Wanna join me?”
“How about the pillows take the middle. Which side?”
“Right. Because I’m always.”
“Dream on, asshole.”
“That’s Mr. Asshole to you.”
“Did you see my meds? I’ve still got one I can take today.” I asked through tightening teeth as the pain stabbed my right side. At least if I slept on the left there would be less temptation to watch Noel sleep.
“Come on.” With unexpected gentleness, Noel helped me onto the bed, softly encasing my ankle within a bed of pillows. “Okay?”
“Thanks. You didn’t have to.” One minute a stubborn ass, and the next a hero in disguise.
“Look, at least if you are on this side, your left foot is closer to the floor, but if you need anything during the night, I’m a light sleeper.”
“I’ll be fine, I just overdid it in the bathroom.”
“And I’m the asshole who wa
nted a floor show.” Noel handed over my bag. “At least I’m not an asshole who’d go through your bag to get the pills.”
“You’d be bored if you did. I can probably count how many things are in my bag.”
“Lady, I doubt it.”
“Really? That sounds like a challenge.”
“JoJo, I’ll give you ten dollars for everything in your bag that you name but I take away five dollars for everything you forget.”
“Not worth it.”
“What do you mean?”
“Yes, I’ll probably forget to name a piece of lint but I’m not showing you what’s in my bag for a couple of dollars.”
“One hundred dollars.”
“What? You’ll pay one hundred dollars to see what’s in my bag—you are seriously demented.”
“It’s been a bitch of a day and instead of drinking my sorrows, I’m sharing a bed with a gorgeous woman who I tried to wipe out with my car. One hundred dollars for every item you name less fifty for everything you don’t.”
He tossed over a pad and pen before I threw them back. “I’m right-handed, asshole.” My only saving grace was that my brain engaged before I accidentally referred to him as sexy asshole.
“Then start dictating.”
Surprised he had cajoled me into a stupid game but liking the way he tried to take my mind off my ankle while waiting for my meds to kick in, I listed the obvious. Wallet, phone, phone charger, a couple of pens and lipstick.
“A couple of pens—for a hundred dollars I need a number.”
“One, no, two. Or three.” I shrugged, knowing my habit of just grabbing stuff randomly whenever I left my desk. “Okay, probably five pens and a pencil.”
“A pencil?”
“When I want to get creative, I use pencil.”
“When you want to be inspired?” Noel prodded, not expecting my response.
“For inspired imagination that pushes my client’s boundaries, I use soft leaded colored pencils.”
“What is it you do again?”
Noel plumped another pillow at my back while we exchanged normal conversation—something we hadn’t managed to string together in the car. His job, mine and how clients all blended into one massive headache. Demanding and entitled.
Her Surprise Christmas Noel: Four women, one pact: find a date for Christmas (Christmas Kisses Book 2) Page 5
