You Complicate Me

by Isabel Jordan

  “It’s not your fault. I should’ve known better. I panicked.”

  She had a really great voice, he noticed. Sweet and low-pitched, whiskey-smooth. “Did you rent a car for the trip to River Oak, or is someone coming to get you?”

  Grace blinked at him. “How do you know where I’m going?” Then her eyes widened, and she asked, incredulous, “Does the Department of Homeland Security know where everyone on the plane is going?”

  He laughed. “No, Grace. We don’t know everyone’s travel plans. I just happen to know yours.”

  “How?”

  “Guess you were too panicked on the flight to pick up on my last name.”

  He could practically see the wheels turning in that pretty little head of hers. When the truth hit her, she groaned and dropped her head back to her hands. “Jesus Christ. Really?”

  Nick leaned forward and smirked as he held out his hand. “Let’s start over. Hi, I’m Nick O’Connor, and in a week, I’m going to be your brother-in-law. Can I call you sis?”

  Chapter Three

  Sweet merciful crap.

  Grace was still struggling with the realization that she’d been carried off a plane by an air marshal. An air marshal whose sister was marrying her little brother. An air marshal she’d be seeing at every major family gathering until the end of time—or at least until the crazy kids who were getting married way too young got a divorce.

  But all that wasn’t even nearly as embarrassing as the X-rated Wolverine fantasies she’d had about Nick O’Connor since she elbowed him in the eye. And yes, that was fantasies, as in plural.

  Now, in the passenger seat of a rented Escape that sounded like it was begging for mercy every time Nick hit the gas, heading into deadlocked traffic on what was obviously the highway of the damned, Grace contemplated why she’d agreed when he suggested they ride together. She decided to blame the residual tequila/wine/Valium in her bloodstream for this misstep in her normally impeccable judgment.

  Well, okay, her judgment wasn’t impeccable. But hell, it wasn’t usually this bad.

  “It’s not all that bad, you know.”

  She jumped at the sound of his voice. “Beg pardon?”

  He glanced over at her, then back at the line of cars in front of them. “You look completely forlorn over there. So you had a few Wolverine fantasies about your future brother-in-law. So what? It’s not like we’re blood relation.”

  Grace was pretty sure her jaw hit the Escape’s leather seat. “What?” she screeched.

  He didn’t look at her again, but that dimple—that truly annoying dimple that seemed to only pop out when he was laughing at her—made another appearance. “You talk a lot when you’re drunk, Grace.”

  She groaned and slammed her head back against the seat. “Jesus, could this get any more embarrassing?”

  “You also groped my ass when I had you slung over my shoulder, carrying you off the plane,” he added helpfully.

  Embarrassment had struck her mute, she decided, because when she opened her mouth, no sound came out.

  His gaze slid to hers, and his smile was pure sin. “I might’ve groped yours a little, too, if it makes you feel better.”

  She sputtered. “It most certainly does not.”

  He lifted a shoulder. “Oh, well, I won’t hold a grudge if you don’t. Bygones and all.”

  Bygones. Grace took a deep breath and counted to ten under her breath. “Are you purposefully trying to embarrass and irritate me?”

  “A little, yeah.”

  His truthful answer stunned her silent for another brief moment. “Why?” she finally managed to ask.

  “You’ve been silent for about forty miles.” He shrugged again. “I was bored.”

  “You were bored.”

  “Yep.”

  “And antagonizing me entertains you?”

  He cursed as traffic forced him to stop again, then met her incredulous gaze and smiled. “Yeah. You get all pink and squinty-eyed. It’s sexy.”

  Grace blinked. She wasn’t sure anyone had ever called her sexy before. Her apple cheeks and the dusting of pale freckles across her nose usually got her lumped into the cute category. With the right amount of makeup and good lighting she could pull off pretty. But sexy? Never.

  And certainly not by men who looked like Nick O’Connor.

  The type of guy she usually ended up with was more Seth Rogan than Hugh Jackman. Not that there was anything wrong with Seth Rogan. His work in The Green Hornet was highly underrated in her opinion.

  In truth, men like Nick—the kind who oozed testosterone and sex—always made Grace a little nervous. She imagined he’d been a jock in high school. Homecoming King. Voted most likely to take the head cheerleader’s virginity.

  Grace had been captain of the debate team. Class treasurer. Voted most likely to die a virgin.

  That last one had stung a bit at the time.

  She realized she was staring at him and shifted her gaze back out the window. She’d been a little disappointed when he walked into the interrogation room. She’d hoped that when she sobered up, Nick would be less…well, less.

  Sadly, he wasn’t.

  The only imperfection he seemed to have—other than his personality and apparent love of torturing her—was a faint scar that ran down his left temple. “How’d you get your scar?”

  His smile disappeared. “Afghanistan. IED.”

  Grace waited for him to elaborate. He didn’t.

  He obviously didn’t want to talk about it. She’d only asked because she was groping for something, anything, that would make him less attractive. To her way of thinking, if he was less attractive, maybe she wouldn’t be so embarrassed about the giant ass she made of herself when she met him.

  But her plan backfired, because knowing he’d been injured in the line of duty while serving his country instead of, say, wrecking his car while driving drunk, just made her feel like a bitch of epic proportions for even bringing the scar up. “I’m sorry,” she murmured. “I shouldn’t have asked. And thank you for your service.”

  “Fair question,” he said, not really sounding offended. “Scar’s kind of hard to miss. And you’re welcome.”

  In the awkward silence that followed, Grace decided it was time to lighten the mood, so she said, “You know, I once read a Liverpool and Stirling study on the attractiveness of facial scars to the opposite sex. They found that men with facial scars were 5.7 percentage points higher in terms of physical appeal than men without any scars.”

  One black brow lifted. “Really? 5.7 percentage points, huh?”

  She nodded. “It’s a fact. And, of course, I have my own personal experience to go on.”

  “And what experience might that be?”

  “I showed Bobby Jorgenson my appendix scar in the seventh grade. His direct quote: ‘that’s so hot’.”

  He chuckled, and Grace felt an irrational surge of warmth at the sound. “I’d have to say good old Bobby was probably referring to your body, not your scar,” he said. Then he glanced over at her and wiggled his brows comically while adding, “Although I’d need to see it to be sure.”

  She smiled. “Now there’s the Clarence-Thomas-like letch I’ve so enjoyed in our short time together. Welcome back.”

  “Wow, love the Clarence Thomas reference. You could’ve gone for an obvious Weinstein reference, but you went with a classic. I appreciate that.”

  “Yeah, well, smart girls are usually into the classics, and I’m very smart,” she joked.

  “I noticed.”

  And didn’t sound entirely pleased about it, if she hadn’t missed her guess. Maybe he preferred dumb bimbos. He wouldn’t be the first, she thought sourly. Her husband had left her for a dumb bimbo with Cheeto-colored skin, giant silicone double-D’s, and a tongue stud.

  “So tell me about your brother,” Nick said.

  Grace smiled. “Michael’s great. You’ll love him. Everyone does.”

  Nick snorted. “He’s banging my little sister. I doub
t I’ll love him. I’m sure I can tolerate him, though, as long as he’s good to her.”

  Grace stiffened. “Hey, I’m not really loving the idea of the little brother I read Goodnight Moon to every night until he was ten banging anyone, either. But it’s a two-way street. She’s banging him, too. At least he’s marrying her.”

  His noncommittal grunt told her he was just as thrilled about the two nineteen-year-olds getting married as she was. “Is he like you?”

  “He’s open and outgoing and creative—he’s an artist—and a total optimist…so, no, he’s not anything like me.”

  “Not a Valium-and-tequila kind of guy?”

  She sighed. “I’m never going to live that down, am I?”

  His mouth quirked up. “Nope. It was the high point of my career.”

  Stupid amazing-looking smart-assed man, she thought.

  “What about you, angel? I know you’re a fancy corporate lawyer, and I’ve heard all about your awesome family from my sister,” he said, adopting a silly soprano lilt on the word awesome. “But tell me about you. Is there some big burly boyfriend who’s going to kick my ass for groping yours?”

  Grace laughed out loud. “No. No boyfriend. I have an ex-husband, but he certainly won’t be defending my honor anytime soon.”

  Brad simply wasn’t the honor-defending type. Harvard grads were too dignified for that. He’d expect her to defend her own honor.

  “What happened with that?”

  “He met someone he liked better.”

  Nick frowned. “He sounds like a dumbass.”

  Hearing that felt better than it should have. “Well, I don’t call him doucheBrad for nothing.”

  He chuckled. “At least you’re not bitter.”

  She really wasn’t. Not anymore, at least. After an initial bout of anger—during which she burned piles of his Brooks Brothers suits in their backyard barbeque pit like a jilted lover from a bad Lifetime movie—she was willing to admit to herself that she and Brad had been growing apart for a long time. If they’d ever really been together in their four years of marriage, that is.

  Looking at it objectively, she was actually a little relieved that he’d walked out first. Chesty Cheeto had most likely saved her a long, uncomfortable talk when it came right down to it. And at least doucheBrad had the decency to tell her the truth when he started schtupping his dumb bimbo.

  “Apparently it was my fault,” she said dryly. “I’m emotionally closed-off. Or so I’m told.”

  “Oh, hey,” he said, holding a hand out to her as if they were meeting for the first time. “I’m a commitment-phobe. Or so I’m told.”

  Grace shook his hand once, laughing at his equally desert-dry tone. “So you’ve been labeled, too. Why is that? Why doesn’t anyone ever say, ‘Oh, she just hasn’t found anyone she wants to open up to.’ Or, ‘he just hasn’t met the right girl yet.’ Why is it always our fault?”

  He shook his head. “No clue. Nice to know we live in the same emotional neighborhood, though.”

  “Yeah. Maybe we can carpool during our next breakup.”

  “That’d be great.”

  Grace couldn’t help but smile. “So, what about you? Is there some six-foot-tall, Barbie-looking glamazon out there who is going to kick my ass for groping yours?”

  “Nope,” he answered, turning those amazing eyes on her just long enough to cause her heart rate to kick up a notch or two. “I’m unencumbered.”

  Typical guy answer, she thought, suppressing an eye roll. He made having a relationship sound as appealing as having a noose around the neck. Or hemorrhoids. “Hard to believe.”

  “I know, right?”

  He smiled at her again and Grace shifted uncomfortably in her seat. Bastard had at least a hundred different smiles, and each one made her slightly wetter than the last. If she could harness the power of any one of Nick’s smiles and sell it to lonely women on eBay, she’d never have to write another legal brief as long as she lived.

  “Tell me about your sister. Michael never tells me anything about his personal life anymore. I know my parents have met her, but I haven’t even seen a picture of her.”

  “Sadie’s the sweetest kid you’ll ever meet. Everyone loves her. She’s a journalism student. The first kid in the O’Connor family to go to college.”

  Adoration and pride was clear in his voice. She’d be willing to bet Nick had been a great big brother. The kind who’d beat the crap out of anyone who hurt his little sister. Grace envied Sadie. She’d always wanted a big brother. Michael was awesome and she wouldn’t trade him for anything in the world, but as the older sibling, she’d always taken care of him. It would’ve been nice to have someone looking out for her.

  “What the fuck,” Nick muttered as traffic ground to a standstill again.

  Grace pulled her cell phone out of her purse. “I’ll call my cousin. He’s probably an hour ahead of us. I bet he’ll know what’s going on.”

  “What?” Gage growled into the phone when he picked up on the third ring.

  Grace smirked. “I take it you’re stuck in traffic as well, dear cousin?”

  “Jesus,” he muttered. “I’ve been sitting here for over an hour. I think I heard a helicopter a minute ago. Must be a bad accident. I feel kind of guilty.”

  “Why would you feel guilty?”

  “Because about twenty minutes ago, I said, ‘Someone better be dead, because if this is just construction traffic, I’ll be seriously pissed.’”

  “Well, you’re a terrible person,” she said, knowing all the while she probably would’ve said the same thing, and probably did the last time she’d been stuck in traffic in LA. “So where are you?”

  “Fuck if I know. I think I passed a little town called Jericho a while ago. I’m not sure, though. Everything looks the same when it’s surrounded by corn.”

  Grace glanced out the window. “Apparently, Indiana is part of something called the Corn Belt, which is basically just a fancy name for an area where the conditions are perfect for growing corn.”

  Gage snorted. “Where do you even get that shit?”

  “I read something other than medical journals and porn,” she replied tartly.

  He grumbled something unintelligible, but she ignored it and said, “I think the fields are beautiful. I can see why Michael chose to go to school here.”

  Another snort from Gage. Grumpy bastard, she thought. Grace glanced at Nick. “Gage says he passed a town called Jericho a while ago. He’s been sitting in traffic ever since.”

  Nick let his head drop back against the seat. “Grace, we’re hell and gone from Jericho. With the rate we’re moving, we won’t get to the resort until tomorrow.”

  Grace bit back a nasty curse word she generally saved for special occasions. “Great. Gage, I don’t think we’ll be there tonight. If you get there before us, will you tell everyone we’re on our way?”

  “Who’s ‘we’?”

  “I’m with Nick O’Connor, brother of the bride.” There was a loaded pause. “I’ll explain tomorrow,” she added wryly.

  “Yes, you will. And get there as quick as you can. Don’t leave me stranded with those people.”

  Grace laughed. “Those people are your family.”

  “Doesn’t make them any less annoying. Besides, you know you’re my favorite.”

  “Aw, I’m touched.”

  “And sarcastic. Don’t forget sarcastic.”

  “Never. Love you.”

  “Yeah, me, too.”

  Grace disconnected the call, then shoved the phone back in her purse. “So what do you recommend we do, marshal?”

  He ran a hand through his hair, leaving it sticking up in the front in a way that should’ve looked ridiculous. Instead, it gave him a just-fucked look that made Grace cross her legs. Tight.

  “Well, the sun’s going down, and it doesn’t look like traffic will be moving again anytime soon. I don’t know about you, but I’m exhausted. I say we get the hell off the highway of the damned at the
first opportunity and don’t get anywhere near it again until morning. What do you say? Dinner and a hotel?”

  A meal and a good night’s sleep sounded like heaven to Grace. “Let’s do it.”

  He glanced over at her, brows raised. Then she realized the double meaning of her statement and rolled her eyes. “Oh, grow up,” she muttered.

  Nick chuckled. “Whatever you say, angel. Whatever you say.”

  Chapter Four

  Exit 41 boasted a gas station with an attached diner, a bail bond office, and a motel with a flashing neon vacancy sign. Or, at least Nick assumed it said vacancy. It was hard to tell with so many letters burned out.

  Since the place wasn’t even on the map, Nick assumed Exit 41 existed solely for the benefit of long-haul truckers and other travelers. All he knew for sure was that the closest real town was twenty miles and an hour in traffic past the limits of his patience. Stopping elsewhere wasn’t really an option at this point.

  Nick parked the car in front of the diner and glanced over at Grace, half expecting her to refuse to go inside. After all, a high-priced attorney in LA probably didn’t spend much time in places like Nadine’s Eat Here and Get Gas. But Grace surprised him by throwing the door open and practically leaping from the car.

  “Thank God,” she said on a huge sigh. “I’m starving.”

  He managed to grab the door for her, but only a heartbeat before she would’ve tugged it open herself.

  An air-conditioned blast of fried-food-scented air smacked Nick in the face as soon as he followed Grace into the diner. His mouth instantly watered. Apparently he was starving, too.

  The inside of the diner was a pleasant surprise. The black Formica tabletops were spotless, and the red vinyl booths and stainless-steel counter gleamed under the fluorescent lighting. Not at all what he expected of a truck stop diner.

  A heavyset, forty-ish woman with a mop of brick-red curls and a nametag that proclaimed her Nadine greeted them with a wide, gap-toothed grin. “Hi, there,” she said. “Table or booth?”