Crazy Love

by Nicola Marsh

  So City Boy thought he could get the lowdown on his mom’s relationship from her? Fat chance.

  She blew him a kiss and batted her eyelashes. “Flattery will get you everywhere.”

  There it was again, the slight upturning at the corners of his mouth when she thought he’d give her a double-shot of that grizzly temper.

  “If you extend those muscles around your mouth a fraction more you might actually crack it for a smile some day soon.”

  She flashed a dazzling smile as a demo.

  “Are you this smart-mouthed with everyone who comes in here or is it just me?”

  “It’s you.”

  She wiggled her fingers in a cheeky wave, enjoying herself more by the minute, while he rubbed his temples as if staving off a blinder of a headache.

  “What a frigging mess.”

  Bummer, just when she was getting warmed up to hurl some real insults his way, he had to tug on her heartstrings with his rendition of a man with the weight of the world on his oh-so-broad shoulders.

  “Want to tell me about it?”

  He fixed her with that Superman glare again, his hair doing the weird, spiky, just-out-of-bed thing guys’ hair did, the thing she loved, especially if she got to run her hands through it and smooth down the spikes herself as they got back into bed.

  Yikes. There she went again, associating grizzly with sex. Maybe she should give serious consideration to a round of GOLF sooner rather than later before she did something out of character, like making him her personal caddie and hope for a stroke under par.

  “Long story. I’d rather not get into it.”

  He glanced at his Rolex and rubbed the spot between his eyes, the same one she would’ve been aiming for earlier if she’d gone through with her elephant throwing, where a tiny, perpetual frown resided. “Besides, I’m starving and I can’t think on an empty stomach.”

  Oh no. No, no, no. She wasn’t going to take up the challenge and invite him to have dinner with her. She already had plans with Belle. Mexican. Margaritas Tequila shots. Sans grumpy hot guy.

  “Have some dinner then.”

  He stopped rubbing his forehead. “Is that an invitation?”

  She should’ve feigned selective deafness. She should’ve said no. She should’ve ordered his uptight ass out of her office. Her lips formed a refusal.

  “Whatever.”

  Great. She’d should’ve’d all over herself.

  “I wouldn’t want to put you out.”

  “You already did the minute you walked in here and started shooting off at the mouth but hey, never let it be said a Lovernian can’t show an intruder some hospitality.”

  He smiled for the first time and the affect was breathtaking. It transformed his face, alleviating the hard planes, smoothing the frown and adding a depth she hadn’t imagined. To make matters worse, he had a sexy crease in his right cheek and damn, she had a thing for dimples.

  “Lovernian? You made that up, right?”

  She looked away, unable to string coherent words together while he smiled like that.

  “I wouldn’t say that too loud around here. The local Lovernians are a species unto themselves and they devour stuck-up types like you for breakfast.”

  “You think I’m stuck-up?”

  “I think you’re a lot of things but let’s not get into that now. I better save some abuse for dinner.”

  “Speaking of which, where do people eat in this hokey place?”

  Don’t invite him back to your place…don’t invite him back to your place…

  Thankfully, this time, her mind and mouth worked in sync.

  “Chips’n’dips at Venus, the local bar, or home cooked stuff at the Love Shack. Take your pick.”

  His smile broadened to a grin and she sucked in a breath, blown away and trying not to show it. “Any other places around here named after dated songs? Guess I should gel my hair and squeeze into an old pair of acid-washed denim.”

  Great, now he was pulling out the big guns. Apart from dimples, she definitely had a thing for a sense of humor.

  “Careful. Sounded like you cracked a joke. Wouldn’t want to go over the top and make me laugh or anything.”

  “Is this your idea of flirting?”

  “You really don’t get out much, do you, Slick?”

  “I get out plenty, I just don’t meet people like you very often.”

  “People like me?”

  He paused, did that weird piercing eye contact thing again, the same way he’d looked her up and down when he’d come in earlier. This time, her nether regions tingled as if rousing from a long sleep and the way he kept staring at her, homed in on him to give her a wake-up call she’d never forget.

  “Forthright. Funny. Interesting.”

  “So city folk are lying, serious, boring types?”

  “Not all. Just the ones I usually meet.”

  “Well then, you’ve come to the right place. Love will get under your skin quicker than you think, leaving you wanting more in the end.”

  A strange expression, part-revulsion, part-fear, flickered across his face though it vanished so quickly she must’ve imagined it.

  “I doubt that. Now, about dinner?”

  Nice change of subject. Marc Fairley was uncomfortable with the L word? She’d have to remember that. Playing on a man’s weakness was a sure-fire way to bring him to his knees, especially if he got her riled like he had earlier.

  “Love Shack it is. The old diner serves a mean burger, the Mexican is authentic and their soda fountain malts are to die for.”

  He stood, dwarfing her office in an instant. This guy was seriously big and if everything was in proportion…

  Stop right there. Don’t think GOLF, not in relation to him. Bet he has a lousy swing, a dented club and balls that are skewed.

  However, the more she tried not to, the more her mind drifted south and she struggled for her eyes not to follow suit.

  “Soda fountain? You’re kidding, right?” Shaking his head, he chuckled. “I’ve stepped into a time warp and ended up in a rerun of Happy Days.”

  Before she could respond his intense gaze swept her body, sending a sizzle of heat from her fingertips to her toes, as she wished for a chunk of Kryptonite to stop from melting.

  “Though you sure as hell don’t look like Joanie. See you there around seven?”

  She nodded and he sauntered out the door, leaving her squirming like one of Uncle Hank’s worms on the end of a hook.

  She tore the Post-it note out of her drawer, screwed it into a tight wad and lobbed it into the trash, muttering “damn golf” and other atrocities as she tried to refocus on work.

  After her fourth attempt at analyzing Cupid’s latest data matches, Sierra pushed away from her desk and grabbed her bag. Her concentration was shot and she needed a caffeine injection, pronto.

  The cappuccino she’d sculled thirty minutes ago didn’t have her half as wired as her run-in with City Boy and while another coffee mightn’t be the best idea she could do with the walk to Aphrodite’s.

  She inhaled as she stepped out into the sunshine, calmed by the sweet, heavy scent of freesias in the air. She loved the delicate pink and white flowers tinged with gold, their heady perfume a reminder of the first time she’d set foot in town and been captivated by the abundance of bright flowers in pots along Main Street.

  With Dolores hanging onto her hand for fear she’d bolt she’d been dragged up this street, sullen and silent while her mom grinned at everyone like a newly crowned Miss California greeting fans.

  While mom had done the royal wave, Sierra had avoided eye contact and counted pots outside the shop-fronts, focusing on the thin stems and delicate petals to curb the rising panic with every step into town.

  She’d lost her dad, her hometown, her school, and her friends in the space of a week. Arriving in Love sucked.

  Fear had numbed her feet, anesthetized her heart and produced a healthy distrust of males that lingered to this day but Love had grown
on her, had become a comfortable fit and every season the freesias bloomed she was reminded how far she’d come from that scared, lost little girl.

  She loved Main Street, its eclectic shops a draw for tourists and locals alike. She regularly shopped at the organic grocer, the toffee store and the coffee house, partial to the freshly ground beans from around the world.

  Tourists preferred the funky fashions in a string of tiny boutiques stocking everything from kaftans to love beads, loitered in the aromatherapist’s and spent a squillion on souvenirs in Amor’s Corner Shop.

  The town hadn’t lost its cozy charm despite the constant influx of rubberneckers and while there were regular complaints about the lack of restaurants and bars, she liked knowing everyone when she headed to Venus for a Margarita or a delish meal at the Love Shack.

  She reached the end of the block, turned left past the grade and high schools, crossed the town square and passed the town hall, following her nose and the scent of soul-reviving coffee as she pushed aside a curtain of hanging beads and stepped into Aphrodite, the best café this side of LA.

  While the faded linoleum floor, mismatched tables, wobbly chairs and gingham curtains weren’t as aesthetically pleasing as a shiny new Starbucks or Gloria Jeans, the coffees were to die for.

  “The usual, love?”

  Sierra shook her head at Cythera, the owner. While the forty-something woman with a penchant for dreadlocks and crystals denied it, everyone reckoned she’d changed her name to that of a Greek-Cyprian love goddess to fit in with the town’s theme.

  “I’m in the mood for something different, Cy. Something cold.”

  “Caffé Freddo?”

  “Is that your fancy iced coffee?”

  “With an extra dollop of homemade vanilla ice cream on top.”

  “Done.”

  Sierra glanced at her watch, remembering the stack of data matches she had to process before knocking off for the day. “Make that to go, please.”

  “Sure thing.”

  Cy fiddled with the espresso machine and the aroma of freshly ground coffee beans made Sierra salivate. “How’s the dating business these days?”

  “Busy.”

  “You remember my preferences?”

  Sierra bit back a grin. Cy regularly interrogated her on likely prospects when she came in for a caffeine fix but Sierra hadn’t yet come up with a six-five Nordic god who played the harp, debated philosophy and read tarot.

  “I’m keeping my eyes open,” Sierra said, sliding her money across the counter as Cy handed over a tall iced coffee. “Promise I’ll let you know when the man of your dreams pops up.”

  “Is that what you told my mother?”

  Sierra stiffened, the deep voice perilously close to her ear, her skin prickling exactly like it had earlier when City Boy had strutted into her office.

  Damn his soulful, all-night-dirty-talk timbre designed to melt. Like his looks weren’t enough.

  With Cy riveted to their every word, Sierra forced a sassy smile and turned to face him.

  “Sorry, can’t disclose that kind of information.”

  Rather than backing up and giving her room to move, Marc leaned closer, invading her personal space, reinforcing exactly how tall he was.

  “What can you disclose?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Why am I taking you to dinner then?”

  “You’re buying? Great. See you then.”

  She edged around him, only to be halted by an arm that shot out and braced behind her, effectively pinning her between a wall of broad chest and a stainless steel counter.

  “Where’s the fire?”

  Burning her up from the inside out as a startling desire ripped through her, fierce, potent, out of control.

  She swallowed and resisted the urge to run her iced coffee across her brow as he smiled. A triumphant smile that said he knew exactly how his nearness affected her and was loving every minute of it, a sexy smile that drew her gaze to the groove in his cheek.

  Her hand clenched with the effort not to reach out and touch it, dip her finger in it and by the time she registered the crackle of crumbling Styrofoam, it was too late. He yelped as creamy froth exploded from the top of her take-out cup and sprayed his shirt.

  “Oops.”

  He leaped back and muttered a curse as he grabbed a bunch of serviettes from the counter and dabbed at the mess while she deposited the offending iced coffee on the counter.

  The harder she tried not to laugh, the more her mouth twitched and when a few stray milk foam blobs landed on his shiny shoes in the shape of a smiley face, she lost it.

  “You’re nothing but trouble,” he said, resident frown back in place as she howled with laughter, great loud belly laughs that had Cy darting concerned glances their way while serving the other lone customer in the café.

  “Sorry,” she managed to say between guffaws, swallowing a chuckle, only to find another bubbling up in its place, tickling her throat, irrepressibly infectious.

  “If your apology was genuine, I’d accept it. As it is—” he shrugged, dumped the sodden serviettes in the trash reserved for empty sugar packets and stick stirrers, “—you owe me.”

  “What did you have in mind?”

  His heated stare had her wanting to dunk in a vat of iced coffee to cool off.

  “I’ll think of something.”

  Oh boy.

  “Dinner for starters?”

  “Looking forward to it.”

  She bolted before she told him exactly what kind of payment system she’d like to instigate to make up for her clumsiness.

  “Hey. You forgot your coffee.”

  With her hand on the door, she turned, her gaze sliding down his drenched shirt. “It’s on you—uh, I mean the house.”

  He laughed as she’d intended and before he tempted her to flirt some more, she made a run for it.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Cupid’s Dating Tips for the Enlightened Male

  Thirty minutes of begging at the end of a date is not considered foreplay.

  Sierra wriggled out of her jeans, swung her legs onto the plinth and lay back. “Thanks for squeezing me in, hon.”

  Belle swirled a wooden spatula through the hot wax, the action making Sierra’s eyes water in anticipatory dread.

  “Why the emergency bikini wax?” Belle checked the wax temperature with a tiny dollop on the back of her hand. “If you’re going to all this trouble for our dinner tonight, don’t bother. I bat for the other team.”

  “Funny.” Sierra held her sides in a mock laughter stitch. “Actually, I need to take a rain-check on dinner. Something came up.”

  Like her long-neglected hormones.

  Belle stirred the pot faster and held up the spatula, her eyes gleaming behind the hot dripping wax.

  “Emergency bikini wax, canceling our dinner, something came up. Can only mean one thing. Game of GOLF?”

  Sierra averted her gaze from the wax, wondering if men knew what women went through in the name of beauty.

  “I don’t do casual sex.”

  Belle snorted. “This is me you’re talking to. I invented GOLF, remember?”

  How could she forget? The two of them had headed to Vegas for a weekend five years ago, needing to spread their wings and ogle hot guys. Love Byte had been open for almost a year and she’d needed some serious down time, while Belle never needed an excuse to party.

  Sierra had wanted to have a little fun by dancing, flirting and catching a few shows, Belle had been the one to insist she “go out and get some guaranteed orgasmic laid-back fun.”

  And though she wasn’t into one-night stands, she’d had a fabulous weekend holed away in the penthouse suite of the Grand with a famous baseball player who expertly wielded his bat and balls and who shall remain nameless to this day.

  Vegas had been a blast but she hadn’t counted on the empty, let-down feeling afterwards, knew then her first one night stand would be her last. She didn’t do casual. In fact, she hadn’t
done much of anything with guys lately unless the occasional dinner and smooch counted.

  So where did her irrational lust for City Boy fit in? She may have bombed out in the birdie and eagle stakes recently but why not hone her game now?

  Because Marc Fairley was pro. If she thought that baseball player was major league, he had nothing on City Boy.

  A guy like Marc showing up in her hometown scared her. She knew why he was here; she didn’t like the way she reacted to him. He pushed all her buttons and she liked it, way too much. She didn’t do involvement. She didn’t do love.

  What she did was have fun, flirt like crazy but above all protect her heart. Relationships were painful. She could peddle them, endorse them and sugarcoat them. She couldn’t do them herself.

  “Who’s the lucky competitor?”

  Sierra flinched as Belle spread hot wax on her upper thigh.

  “Marc Fairley.”

  “Stats?”

  She would’ve preferred to grit her teeth at the oncoming assault of pain as Belle ripped away the forest she’d been cultivating down there since her last wax too long ago to remember, but prattling through the pain would be as affective.

  “Tall, about six-four. Lean. Snazzy dresser.”

  The first rip of fabric, stuck to wax and going against the direction of hair growth, sent a shudder through her but she continued on valiantly.

  “Black hair, brown eyes, good-looking in that clichéd tall, dark and handsome way.”

  The second rip broke through her resistance.

  “Yee-ow! Shit, that hurts.”

  Her best-friend-cum-skilled-torturer tut-tutted.

  “If you waxed the re-growth on a regular basis you wouldn’t have this problem.”

  “What for? No-one’s been trekking near that forest in over a year.”

  Bella strolled around the table and Sierra clenched her hands into fists, bracing for the agony to start all over again.

  Belle shook her head. “You should make like a boy scout anyway.”

  “Always be prepared?”

  Rip.

  “Ow!” Sierra poked out her tongue at Belle. “I hate you.”

  Rip, rip.

  “How about a Brazilian?”