by Amie Stuart
“I’m beat, Robbie.” And I stunk. And the pain in my feet increased with every passing second. Walking upstairs was going to be ugly. “Why don’t you come over for lunch tomorrow? Call me when you get up and I’ll give you directions. I’ve really got to go, baby.”
I hung up, flinching at the endearment that had slipped out, and sat there near tears, the phone dangling from my hand. Robbie was the endearment person. He always had one on his lips—or fingers. For the third night in a row, I went to bed without checking my email. Instead, I showered then lay staring at the ceiling, occasionally licking my lips at the memory of Rowdy’s kisses. My Gawd, the things that man could do with his mouth!
Horsey sex? Groaning, I rolled over, burying my face in the pillow. My life truly was shit. I’d spent yesterday morning’s drive home from Austin thinking of Allan, my mom and Rowdy, and by the time I’d reached San Antonio, my head was spinning so much I missed my exit and had to circle back around.
My lifelong struggle for perfection—regardless of my weight—was what made my antics at the country club so out of character. And so enjoyable, I suppose.
It wasn’t even a broken heart that had left me in tears and caused me to retreat to San Antonio, too battle scarred and weary to try anymore, but my mother’s pronounced disappointment in me. Again. I’d done my best to follow her rules, to fade into the background, to be quiet, to be good, to be proper, to please her. Instead, I failed her.
More importantly, I’d failed myself.
I’d salved my battered ego with food and my computer, quickly outgrowing my size tens and 36C bras—then outgrowing my size twelve’s. And after three years of only sporadic visits home, my tolerance level had dropped drastically—or HH had gotten worse. That she would dare to try and step in and take over the reins of my life once more had nearly sent me over the edge. My life might not be what she wanted, but I’d come too far to let her take over again. So what if it had been easier to lie than tell the truth? A truth that I knew wouldn’t have stopped her anyway.
And now look at the mess I was in.
BOXERS OR BOXER BRIEFS?
ROWDY SPENT HIS second break doing some fast talking with Tim, Susie and Jessa. At least they understood. Well, not understood, but understood why he’d sprung something so unlike him on them. Tim had laughed his ass off while the ladies glared at him from across the waitresses break room.
“I never really got a chance to tell her no. Her mom was on us like white on rice!” Thanks to him dragging Jade to the bar for a beer. But he didn’t add that.
“I just don’t want you hurting her. She’s a very sweet girl, Robert Rowdon Yates!” Susie stood directly in front of the door, the only escape route, tapping her foot.
“Whoa. How come Aunt Susie knows your Internet chick?” Tim had asked from where he sat on the other side of the rickety break room table.
“She’s my liquor rep,” Susie corrected.
From her spot on the ratty couch, Jessa laughed. “So, you mean to tell me,” she began with a dimpled grin, “all this time you two have been going back and forth like a couple of boxers here in the bar, you’ve been sparkin’ on the Internet? Really?”
Had he been courting her? Before he knew she was her? “Yeah,” he softly admitted with a nod.
“Aw, well, if that isn’t just the sweetest thing I ever heard.” Jessa beamed at him, her eyes twinkling.
He hung his head, that sinking feeling back. Jessa loved to play matchmaker almost as much as Toni did, and Susie liked Skye...Jade. The quiet one.
Skye was his flirty girl. And he was in big trouble.
What was left of his break was spent trying to contact Skye, who ended up inviting him to lunch at her place so they could talk.
Rowdy just couldn’t bring himself to think of her as Jade.
But he was real interested in finding out how they’d gone from enemies to engaged in twenty-four hours.
THE NEXT MORNING Rowdy was up at ten, catching up on some paperwork and downloading his e-mail. Nothing from Skye he noticed. He hadn’t seen her posting on the Chris Cagle list in a while either. And that reminded him of something else he needed to do. He ripped a purple sticky note off and jotted down a reminder to buy concert tickets next week for the San Antonio show in November. Then dialed Skye’s number from memory. When she answered on the forth ring, she sounded...asleep, her voice all soft and warm. “Lo?”
“Get up, sleepyhead.”
“Robbie? What time is it?”
“Nearly noon, and you’re supposed to feed me lunch and explain to me how we ended up engaged.”
He smiled at the sounds of her groaning and stretching. “It’s not even eleven,” she grumbled.
“I’m the one who was out late last night.”
“I always wondered—” She yawned right in his ear before she could finish her sentence.
“Wondered what?” He shut down the computer while waiting on her reply.
“Where you were...on the weekends. We never talked late and you always seemed to be in a hurry.”
“You never asked.”
“I was afraid. I didn’t want to know.”
“You were afraid?” He frowned at the dark monitor, surprised at her confessed insecurity. Neither Jade nor Skye had ever struck him as insecure.
“Silly, huh?”
Especially since the truth turned out to be bigger than either of them had expected. He’d deal with that later. “What time’s lunch?”
Promptly at 12:30, Rowdy stood on Skye’s doorstep. Her neighborhood was made up of row upon row of pink stucco townhouses with white trim and garage doors and deep red Mexican tile roofs. They all looked alike; with small patches of grass and two or three saplings. Not a full grown tree for blocks.
At her door hung a basket overflowing with Spanish Moss, and nearby sat two large terra cotta pots full of yellow and orange Marigolds. His Skyebaby had a green thumb. He smiled and rang the doorbell.
His smile faded as an ugly little voice in his head reminded him their five minute engagement had been a sham, and she didn’t like “Rowdy”. He was a redneck, a good ole’ boy, and she was the daughter of a high-tone judge who wore pearls to a damn dancehall.
Then the door swung open, and he found himself greeted by the mouthwatering smell of garlic and chicken and Skye dressed in the same faded denim capris and Chris Cagle T-shirt he’d seen her wearing at Target. She had ankle socks on her feet and wore very little makeup. Despite the dark circles under her eyes and mussed hair, she was smiling.
“You alright?”
“Yeah, come on in.” She waved him in and stepped aside so he could pass. Skye looked so worn out, Rowdy was struck with the urge to tuck her into bed and coddle her a while. Instead, he paused to cup her face and plant a kiss on her cheek. To his surprise, she returned the gesture. “Hungry?”
“Always.” He followed her into the kitchen, taking in the darkened living room they passed through. Tasteful but very sparse. The room didn’t even look lived-in. Her kitchen was another matter.
The floors were the same off-white tile as the entryway, and a huge chili ristra hung in the corner above a small glass-topped table. Bright blue tile countertops contrasted with the pale sand-colored walls and matching curtains that sported hieroglyphics along the border. This room looked much more like the Skye he knew. The one with eclectic tastes whose idea of a vacation was exploring Indian ruins in New Mexico or Central America.
“I didn’t set the table yet. Do you want to eat outside on the patio or in here?”
“Sure it’s not too hot out there for ya?” He resisted the urge to stick his finger in a bowl of what looked like fruit salad and scoop up a finger full. Pineapple, strawberries and little bits of coconut teased him, making his mouth water.
“I won't melt.” She chuckled, the bit of color in her cheeks relieving some of the paleness.
“Then the patio works for me.”
With shaking hands, she poured their drinks and set out their lunch on a t
ray. His offer to help was refused with a smile. So he watched her bustle around, obviously too nervous to stay still for very long.
“You’re limping,” he noted when she returned from a trip outside.
“Yeah, I didn’t have my walking shoes on last night.”
“Last night?”
“Come on, before the flies eat our lunch.” She shooed him outside where she’d taken another small patch of yard and turned it into an oasis. A cement fairy holding an iridescent sphere sat off to one side, water bubbling from the top of the ball. More hanging baskets and terra cotta pots overflowing with flowers decorated each side of the patio and made things cozy.
The small table for two was made up of more Mexican tile and had been set with pale blue plates. They ate in silence a while—chicken salad filled with apples and walnuts on rolls and her fruit salad, heavy on the whipped cream. Or rather, he ate.
Skye picked at her food.
“Not hungry?” Rowdy could get used to meals like this. But he wasn’t supposed to be here to talk about their future, just to let her know she was off the hook with his family. And vice versa. Why did everything have to be so messed up?
She was too far out of his reach and too complex, and he didn’t have time for complex women. They usually turned out to be high maintenance, and he was a man who liked to keep things simple. He liked girls who knew the score—it’s all good fun as long as it lasts. Skye didn’t know the rules, he could see that now. But damn she was cute. “So, what happened to your feet?”
“Mom made me walk home last night. I actually—”
“Walk?” He paused in the middle of heaping more fruit salad on his plate to frown at her. “Not from the dancehall?”
“No, only a couple of miles from here. On the frontage road. We had a fight, and I told her I was taking her off my Christmas card list.” She giggled and popped a cream-covered strawberry in her mouth.
He didn’t understand her amusement. Family rifts were nothing to laugh about. He should know. His own mother hadn’t spoken to him in almost ten years, and he didn’t want to be the cause of a rift between Skye and Her Honor.
“About me?”
She shook her head and held up a finger while she finished chewing. “Not just because of you.” She paused to lick a dot of whipped cream from the corner of her mouth. “Because of Allan.”
An unexpected and red-hot knot of jealousy twisted his gut at the mention of her ex-fiancé.
“He had the nerve to show up at my birthday dinner. Apparently, he’s divorced and HH...lemme start at the beginning.”
So she told him why she called her mom HH, how she’d gotten tipsy at the country club and how they came to be engaged. He laughed, but inwardly cringed. The only country club he’d ever belong to would be the dancehall. Respectable just wasn’t in his vocabulary, and never would be. Not her kind anyway. They didn’t belong together, but that didn’t stop him from wanting her.
“Don’t sweat it. This has been a long time coming, Robbie.”
He snorted. “You’re the only one who calls me that. Even my mom never called me Robbie. I was Rowdy from the time I could walk. Daddy’s Rowdy boy,” he added softly.
“You don’t like to talk about your dad.”
“He’s dead. No reason to.” Rowdy scooted his chair back from the table and stretched his legs out, hoping she’d change the subject.
“I’m sorry about Wednesday night,” she said softly, curling up in the chair to face him. “I was just so shocked. I-I would never deliberately hurt…you.”
“You could have knocked me over with a feather.” He chuckled and smiled over at her, hoping to relieve the worry in her eyes. She really was his Skyebaby. How the hell was he going to fix this?
She sighed and smiled at him in return, her eyes brightening to a warm grass green. “I still have trouble puttin’ it all together in my head. You just don’t act like you.”
“I could say the same.” He gave her an easy smile.
“I suppose—” She waved a hand “—I can see it now, but Wednesday night Rowdy and Robbie just didn’t click.”
“I loved giving you a hard time when you came into the dancehall,” he confessed softly, watching her from the corner of his eye. “You’d get so wound up.”
She chuckled a bit. “I thought you were a redneck gigolo.”
“I am,” he popped back with a grin. Or he was, until he met her. Skye had ruined him for all other women for so long. Hell.
“I’ve seen you flirt.” She sounded jealous.
“I was born to flirt, baby.” He cocked an eyebrow, unable to resist a smirk.
She shook her head and frowned. “Robbie, Robbie, Robbie, what am I gonna do with you?” This was the Skye he’d fallen for.
“Just Love Me,” he quipped, throwing out the name of one of her favorite Chris Cagle songs. He shocked himself with his flip words and was thankful shes snorted and looked away. “So how come you didn’t want to know how I spent my weekends?”
She traced her fork through the whipped cream on her plate and spoke so softly he almost missed her reply. “I was jealous.”
Rowdy couldn’t hold back a smile. He pushed harder, a part of him wanting something more definite from her. A handle on what she might feel for him. An idea of how to move forward. Despite the four-year age difference, there was something innocent about her. Maybe wholesome was a better word. He’d never imagined wholesome could be so sexy though. Pink cheeks, pale skin, exotic, slightly almond-shaped eyes and an abundance of curves. “Of?”
She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye, and her cheeks flamed a deep scarlet again before she looked away. “Whoever you might be spending your weekends with.”
He was flattered, pure and simple, but one last thing bugged him. “What if your mom hadn’t shown up last night...wanting to meet your fiancé?”
“I’d planned on calling you today.” Cheeks pink, she hopped up and disappeared inside with her arms full of dishes.
Still smiling at her confession, Rowdy followed, figuring the least he could do was offer to wash.
He stepped in as Skye stepped out, and they ended up in each other’s arms. He wrapped his arms around her to steady her, remembering just how much he’d enjoyed kissing her in the beer garden—despite the audience.
She didn’t have full lips, but they were still soft, and today they were peach. Yesterday, last night, they’d been dark pink. His smile faded and, unable to resist, he leaned down and brushed his lips to hers. They were as soft as he remembered and tasted sweet, like the whipped cream from the fruit salad. He coaxed her mouth open and delved a little deeper, his tongue gently searching for hers. She shivered a bit and relaxed against him, her arms creeping around his neck.
With a low groan, he tightened his grip on her and backed her into the kitchen, slamming the door behind him. The suddenly chilly air did nothing to cool him down. He hadn’t planned on this happening but he wanted her. And he was gonna have her. Now.
Rowdy released Skye long enough to peel off his t-shirt and reach for hers, but she tugged the edge of her shirt from his grasp, and he forced himself to slow down. Over three months of celibacy had left him hungry, and she was warm and sexy and sweet as sin.
He moved in close, nuzzling her neck and gently palming her breasts through her shirt. Skye sighed, her head rolling back as she thrust them further into his hands. He rubbed the tips and felt them harden beneath the soft cotton material and his cock stiffened in response, strangled by his tight jeans. She whimpered and her breathing picked up pace. Rowdy leaned in and pressed his lips to the tender spot just behind her ear, and she tangled her hands in his hair. Her skin smelled like vanilla. And something else. The same deep earthy scent from last night that he’d struggled to identify.
Before he could lift her shirt up over her head a second time, she’d pushed him away, tears sparkling in her bright green eyes.
He frowned in confusion and concern. He didn’t want to upset her o
r rush her. Maybe he’d read her signals wrong and the desire had all been on his part. “I’m sorry, I thought you wanted—”
“I do,” she whispered, swiping at the tear that slid down her cheek. He breathed a tiny sigh of relief, reached up and grabbed her hand, caught off guard by her next words. “But I can't.”
“Is it...the wrong time?”
With a tiny laugh, Skye shook her head and crossed her arms over her chest. “I want you so bad.”
“You can have me.” Rowdy gently massaged her neck and shoulders, still unsure of the reason for her hesitation. “All you have to do is lead me to your bedroom. Or the couch...or right here.”
She shook her head with a sigh, her lips twisted in a wry grin. Jade licked her lips and finally explained. “Do you know what’s worse than being celibate?”
Aha. She hadn’t had sex in three years. “What?” he asked softly, wrapping his arms around her.
“Getting used to being celibate. It’s like having to shift from fifth to first as fast as possible, and you know it’s gonna be rough and you’ll grind the gears getting there.”
“And that has what to do with us?” Until five months ago celibacy wasn’t even in his vocabulary.
“If I take you upstairs, then I have to start all over again. It’s like going on a diet and cheating and then having to go back to the beginning again,” she babbled. “What’s that kids game where if you land on the wrong space you have to start all over? “Sorry?” Like that. I’d rather not have you.” She squeezed her eyes shut for a minute and swallowed, then met his gaze head-on. The determined set of her chin didn’t leave him any room for doubt. And the message was clear.
She’d rather be celibate than have a one nighter—or rather, a nooner.
Which meant he had to make a choice. Take a chance; break his rules or walk away now.
He studied her pretty face, all her doubts loud and clear in her bright green eyes, despite her stubbornness. And chose.
“So who says you have to go back on your diet tomorrow?” He reached up and ran his fingers through her thick, silky hair.
