by A. J. Pine
“Am I eating more cake or what?” he asked.
She sat down and stuck a fork in the opened container in front of her.
“You don’t even like me,” she said, and his brows drew together.
“Seems beside the point.”
She huffed out a breath. “So you admit it. God, I knew I was right! I just never figured it would take me divorcing Tucker for you to finally own up to it.”
He leaned forward, resting his good arm on the table.
“Sweetheart,” he said, his voice low and cool, “you don’t know a thing about me.”
She matched him, lean for lean. She smelled like warm vanilla, like she’d just stepped out of a bakery. But he’d blame his mouth watering on the perfectly lined-up containers of cake long before he’d admit to her having any sort of effect on him.
“I know you think life is one big party, that you don’t take anything or anyone seriously, and that you think it’s charming women prefer you naked than any other way because that’s probably the only time you give them your undivided attention. It’s no wonder anyone in your orbit would think his life didn’t measure up.”
His teeth ground together, and he gripped the edge of the table like he was prepared to turn it to dust. “You didn’t just blame me for your divorce, did you? Tucker was married to you. Not me.”
And she was the one who left. Shit, he remembered the night it happened. Tucker, the guy who always had his shit together, was a goddamn mess, drunk off his ass at three in the morning. Maybe it wasn’t his place to lob accusations at Lily like he was, but it also wasn’t his place to be letting her feed him cake.
They were so close. He could kiss her if she was any other fucking woman in the world. If she wasn’t his best friend’s ex-wife. If she wasn’t a whole hell of a lot of things.
“Yeah, well now he’s marrying someone else, so why don’t we just leave Tucker out of the equation.”
He laughed. “So you can insult me and the way I live my life?”
Lily shrugged. “I just don’t see what’s wrong with acting like a responsible adult. With taking your life seriously. Or—or stopping for one second to think how your actions—like going to a strip club on a Tuesday—might influence others.”
Christ. He remembered that night—and Tucker’s suggestion that they leave the bar and do something a little less PG-rated. But what would it matter now to defend himself? He knew how Lily saw him—how she’d always seen him since the night they met—and that wasn’t going to change.
He pushed back from the table and rose quickly, fueled by adrenaline. But that did nothing to mask the pain as he swore he felt something pop.
“Dammit!” He hissed in a sharp breath, but that put more pressure on his ribs.
Her eyes widened, and she was up in a flash. “Shoot. Ava’s gonna kill me if she comes home and finds you in worse shape than when she left. What do you need? Ice? Do you have an ice pack in the freezer?”
He braced his unencumbered hand on the counter and took in another breath, this time slow and controlled. “Yes. On the bottom shelf of the door.” Great. Not only was he stuck with her for the next couple of hours, but now he had to rely on her help because he let her get a rise out of him.
She slammed the freezer shut and brandished the blue gel pack in her hand. “You probably need to lie down, right?”
He nodded. “Right.”
She approached him hesitantly, like she was afraid of spooking a wild animal.
He groaned. “I’m not gonna fucking bite…unless that’s what you want.” He raised a brow, but she just rolled her eyes. Nope, he wasn’t getting a rise out of her. This was their dance, though. He ruffled her feathers, her eyes sparked with anger, and he’d get the satisfaction of knowing—in some small way—that he’d had an effect on her. It was safe enough that he could justify it. But the only thing he saw in her eyes right now was pure, unfiltered annoyance.
“I’m just trying to figure out if I need to help you to your bed or just drop the ice pack on the counter and let you fend for yourself.”
He blew out a breath. “I can’t handle the stairs right now. I just need to get to the couch.”
She pursed her lips. “And…?”
“And what?” he snapped. His body answered him with a sharp stab of pain to the ribs.
“And, ‘Lily, I would be most appreciative if you’d assist me.’” She wore a self-satisfied smile. He’d have been wholly pissed off if not for one thing—that tiny spark in her green eyes.
“Nobody fucking talks like—”
“And…?” she interrupted.
His head fell back, and he closed his eyes, needing a moment to collect himself. Because he couldn’t believe what he was about to say.
“Please, Lily,” he ground out. “Can you help me to the couch?”
She jutted out her chin. “Why yes, Luke. I’d be happy to.” Then she deflated, her brows pulling together. “How do I do that so I don’t make it worse?” He opened his mouth to respond, but she cut him off. “And no sassy comment about how I’ve already made things worse.”
He bit back a laugh, though he wasn’t sure if it was because he knew it would hurt or because he didn’t want her to see she had the ability to make him smile.
He put his good arm over her shoulders. “Put your right hand on my right hip. You just need to make sure I don’t go down like a ton of bricks.”
She did as he asked, and he bit the inside of his cheek as her breast, covered only by a thin T-shirt that read I LIKE BAKING MORE THAN I LIKE PEOPLE, pressed against his side. Her fingertips brushed the skin above his jeans as she placed her hand gingerly on his hip, and now that she couldn’t see his expression, he smiled to himself as he heard her short intake of breath.
Maybe he got a rise out of Little Miss Responsible Adult after all.
Once they were moving, though, that grin was a thing of the past.
“You realize,” she said, “that if you do go down like a ton of bricks, I can’t do much more than break your fall.”
He waited until they made it to the couch and she helped lower him to his back before he responded. “Maybe that was my grand plan, to crush you to dust so you’d stop being so irritating.”
She kneeled next to him and laid the ice pack gently over his bruises, not taking the bait.
“Damn, that feels good.” He practically groaned.
“Do you need medicine or something?” she asked, her hand still resting lightly on the pack.
He shook his head. “I took a painkiller early this morning. Can’t have another till about two.”
She stared at him, her brows furrowing as her soft blond hair fell over her eyes. How much had changed since she’d been the sexy line dancer with the pixie cut he couldn’t take his eyes off of? She chewed that plump bottom lip of hers and just kept looking at him, like she was having a conversation in her head that she couldn’t interrupt. And that damn hand of hers was still on him. On the ice pack on him, but close enough. It felt—messed up.
“Do you always do that?” he asked.
She blinked a few times, like she was coming out of a trance. “Do what?”
“Think so goddamn hard.”
She nodded slowly. “I do.”
“Doesn’t it get tiring?”
Again she nodded, and her breathing was less even than it was seconds ago. “Don’t you get tired of hospital visits. Or—or never waking up with the same girl twice?”
She swallowed hard after that one, and like it didn’t know who he was talking to, his dick twitched in response as he thought briefly of waking up with her.
“No,” he admitted. “I do what I want, when I want. My choice. And if and when that starts to get tiring, I’ll consider another approach. Life’s too fucking short to waste time on thinking.”
It was part truth, part lie. Luke thought long and hard the night she went home with Tucker Green instead of with him. He realized then he wasn’t the kind of guy women chose fo
r the long term, so he took that off the table. And guess what? Life had been pretty damn enjoyable—until Lily Green got back in his head and he wound up in the ER busted up the worst he’d ever been.
She nodded absently, then quirked her head to the side, her brows furrowing. “Especially when I’m thinking the wrong thing.”
She grabbed the arm of the couch and made like she was going to stand, but because Luke was against the whole thinking thing, he didn’t have time to realize that what he was about to ask was also the wrong thing.
He grabbed her hand before she lifted it from his side. “What’s the wrong thing?” he asked softly.
“Yesterday was my birthday,” she said absently.
And the day the divorce was final. He knew. He fucking knew and said nothing because just being around her knocked him off-kilter.
It always had. But now that she was this close, all logic flew out the window.
“It was sort of the worst birthday, too,” she continued. “No presents. So I was thinking…I mean, there’s this heat, right? This angry sort of heat. And it makes me want…”
She shook her head even as she lowered it, and when her lips were so close to his that a mere breath could have made them touch, she whispered, “It makes me want this.”
Her lips brushed his, a soft sweep of flesh on flesh, her tongue flicking out to tease him. And hell if she didn’t taste as sweet as she smelled.
“Sweetheart…What the hell are we doing here?”
“I’m not your sweetheart,” she said, a slight tremble in her voice.
And no. Despite how she tasted and smelled, there was nothing sweet about this girl, especially now. And because he didn’t think—couldn’t right now even if he tried—he tangled his fingers in her soft hair and pulled her to him.
This time they were two semis on a collision course with no possibility of slowing before impact. They crashed in a fiery explosion, tongues tangling, yet in the back of his mind he knew she was taking care not to fall on top of him. She was thinking. Still thinking, and he wanted to figure out how to make her stop.
He let go of her hair and gripped her waist, his hand traveling up her torso until his thumb brushed the side of her breast. Right now he didn’t care if she did topple onto him. She could bust him up good if this was the reward.
She hummed a soft moan when he palmed her. His cock throbbed inside his jeans. And when he pinched her hardened peak, she gasped—and then sprang up like he’d set her on fire.
Her hand flew over her mouth, and she shook her head.
“I can’t. We can’t.”
She spun and, without another word, bolted toward the front door.
He didn’t even get to eat any more of the cake.
“Shit.” He tried to get up but knew she was too fast for him unless he risked making his situation even worse. “Lily!” he called after her. “You don’t have to”—he heard the door slam—“go.”
But she did have to leave. Because now that she wasn’t pissing him off or kissing him, he had a second to do that thing he tried to avoid—think.
No matter what had gone wrong in their marriage, he couldn’t do this to Tucker. Luke had had his shot, and he blew it. Since then, Lily Green was and always would be off-limits.
He glanced down to where he was still rock hard inside his pants. Looked like someone hadn’t gotten the fucking memo.
Chapter Five
Lily breathed in the salty sea air and grinned at the list in her planner.
Food. Shopping for food at a farmers market. This was her happy place. She didn’t have to think about anything other than the ripeness of a banana or the firmness of a tomato.
Firmness.
She’d had a week to forget about Luke Everett’s firm torso—and the firm line behind the zipper of his jeans after she…
Good Lord, she couldn’t even think the thing that she’d done let alone relive its aftermath.
“Kiss me over the garden gate?”
Lily gasped and looked up from her planner to a young man standing behind a booth. “What?” she asked.
“Kiss me over the garden gate.” He gestured to a table full of small potted pink plants. “Are you looking to pink up your garden?”
She shook her head slowly, still trying to block out that word. Kiss. Yeah, she was failing miserably.
“I have an herb garden,” she said. “It’s got a monochromatic theme going on.”
He ran a hand through shaggy brown hair and then crossed his arms. “Pink goes really well with green. In fact, kiss-me-over-the-garden-gate has green stalks and leaves. It’ll blend right in.”
She blew out a breath and stepped closer to the table. “If I buy a plant, will you stop saying Kiss me over the garden gate?”
He gave her a toothy grin and stepped out of the booth and behind the table.
“Promise,” he said. “Here. The runt of the litter, so it hopefully won’t grow too high.” He handed her the pot.
“How tall does it get?” she asked, her interest in the dangling buds piqued.
“Twelve feet!” he said proudly. “Grow it along a trellis or over a gate or fence. Makes a beautiful place under which to get kissed. Hence its name.”
She groaned. “You promised.”
He laughed. “I promised not to say Kiss me over the garden gate. You gave no directive about the word kiss in general.” He held out a hand. “I’m Zane.”
“Lily,” she said, shaking Zane’s hand.
“Ahhh. The perennial Lily. Blooms brighter and stronger each season.”
She let out a nervous laugh. He was funny. And cute, if you liked overgrown glossy brown waves or sun-kissed skin that told of endless days at the beach when he wasn’t cultivating flirty flowers. And maybe he was actually flirting with her, which was great, right? She was single, free to flirt with whomever she wanted.
Almost. There was a certain moody cowboy she needed to stop thinking about. Made it harder to appreciate the attention of a good-looking stranger who could even make her name sound romantic. Luke Everett just made it sound like a burden to utter. Come to think of it, he couldn’t even bring himself to do that much. Just his disdainful sweetheart.
Stop. Thinking. About Luke Everett, she silently chastised.
She flipped to the page in her planner that had a convenient little pocket for her cash.
“That’ll be ten bucks and—” He dipped his head and looked up at her through thick lashes. “Your number?”
Her eyes widened and she threw the planner to the ground. Apparently she was out of practice with this flirting thing.
She dropped to her knees to grab it only to find the book resting against the dusty toe of a worn cowboy boot. Her head rose slowly, her eyes following the line of his faded, ripped jeans up to where they hung perfectly on equally perfect hips. A gray T-shirt hugged his torso, one she knew hid three cracked ribs. The sling was gone, and his arms were crossed as he looked down at her through mirrored aviators.
Of course that certain moody cowboy was here.
She sprang to her feet and shoved the planner in her bag.
“I—uh—” She handed Zane a ten-dollar bill and grabbed the plant. “Here. I mean, thanks.”
Zane raised a brow, and she could feel Luke just standing there, watching the whole scene like it was a Netflix Original he couldn’t pry his eyes from.
“Is that a no on the number, then?” He nodded toward Luke.
“Rain check,” she said, and then—though she needed to head the other way—bolted in the direction from which she came. The one that would hopefully lead her far, far away from Luke Everett.
Except once she got a hundred feet away, practically back to the parking lot, she remembered that she really did need eggs, and she only bought them fresh. She also needed butternut squash, apple, and fresh ginger for the ravioli. Peas, carrots, potatoes for the shepherd’s pie. And—well—just about everything for the menu of autumn comfort foods Tucker and Sara had requested.
Maybe she hadn’t yet figured out the cake, but she could at least ensure the dinner items were up to par.
So, plant in hand, she spun on her heel once again and strode back into the heart of the market. Luke wasn’t there anymore, waiting by Zane’s flower stand. Of course he wasn’t waiting for her. God, what was wrong with her? Luke Everett seemed to exist for two reasons only—to taunt her or get irritated with her like he always did.
Eggs. I need fresh eggs. She let that thought buoy her to a stand called Farm Fresh. The sign was hand painted, a rustic red background with white lettering and a nest of white eggs next to the logo. A blond woman, hair tied back in a messy bun, was handing a carton of eighteen eggs to a satisfied-looking customer. As Lily approached, the woman turned and gave her a familiar smile just as a chicken flapped its wings and flew up from behind the stand to greet her. Lily stumbled back in surprise as the bird landed on Farm Fresh’s table.
“Lucy!” the egg woman scolded as oomph, Lily slammed into something solid.
“You gonna let a little chicken ruffle your feathers?” a deep voice rasped in her ear.
And then everything fell into place. The Farm Fresh sign. The woman she seemed to recognize. The obvious presence of an Everett brother at this very stand. The one Everett brother she’d be happy to avoid until the end of time. Or maybe an asteroid could just hurtle toward Earth right now and put her out of her misery.
She quickly stepped away from the warmth of the body behind her.
“Oh shit!” she said, turning to face him, the memory of his injuries overshadowing her humiliation. “I’m sorry. Are you—? Did I—?”
Luke’s left hand rested lightly on his right side, but he was grinning. His eyes were still hidden behind the glasses, though, so she couldn’t be sure if it was a genuine smile or a sneer. She’d place her money on the latter, yet she couldn’t look away. She couldn’t stop wondering what his blue eyes were doing behind their mask or if he, too, hadn’t been able to get that kiss out of his head.
