Reid spared himself a glance—black jeans, black long-sleeved Henley—no wonder she hadn’t spotted him. He stepped onto the paving tiles that made up the small patio area at his back door, eyes narrowing on the woman’s pale face. Her rosy lips, slightly parted as she sucked in air. Her skin, a creamy pink like the palest rose petals, except for crimson spots of color on her cheekbones and the tip of her nose. And the short tufts of coppery hair peeping out below her turquoise-and-pink-striped beanie.
“You’re the girl that ditched me at the wedding,” he said.
Her eyes flew open. Pretty dark blue irises containing a glimmer of oh shit, what just happened? Yep, that was her, all right.
“Um.” She sat up straight, her gaze shooting off to the left while she sucked in her lower lip and held it there with her teeth. “Ditched is a strong word. We weren’t there together.”
“Yet I was the guy left holding your shoes.”
“Yeah. Sorry about that.”
She smoothed a hand down the front of her beige boring-as-hell straight skirt—which was at total odds with her jacket and funky striped hat—and gave her hips a little wriggle on his Adirondack chair. She huffed out a sigh, an expression of God grant me patience crossing over her face.
“There are some wardrobe malfunctions paper towels can’t cope with, so I decided heading home was the best option,” she continued. “Speaking of heading home, I’ll wait until Kaitlyn’s free and talk to you then.” Fine lines appeared on her brow. “Going on the assumption that you are Reid Hudson and that I haven’t just embarrassed myself by showing up at the wrong address.”
This was Kaitlyn’s friend?
“You’ve got the right address,” he said. “I’m Reid. And you are?”
She braced her hands on either side of the chair and half rose to her feet, tilting her hips toward him in a weird way that simultaneously bemused him and sent a jolt of awareness zipping through his veins.
“Darby Livingston.” She released the chair arms and stood, tugging down her jacket that had rucked up around her hips. “And I can see you’re not in the mood for guests.” She tipped her head toward his darkened room. “I’ve used the lights-out trick many times myself.”
Not much he could say in his defense.
“Anyway, you go on back to whatever you were doing in the dark. Don’t mind me.” She sidestepped toward the walled-in path that led down the side of the building.
“You’re here now. You may as well come inside,” he said. Nice, Reid. Very welcoming. One of many reasons why you haven’t had a woman in your room—or bed—for months.
“Oh, no. I don’t want to be a PITA.” Darby took another sidestep, still keeping her back to the wall.
“A what?”
She offered up a tight smile. “A pain in the ass. I’d better go.”
Suddenly he didn’t want her to. Not when, for the first time in a long time, a woman had piqued his curiosity just from her sheer charisma.
“At least come in out of the cold while I find your shoes.”
“You kept them? But they’re ruined.”
He rolled a shoulder. “I know a guy who dyes bridesmaids’ and mother-of-the-bride shoes for us to match their dresses. I got him to dye your slingbacks a deep red.”
“That was nice of you.”
But she still continued to glance down the side of the building as if any second she’d make a run for it. It occurred to him that perhaps Darby had some doubts entering a pitch-black room with a man she didn’t know. Serial killer and too-stupid-to-live heroine kind of doubts. He reached back inside the open doorway and hit the main lights to his room.
“I won’t bite,” he said. “Even though you did compare me to a wolf.”
Her startlingly blue eyes fixed on his mouth. Whether or not it was to check if he had pointy incisors, he didn’t know. His dick sure as hell didn’t care, because the heat of her stare shot straight south of his belt. Then her gaze flicked up to his hair, and a dimple popped in her cheek.
“You’re really more of a golden Labrador than a wolf,” she said. “And I know how to handle overexuberant pups.”
Like every guy wanted to be compared to the canine equivalent of a teddy bear. Reid showed her a crescent of non-pointy teeth. “I’ll try to restrain myself. Come inside, Darby.”
She hesitated for another two beats, then pursed her lips and blew out a sigh. “O-kay.”
Said in a tone Reid recognized from having lived with female roommates for years as one which really meant: I’m not okay with it, but I’ll pull up my big-girl panties and do it anyway.
Darby reversed the direction of her sideways shuffle and walked in mincing baby steps toward him. He moved to one side of the doorway and made an after you gesture. Chin arched, she continued past him, bracing a hand on the frame as she hitched herself over the doorstep into his room.
His gaze dropped past the hem of her puffer jacket to her rounded hips that the boring cotton twill did nothing to flatter and lower still to the pencil skirt’s slit. The skirt had popped open part of the center seam to reveal Darby’s hot-pink boy-short panties. Plus a generous amount of smooth, curvy bum cheek.
Holy hell—big-girl panties indeed.
Reid pressed his lips together to muscle the huge smile off his face and followed her inside.
Chapter 3
If there was anything more mortifying than your skirt splitting from hem to crotch while nearly falling on your ass in front of the out-of-her-league mysterious hot guy she’d met at Maisy’s wedding, Darby hadn’t experienced it.
Yet.
But wait for it…
Being invited into said guy’s house with her ass and—thankfully—non-laundry-day panties on display was one step above mortifying.
Brazen it out, Catwoman.
Though the real Catwoman wouldn’t have tried so hard to appear professional and businesslike by wearing the only vaguely conservative outfit in her wardrobe, the straight skirt, which had been a little loose on her five years ago when, as a twenty-two-year-old, she’d graduated with a diploma in veterinary nursing and needed conservative clothes for job interviews. Life and chemo rounds had changed many things, including her cup size and the amount of fucks she had to give over sweating the small stuff like weight gain.
Darby pretended not to hear Reid’s indrawn breath as she walked past him and plopped herself down on the end of his king-sized bed. He slid the door closed and turned to her, arms folded across the snug-fitting shirt he wore, tight enough to emphasize a truly impressive set of sculptured-from-granite man boobs.
“I can fix that for you,” he said.
He dipped his chin at her ladies sit with their knees pressed together perch. She laced her fingers on her lap.
“I’m good,” she said.
“You sure?” The corner of his mouth kicked up. “Not feeling a little drafty?”
With her ass hanging out, he meant.
A tingle of impending combustion flared along her cheekbones. Could’ve been worse. Could’ve been Hugh copping an eyeful of her bare butt, and not in the fun way she’d daydreamed about. But did she really intend to walk back to her apartment, thirty minutes away, with her ass on display?
Ugh.
“Maybe a little, but I’m used to it,” she admitted. “You’ve probably guessed that wardrobe malfunctions are my thing.”
Reid crossed to a set of drawers. He opened one and dragged out a pair of black sweatpants. “You can change into these while I set up a sewing machine to fix your skirt.” His gaze skimmed down her from hips to ankles. “They should fit. Bathroom’s through there,” he added, pointing toward a partially open door.
“Thanks.”
Darby stood, snatched the sweatpants from his hands, and scuttled sideways into his bathroom, flicking the door shut behind her. She unzipped and wrestled the too-tight skirt over her hips, eyeballing the pants.
“They should fit, huh?” she said under her breath. “Lucky I’m not verticall
y challenged.”
With a glance at her flushed cheeks in the mirror, she stepped into Reid’s pants and hauled them up her legs. The fleece was snuggly warm on her chilled flesh, but dahling, her sensible heeled pumps and pinstriped blouse totally clashed.
Super. Just the kind of klutzy impression she wanted to leave on the big blond hottie before she asked him the mother of all favors. And crap, she’d done her damnedest to stuff herself into conventional beige packaging. Literally and metaphorically. Except for the brightly colored puffer jacket and today’s choice of the 101 hats she’d collected during her treatments.
Darby pulled the beanie off her head and jammed it into a pocket. She gave her hair a token fluff to attempt damage control from hat hair, picked up the skirt, and left the bathroom. Reid wasn’t in his bedroom, so she followed the sounds of an electric hum through another doorway.
She stepped into a huge, brightly lit room. Her gaze zipped past a massive table that dominated the space to the wide shoulders of the man seated in front of a scary-looking sewing machine. It hummed like a wasp nest filled with pissed-off insects, loud enough that Reid didn’t hear her footsteps until she’d nearly reached him.
The swivel chair turned, and his gray-blue eyes unerringly snapped to hers. Damn, but Reid Hudson was a sexy son of a golden Labrador. Determined not to start the blush cycle again, Darby slapped a hand on her hip, pointed a pump toe, and gave him her best runway-fierce stare.
“I think I wear these better,” she said.
He held out his hand for her skirt. “No argument from me.”
She passed him the skirt and he held it up to examine the damage.
“Grab a stool from under the table,” he said. “Tell me what you and Kaitlyn wanted to discuss while I work.”
Darby got a stool and sat a short distance from the growling machine. The thing looked as if it’d relish stitching your fingers together while laughing maniacally.
She cleared her throat, which felt as if her windpipe grew narrower by the second as nerves set in. “Kaitlyn probably told you we’re in the same theater company?”
“Uh-huh.” Reid pulled broken bits of thread from the skirt’s popped seam.
Breathe, Darby. She sucked in a deep breath that wasn’t so much for calming purposes as to prepare her for the speech she’d practiced over and over. “The company is putting on a production of Cinderella in early December with five public performances and”—she whooped in another breath when her lungs deflated from gabbling out her whole introduction—“MacKenna Jones has agreed to donate fabric for the costumes, so I was wondering if you’d consider donating your time to make the costumes.”
Reid flicked a lever behind the machine’s presser foot and slid her inside-out skirt beneath it. “I don’t do much sewing now,” he said, shooting her a quick, indecipherable glance. “Trina took over as head machinist since Mac moved to Oban and I started doing more of the planning side of things.”
He snapped the presser foot down, positioned his hands either side of her skirt, and fed the fabric through like he was a race car driver, barely pausing before the needle reversed direction for a few stitches and he lifted the presser foot again. After snipping off the threads with a small set of scissors, he turned back to her.
“You’re pretty nimble with those fingers,” she blurted.
“So I’ve been told.”
Reid flashed her a sharp grin that awakened a mariachi band of butterflies in her stomach. A golden Labrador with a wolf’s smile. If he wasn’t so out of her league, she’d be the color of a peeled beet by now and in serious danger of her jaw hitting the floor.
“As I was saying.” She kept her gaze locked on the safe zone of the monster machine. It appeared appeased with the sacrifice of her skirt. “We could really use your sewing skills. The actors will also wear their costumes to the masquerade ball on the final night of the production, so it’s great publicity for Next Stop, Vegas.”
Reid’s brow furrowed. “That sounds like a shitload of work.”
Beneath her puffer jacket she was pretty certain sweat rings were forming on her blouse. Jeez, in her head this speech had sounded a lot more persuasive and a lot less rehearsed.
“It is,” Darby said slowly. “We’ll need a Fairy Godmother dress, Cinderella’s ball gown, two Ugly Stepsister ball gowns, plus Prince Charming’s outfit.”
Reid looked even less enthusiastic than he had a moment before, if that were possible. Oh crap, she was losing him.
“It’s for a good cause.” She wrung her hands together. “Part of the ticket sales for the show and all the masquerade ball sales will be donated to building a new roof for Sunflower House. Have you heard of it? It supports people who are going through treat—”
“I’ve heard of it. It’s a noble cause, for sure.”
“It is.” Darby’s ribs gave a little inward squeeze that made her words come out in a breathy rush. “Kaitlyn mentioned you lost your mum to breast cancer.”
“I did.”
Reid said it in a tone so neutral it was almost the same shade as her now-mended beige skirt. He stood, his long legs abruptly knocking the rolling chair away from him.
“Here.” He offered her the skirt. “This one’s on the house.”
“You know, I usually do repairs with my own little machine.” She took the garment from him. “I did sewing in school. That’s why I was put in charge of the production’s wardrobe. I could help you make the costumes if you needed an assistant.”
He made a masculine rumbly sound in the back of his throat that could’ve been admiration for her volunteering to be a wardrobe mistress or, more than likely, disbelief at her offer to help him with anything requiring sewing ability.
“I’m guessing you don’t sew for a living,” he said.
“Not unless you consider assisting my boss to stitch up a wound on an injured animal part of the sewing industry. I’m a veterinary nurse.”
“You must be pretty nimble with those fingers.”
“Uncannily so. Nimble is my middle name.” She tried to keep a straight face and failed.
A corner of his mouth quirked up and then spread into a smile. Damn, it really was a dazzling smile. Sunstroke-inducing kind of dazzling. Time to make a quick exit before she got burned.
“I’ll go change,” she said and fled back into the bathroom.
She stripped out of Reid’s pants and pulled on her skirt, which now, thankfully, once more concealed her pink-panties-covered bum. She’d never live this one down, oooh no. She could only hope Reid was as discreet as he was talented.
Slipping out of his bathroom, Darby spotted him stretched out on his couch, eyeing up the beer bottle on his coffee table. Next to it was a second unopened bottle.
He angled his chin at it. “Want one?”
Butterflies flapped inside her rib cage and she swallowed hard, hoping spit would drown them. She should stay, have a drink with him, and use the loosening effects of alcohol to convince him to help with the costumes. On the other hand, alcohol might cause a beer goggles effect, freeing her tongue to slur something inappropriate like, “You’re hawwwt.”
Because he was.
One didn’t need beer goggles to admire the man’s physique and face chiseled from the Stone of Hawwwtness.
“Rain check?” Like when Kaitlyn was around to provide a buffer from Reid’s assessing gray-blue stare. “I’d better get going.”
She’d crossed the line into utter ridiculousness. Snap out of it, Catwoman. Reid was merely being a polite host offering her a beverage, while she was gawking at him like a teenager being asked on a date by the most popular boy in school.
“Sure,” he said easily. “Another time. I put your shoes into a carry bag by the door.”
“Thanks.” She half turned toward the sliding doors, then hesitated. You don’t ask, you don’t get. “Will you think about helping us out?”
“I’ll think about it.” He crossed his ankles on the couch arm.
W
as that like crossing your fingers when you told a lie? The set of his jaw told her she wouldn’t get any more of a commitment from him tonight.
“And other things that’ll keep my mind occupied.” He took a sip of his beer and then rested the bottle on his stomach. “Pink things.” His voice lowered to a shiver-inducing growl.
She could blush, or she could twist his words to her advantage. “The Pink Ribbon campaign for breast cancer is worth thinking about, so I really hope you do decide to help us out.” Before he could correct her, she bolted for the door and snatched up the plastic bag containing her shoes.
“Good night, Darby.” His smoky chuckle trailed after her.
“Reid? Can we borrow you for a moment?”
MacKenna’s voice managed to travel from the boutique’s main fitting room to dig mercilessly into Reid’s eardrum. Currently wading hip-deep through his in-box, he huffed out a sigh, reminding himself that Mac only bugged him once a week, max, now that they’d pretty much swapped their roles at Next Stop, Vegas.
He straightened his tie, which sat askew after talking to a frantic Deidre at Just Flowers, who’d completely misread the Barton-Frobisher order and now had pink roses in the bridal bouquet instead of peach, and stood up from his desk. Making a mental note to stop by the florists to drop off a peace-offering bottle of wine, Reid strode out of his office. Gathered in front of the angled mirrors were Mac, Laura, and Mac’s second bride of the morning, Josie MacDonald. Josie stood on the pedestal for the final fitting of the one-of-a-kind gown she’d insisted Mac designed and sewed to her exact vision. Josie’s wedding day, in her own words, would be “kind of a big deal” in Invercargill.
Only the gown which had fitted like a glove six weeks ago was now not fitting at all. The strapless neckline gaped, the structured bodice puckered at the sides, and the skirt bagged over Josie’s hips.
Love Everlasting Page 3
