by Tara Wyatt
Although, to be fair, Mike had fallen a little short in the good-in-bed department. A little vanilla, maybe. And his oral sex skills had left something to be desired. And he hadn’t seemed concerned if she came or not.
Okay, maybe more than a little short.
But the rejection still hurt. Probably would for a while.
The bar’s front door opened, bringing in a gust of fresh air along with Carly’s boss and friend, Dean Grayson. He tipped his head at her and gave a cursory wave before heading toward his office at the back. She watched him move through the bar, taking in his slumped shoulders and the way his brows were drawn together. He disappeared into his office, and Carly scooted out from behind the bar and to the kitchen.
“Hey, Greg,” she called to one of the cooks, who was in the process of chopping an onion at lightning speed. She had no idea how he could move so quickly. If she tried that, she’d end up without any fingertips. “Can I get two bacon cheeseburgers, extra bacon, with a mountain of fries?”
“Meal break for you and the boss?”
“You got it.” She and Dean often ate together, a tradition that had started not long after she’d started working at the bar two years ago. She’d been his first hire after he’d taken over the bar from his dad, and they’d struck up an easy friendship based on a shared love of cheesy music, comedies, delicious food, and a mutual hatred of the Colorado Rockies. Even though Denver was far closer, they were both Giants fans, all the way. Carly’s dad, a retired high school teacher, had grown up near San Francisco, and he’d imbued both her and her brother with a bone-deep love of the Giants.
Truth was, she’d always had a crush on Dean. Short, thick hair, so dark it was almost black. Light blue eyes that contrasted appealingly with his olive skin. Killer smile, chiseled jaw. He was six feet of hard muscles and had a masculine confidence that oozed out of every pore. Really, it would’ve been virtually impossible not to be at least a little attracted to him.
Or more than a little, in Carly’s case. But he was completely wrong for her, and she knew it. She wanted to find someone, a serious relationship someone, and everyone knew that Dean Grayson didn’t do relationships. Not to mention that crossing that line with him would jeopardize their friendship, and potentially her job. Not that he’d fire her, but things would be . . . weird, when it eventually came to an end, as all his flings did. And she didn’t want weird with Dean. So, she accepted all of that and didn’t spend any energy wishing their friendship into something it could never be.
Even if he did check almost every single box on her “Carly needs a man” wish list. Attractive? Check. Kind? Check. Smart? Check. Hardworking? Check. Fun? Check. Financially stable? Check.
Emotionally available? Questionable.
Able to commit? Inconceivable.
She moved back behind the bar, knowing it would be ten or fifteen minutes before her food was up, chatting with Tom while she took stock of the bottles behind the bar, making a note of anything that was running low. He asked about her family—he knew she’d gone to her brother’s wedding in Denver last month—and she filled him in on all the details. Her parents were happy in Fort Collins, where she’d grown up, and visited both her and her brother and his new husband regularly. Carly wound up in Cheyenne after attending the University of Wyoming in Laramie, and then getting a job with the local tourism board. It ultimately wasn’t a good fit for her, but she felt at home in Cheyenne, and had decided to stay.
The heavenly scent of French fries wafted through the air and her mouth watered a little.
“Order up, Car!” called Greg from the kitchen, and she waved Haley, one of the Bison’s servers, over to watch the bar while she took her break. She hurried to grab the plates and made her way to Dean’s office, knocking awkwardly with her elbow.
“It’s open,” he said, and she managed to push the door all the way open with her hip. Dean sat behind his desk, his attention on the computer screen in front of him. He smiled when he saw her in the doorway, minimizing the spreadsheet he’d been looking at.
“Thought you might be hungry,” she said, setting the plates down on his desk and dropping into one of the chairs facing it.
“Thanks,” he said, pulling one of the plates toward himself. She couldn’t help but watch his big hands as he picked up the burger and he took a healthy bite. He licked at a stray smear of ketchup on his lip, and she found herself staring at his mouth. His lips. Lips that probably half the single women in Cheyenne had kissed, she reminded herself. Nevertheless, a wave of heat crested over her, and she picked up her own burger, shoving it in her face to distract herself. They chewed in silence, and she tried to convince herself that while she’d felt those tugs of attraction toward Dean before, they only felt stronger today because she’d been thinking about Mike. Not because Dean was sexy as hell.
She waited a minute before speaking. “You okay?” she asked, scooping up a handful of fries and sitting back in her chair.
He sighed and set his burger down and then shook his head slowly. “I don’t know.” He popped a fry in his mouth, chewing for several seconds before speaking. “So, it turns out that my family thinks I’m a giant slut.”
Carly sputtered as she nearly inhaled a lungful of potato. She thumped herself on the chest a couple of times before clearing her airway enough to speak. “Uh . . . I don’t even know what to say. I mean . . . it’s not untrue, exactly.” Dean frowned. “Not that I’m judging,” she hastened to add, raising her hands in a placating gesture. “What brought this on?”
“My cousin Luke’s getting married next week in Mexico, and he and his fiancée asked me to bring a date so I don’t fuck everything that moves.”
She laughed and then shoveled some more fries into her mouth. “It’s like they know you or something,” she mumbled through her full mouth.
But Dean wasn’t laughing. He was biting his lip, glancing down at his lap, a frown still on his face.
“Wow, this really bothers you, huh?” she asked, wiping her hands on her jeans. She had to admit that she was surprised. He didn’t exactly hide his promiscuous lifestyle.
He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, and when he glanced up at her, he smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Christie called me a manwhore.” He glanced up, meeting her eyes. “Is that what everyone thinks of me?”
God, she’d never seen him rattled like this, and she had to admit there was something endearing about it. As though the legendary Dean Grayson was a mere mortal after all.
She swiped a fry through a puddle of ketchup. “I can’t speak for everyone, but it’s a free country and you can live your life the way you want.”
“That’s not what I asked,” he said, his voice low. His eyes met hers, sending heat zinging through her.
She licked her lips, and for just a second, his gaze dropped to her mouth. “I don’t think you’re a manwhore. Yeah, you have a bit of a reputation, but that can’t be news to you, Dean.”
“It’s not. I guess I just . . . didn’t realize my own family thought of me as the town bicycle.”
“Listen, if it bothers you, maybe it’s time to change it up. But like I said, if you’re happy, you’re free to live your life the way you want.”
He leaned back in his chair, a thoughtful expression on his face. Over the bar’s speakers, “(I’ve Had) The Time of My Life” from Dirty Dancing came on, and she pointed toward the ceiling with a French fry. “You wanna dance it out? You can be Baby, and I’ll lift you.” She bobbed her shoulders in time to the music, and a hint of a smile turned up the corner of his mouth.
“You’re gonna lift me? I must have seventy-five pounds on you.”
She curled her lip and flexed her bicep. “I’ve been working out. Welcome to the gun show.”
He scoffed and pointed at her arm. “Oh, yeah. Your Nerf arms are real impressive, Car.”
She laughed, and her French fry morphed into a microphone as she started to sing along, getting into the song, determined to coax a fu
ll smile out of him. She flipped her hair and winked at him, and a smile broke out across his face. A triumphant surge moved through her and she redoubled her efforts just as Dean picked up a stapler from his desk, jumping in to sing the chorus with her. They chair-danced and sang at each other, and then Dean froze.
“Hey, Car?”
She stopped singing and ate her microphone French Fry. “Yeah?”
“You wanna go to Mexico?”
Chapter Two
Carly closed her eyes and forced herself to take a deep breath. Right now, while hurtling through the air in a metal tube, was not the time to throw up. The plane jolted and she let out a little squeak, her fingers digging into the armrests. The seatbelt sign came on, and even though she’d never taken hers off—because, hello, she did not have a death wish—she tightened it to the point of constriction. It dug into her hips, painfully pressing her jeans into her skin. Her heart throbbed in her chest, and she glanced around the plane, wondering how the hell everyone else could be so calm when they were all clearly about to die.
The plane shook and bumped again, and she pressed her lips together, trying—and failing—to suppress her whimper. A wave of dizziness rocked her, and she forced herself to breathe, despite the instinct to hold her breath.
Dean looked away from the movie he was watching on the little screen hanging from the ceiling and pulled one of his earbuds out. “Hey, are you okay?”
She managed to nod, rapid jerks of her head. “Uh-huh. So good.” The plane suddenly dropped, sending her stomach up into her throat and she gasped, shutting her eyes tightly.
“Really? Because you look like you’re going to puke.” He fished out the air sickness bag from the seat pocket in front of him. “Need this?” he asked, offering it to her.
She shook her head. “No, I just . . .” The plane bumped again and she flattened herself into her seat, as though she could somehow will the plane to stay in the air if she held perfectly still. She swiveled her head to look at Dean, who was studying her with concern. Something about the way his blue eyes were intent on her, his brow furrowed, loosened the knot in her chest a little. “So, it turns out that I might be a little scared of flying.” Blood rushed to her cheeks as she admitted it, feeling like a dork, but also not understanding how people weren’t afraid of flying. It was totally insane when you thought about it. There was nothing but a sheet of metal separating her from falling forty thousand feet to the ground below.
Oh, God, and now she had to pee from thinking about falling.
“Hey,” said Dean, “You’re okay. I’ve got you.” He somehow managed to pry her fingers off the armrest and slid his palm against hers, weaving their fingers together. His hand was big and warm, reassuring in its strength and solidity. She met his eyes and he gave her hand a squeeze. Butterflies that had nothing to do with her flying jitters unfurled in her stomach, and she tentatively squeezed back. “You didn’t mention that you were scared of flying when I asked you to come with me,” he said, but there was no accusation in his voice. Only concern.
“I didn’t realize I was until we took off. The last time I was on a plane was when I was seven years old and my family went to Disney World. Apparently, I was braver as a child.”
He traced his thumb absently over her knuckles, and she thought that if he did that for the remainder of the flight, she just might survive. Somewhere in the back of her fear-addled brain, she knew that she shouldn’t be thinking that way—this was Dean, who was only bringing her on this trip because his family wanted him to keep his dick in his pants, who was both her friend and her boss, and therefore off-limits—but she couldn’t seem to help herself. Something about his fingers twined with hers felt . . . good. Right.
“We’ll be there soon, Car. The beach. The ocean. Tacos, and piña coladas, and sunshine. Tequila and parties by the pool. It’ll be awesome.”
She sent him a tiny smile. “I’m excited about all that stuff, too. I just really wish humanity would get its shit together and invent teleporters so we could skip out on this part.”
He gave her hand another squeeze. “Thanks for coming with me. I really appreciate it.”
“I know, you’re a horrible friend, offering me a free trip to Mexico. Jerk.”
He laughed, and that low chuckle coupled with his hand in hers sent heat curling through her. God, why did he have to be so damn good-looking? And nice? And fun?
And completely unavailable, she reminded herself. For the second time since he’d asked her to come with him, she wondered if maybe this was a bad idea. The first time had happened the morning after he’d asked her, her doubt triggered by the smoking-hot sex dream she’d had about Dean.
They’d been alone on a beach at night, lying in the sand and kissing as the surf lapped at their legs. Even in the moonlight, he’d looked at her with such lust that she’d barely been able to breathe. Slowly, he’d peeled her out of her clothes, trailing his mouth over every inch of her skin, taking his time, exploring and savoring her. He’d been hard against her thigh, and she’d reached down between them, stroking him as he kissed her shoulders, her breasts, her stomach. Then, he’d pushed her thighs apart, sweeping his tongue over her clit. Her fingers had woven tightly in his hair, everything inside her coiling tight, when he’d—
The plane jolted again, startling her out of her sex-dream replay. She was semi-aroused just remembering it. And she was still holding Dean’s hand. She was holding his hand and fantasizing about him.
Oh, boy. This was bad. Really, really bad. But hey, at least she wasn’t thinking about how she was about to plunge to her death anymore.
* * *
Dean couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so acutely aware of a woman’s hand in his. Had he never held Carly’s hand before? He frowned, trying to remember. Maybe he hadn’t. He tried to think of a reason why. Yeah, she was an employee, and he didn’t get involved with anyone who worked at the bar, but something about this felt . . . different, but he couldn’t figure out exactly how, or why. All he knew was that it was a good different.
She closed her eyes and took several deep breaths, squeezing his hand tightly. He studied her, and in a way, it felt as though he was really seeing her for the first time. He wasn’t looking at her as his buddy Carly, or his employee, but as a woman, who in this moment was vulnerable and real.
Her light brown hair fell in waves around her slim shoulders, and her fair skin was even paler than usual. Her features were sharp—pointy little chin, long, slender, upturned nose, high cheekbones, thin lips that hid a wide smile, ears that stuck out a little. But together, they all worked, and suited her funny, outspoken personality. Objectively, he’d known she was attractive (he had working eyes, after all), but he’d never stopped to really think about it until right now. Never allowed himself to not just look at her, but see her.
Well, shit. Carly Jensen was beautiful.
He already knew that she was beautiful on the inside—kind, loyal, funny, hardworking—but it was as though someone had pulled back a curtain, and now he could see all of her.
The instinct to pull his hand away gripped him, but he fought it down. Her fear was more important than his. It wasn’t her fault he was suddenly looking at her with fresh eyes.
She opened her eyes, and he couldn’t help but notice what a pretty shade of blue-gray they were. For a brief moment, her eyes held his, and she felt like the best kind of stranger—someone both new and familiar.
She flashed him a smile and pulled her hand out of his. Immediately, he missed the contact, but he didn’t reach for her.
“Thanks,” she said, and the smile dropped off her face. She arched a slender eyebrow as she reached up and touched her cheek. “Do I have something on my face?”
Dean gave his head a small shake. “Uh, no. Why do you think that?”
“Because you’re looking at me really weird.”
He forced himself to smile. “I am?”
“Yeah. Like you’re holding in a fart or something.
”
He laughed and shook his head and the moment was over.
“Can I watch the movie with you?” she asked, pointing at one of his earbuds. “I could use the distraction.”
“Sure.” He offered it to her, and she popped it in, having to lean a bit closer to him to accommodate the short length of the chord. A warm, citrusy smell hit him, and his stomach tightened. Carly’s perfume. He’d smelled it dozens and dozens of times before, and he’d never thought twice about it. But now, with the bare skin of her arm brushing his, he found himself wanting to dip his head and inhale.
He’d known Carly for years, but he’d never seen her quite like this. Never . . . felt things when she was near him. He couldn’t help but wonder if it had something to do with his lingering guilt and embarrassment over how his family saw him. Maybe he was projecting his desire to be different onto her, somehow. And that wasn’t fair to Carly, who’d never, ever done anything to indicate she might be into him.
Or maybe he’d been blind to what had been under his nose for the past two years, too caught up in his own self-destructive patterns to see what was right in front of him.
Carly let out a soft laugh, her attention on the movie, but he wasn’t paying attention anymore. He was too busy trying to figure out what the fuck had just happened.
* * *
Carly stepped off of the charter bus that had picked them up at the airport, inhaling a lungful of tropical air. Dean had told her that the rest of the guests were already here; she and Dean were the last ones to arrive. Because of his schedule at the bar, he’d had to fly out a day after everyone else. The wedding would be small, only about a dozen guests, and they were supposed to meet up with everyone later at a welcome dinner.
“I’ll go get us checked in,” Dean said from behind her. She nodded, and his hand brushed against the small of her back as he moved past her. A warm shiver worked its way up her spine, and she rolled her eyes at herself.
She stepped into the open-air lobby of the Royal Sunrise Resort as porters unloaded the luggage from the belly of the bus, unable to stop the wide smile from spreading across her face. Limestone walls climbed toward the clear, blue sky, topped with an intricately thatched straw roof. The marble floors gleamed in the late afternoon sunshine. As she moved farther into the lobby, tropical music floated on the humid, salty air, and a soft breeze rustled the fronds of the palm trees just outside the lobby. A massive black marble fountain contrasted elegantly with the white of the floors and walls, gurgling happily in the center of the lobby. Gigantic pots laden with tropical flowers dotted the space, adding bright pops of color to the otherwise sophisticated but neutral lobby. From her vantage point, she could see a limestone path leading away from the lobby, with villa-type buildings nestled into the lush greenery on either side. If she squinted, she could see the piercing blue of the pool through the trees. The beach was farther down the path, the view obstructed by the resort’s trees and buildings.
