by Tara Wyatt
He had a feeling that this would either be awesome, or blow up in his face.
* * *
Carly slipped her hand into Dean’s as they walked down the path leading away from their building. Heat that had nothing to do with the warm night air worked its way up her arm. Three handholding incidents in one day was almost too much for her. But handholding went with the game she and Dean had agreed to play—a game she still had very mixed feelings about.
Sure, it would be fun to pretend, to have an excuse to touch Dean and imagine someone who looked like he did could actually be hers. But she felt lousy about lying to his family. And underneath all of that was a yearning for it all to be completely real, and sadness at the fact that it would only ever be pretend.
She knew his feelings could never be anything but platonic. After all, he’d known her for two years now and had had plenty of opportunities to flirt with her or ask her out. But instead, they’d struck up an easy friendship while he slept his way through the female population of Cheyenne.
The toe of her sandal caught on a rock, and she stumbled forward. Dean’s grip tightened on her hand while his free arm slid around her waist, helping her to stay upright. Goosebumps erupted across her skin at the feeling of his warm, strong hand on her hip.
The sky was dark, a swath of velvet sprinkled with stars. Ground-level lights illuminated the path, and the buildings of the resort glowed softly. But standing here, alone on the path with Dean, she felt as though the darkness was enfolding them, hiding them away from the world. She took a breath and her breasts pressed into his chest. His fingers flexed against her hip.
Carly took a step back, reminding herself that it was just pretend. And that if she wanted to survive the trip with her heart intact, she needed to remember that and not let herself get swept up in Dean.
Tempting as he was.
“Uh, thanks,” she said, her voice coming out raspy and strained.
Dean cleared his throat, not moving to take his hands off of her. “You’re, um . . .” His gaze held hers for a moment. “You’re welcome.”
With a nod, she started walking again, sucking in a lungful of the salty air. The steakhouse where everyone was meeting for dinner was near the beach, and Dean followed her. Palm trees, lit from the base and shining like tropical beacons in the night, lined the path. From somewhere behind them, the now-empty pool gurgled. Ahead of them, Carly could see the beach, the ocean shining darkly in the night, glinting with starlight. The resort reminded Carly of a tropical, luxe campus, everything contained within a small area. Tomorrow, she’d get to explore more, check out the pool and the beach. Maybe after a good night’s sleep, she’d feel clearer about . . . well, about everything.
They reached the restaurant, an elegant, white stucco building with glass and dark wood accents, and a suited host showed them to the large table at the back. Tropical jazz music drifted softly through the air, and the scents of fresh baked bread and steak made her mouth water. Carly sucked in a deep breath and put her game face on, reminding herself that the lie, the charade, had a purpose. To enjoy paradise, unencumbered by pity or condescension or judgement.
A tiny, dark voice whispered, “To pretend he’s yours. To imagine just what that would be like.” The dark voice was right, but she pushed it away, not wanting to unpack all of that right now.
“Hey, everyone,” called Dean from directly behind Carly. His voice vibrated down her spine, and she fought the urge to shiver. “Sorry we’re a bit late. This is my girlfriend, Carly.”
The words sounded so weird, so foreign, almost as though he’d stopped speaking English. Several pairs of eyebrows rose as people exchanged curious glances before turning their attention her way.
Meep.
This was different than being on stage, on doing her planned and rehearsed stand-up routine. This was more like improv, which had never been her forte. Planned and rehearsed, she could do. Off the cuff?
Yeah. Meep.
“I thought you weren’t seeing anyone,” she heard the man she assumed was the groom murmur to Dean, who shrugged good naturedly.
“It’s new.”
Guilt churned through her stomach at the lie, but she smiled and nodded, holding out her hand to shake as Dean introduced her around the table. He started with his Aunt Ellen and Uncle Mark, his cousin Luke’s parents, and then introduced her Luke, the groom, and Luke’s son, Ethan. Then he moved on to Luke’s brother Matt, and his fiancée, Ellie. Carly did a quick double take, her eyes bouncing between Luke and Matt. She’d known that they were twins, but she’d been unprepared for how strikingly identical they were. At least they were easily distinguishable by their hair—Luke’s was shaggy and nearly touched his ears, while Matt’s was much shorter. Matt also sported a sleeve tattoo, so at least she wouldn’t get them mixed up. At that point, Luke took over the introductions, introducing her to his fiancée Christie, her parents, Dave and Grace, her grandmother, Rose, and her friends Jenna and Shannon, the maid of honor and lone bridesmaid. Everyone’s names went by in a dizzying blur of smiles and handshakes, and she did her best to hold onto them, but she knew she’d likely need a refresher from Dean.
She nodded politely at Mike and Ashley, as well as Dean’s father, Steve, and did her best not to collapse into the seat Dean held out for her. She felt overwhelmed with new people, and as the waiters moved around the table, pouring wine for everyone, she followed them with her eyes, trying to name each person as the waiter filled his or her glass. Distantly, she knew it didn’t really matter. It’s not as though she were actually Dean’s girlfriend, and making a good impression mattered one way or the other.
Maybe it was just that she wanted it to matter. Which was stupid. She was letting herself get caught up in the game they were playing. If she wasn’t careful, she knew it could consume her, and thus defeat the purpose of the lie—to keep people off their backs so they could enjoy their vacation.
Carly felt a gentle tap from her left. Rose, Christie’s grandmother, smiled sweetly at her. She tipped her chin first in Dean’s direction, then Luke and Matt. “I’d like to take a dip in that gene pool, if you know what I mean.” She winked and took a sip of her wine as Carly felt her eyebrows climb up her face.
Carly choked out a surprised laugh. “Uh, yeah. I think I do.”
Rose, who looked like a sweet little old lady, with her white curls, yellow linen pantsuit, pearl earrings, and pink lipstick, smiled at Carly. “If I were sixty years younger and still had my original hips, I’d take any of those men out for a test drive.” Carly sputtered on her wine, but Rose continued on. “Have you seen Matt’s butt? You could bounce a quarter off that thing.”
Unable to help herself, she let out a giggle. “I can’t say I have.”
“You’ll see, tomorrow at the beach. I’ll bring my change purse.” Rose gave her a knowing nod and polished off her wine. “I wish they’d just leave the bottle on the table. How am I supposed to keep my buzz going when they dole it out like it’s made of gold?” She shook her head and set her glass down. Leaning forward, she looked around Carly, and then eased back in her seat. She bounced her eyebrows and shot her a thumbs-up. She leaned in closer, bringing the scent of Chanel No. 5 with her. “Good for you. You must know what you’re doing to get that one to settle down.”
Carly blushed and decided not to tell Dean that even Christie’s grandmother had heard about his reputation.
Luke gently tapped his spoon against his wine glass, drawing everyone’s attention to him. He stood and smiled at his fiancée.
“Christie and I just want to thank everyone for making the trip south to be with us. It means a lot to us to have all of our closest friends and family here.” He raised his glass. “Here’s to all of you, and the days ahead.”
“Cheers!” Everyone brought their glasses together, and as they drank, Dean’s arm brushed against hers. Completely accidental, and yet it sent butterflies chasing each other through her stomach. She took another sip of wine as she wondered jus
t what the hell she’d gotten herself into.
Chapter Four
“Dean? Are you awake?” Carly’s whispered voice came from the other side of the pillow wall she’d carefully constructed before climbing into the king-size bed. They’d been lying in the dark for nearly an hour now, the only sounds the ocean waves crashing against the beach, and the low hum of the ceiling fan. He’d wanted to turn the air-conditioning on, but Carly had asked to leave the sliding glass door that lead to the balcony open, wanting to hear the waves. He hadn’t been able to say no to her.
Then again, he’d always had a problem saying no, especially to women.
He blinked up at the ceiling, his hands folded over his stomach. “Yeah, I’m awake.”
The mattress shook beneath him as Carly moved, and then her face popped up over the pillows separating them. “You can’t sleep either?”
Her eyes were bright in the dim room. The only light was from the moonlight peeking around the curtains, and the light from the hallway spilling in under the door to their room. He turned and maneuvered himself up onto one elbow, facing her with his head propped on his hand. “No.”
She folded her arms on top of the pillows, resting her chin on her hands. Her hair fell in messy waves around her face, and he fought the sudden urge to reach out and push it back over her shoulder. “How come?”
He shrugged and couldn’t help but notice the way her eyes tracked the movement as it pulled his T-shirt taut against his chest. Shit. The truth would be a bad idea right now, wouldn’t it? He couldn’t exactly tell her that he’d been lying in the dark, wide awake, because of her. Because of how close she was, because they were in a bed together. Because his cock was hard and begging for attention it wouldn’t get—attention he wanted from her.
Lying in a bed with Carly, and all he could think about was how much he wanted to fuck her. Jesus. He really was a manwhore if he was thinking about one of his closest friends that way simply because she was in a bed with him. He shouldn’t want her, but he did. “Strange bed, I guess,” he said, shrugging again. Thankfully, he was covered by the blankets from the waist down.
She nodded, biting her lip. “Yeah. Same.” She didn’t say anything further, staring unfocused at something over his shoulder. Her thinking face.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, wanting to knock down that damn wall of pillows and pull her closer.
She continued to stare off. “I dunno. I guess I’m just feeling weird about this whole thing.”
“About telling people that we’re dating?”
She met his eyes in the darkness. “About lying to your family. I know it’s too late now, but I just . . .” She trailed off and flopped back down onto her side of the Great Wall of Feathers.
Guilt tugged at his chest. Sure, she’d started it by blurting out that they were dating to her douche ex, but he’d been the one to encourage her to see it through instead of correcting it when they still had the chance. Because he was a selfish, confused asshole.
He edged closer to the pillows and peered down at her. “You’re overthinking it. It’ll be fine.”
She nodded, but didn’t looked convinced with her brows still drawn together. Suddenly, she pushed up onto her elbow, mirroring his earlier posture. Her face was close, close enough that he’d only have to lean forward a couple of inches to touch his lips to hers and taste her. To see if she tasted as sweet as he knew she was, deep down inside.
“Can I ask you something?” she whispered, her breath fanning against his lips. His heart throbbed in his chest, his cock straining against the fabric of his boxers.
“Sure,” he said, his voice coming out huskier than he’d intended.
“Why do you do it? The sleeping around, I mean.”
Her question was like a bucket of cold water, and he laid back down on his side of the wall. Where he belonged.
Her face appeared above the pillows. “Sorry if that’s a shitty question.”
He shook his head. “It’s not. I’m just thinking about how to answer.” He sighed and tried to collect his thoughts, wanting to be honest with her. “It started in high school, after my mom died. I was just looking for . . . something. Comfort, I guess, or maybe a distraction. I liked the chase, liked how it felt. How it made me feel.” He glanced up at her. “Liked the sex, and making someone else feel good. It just . . . became a habit, I guess. Part of who I am.”
She made a soft murmuring sound. “And you’re happy with that?”
He opened and closed his mouth, struggling with what to say. If he said no, that he wanted something different, that meant opening himself up in a way he wasn’t sure he was comfortable with. But if he said yes, he’d be lying.
“Because if you’re not, it doesn’t have to be that way, you know,” she said. “You can be and do whatever you want, regardless of what happened in the past.”
He blew out a long breath. It wasn’t that simple. “Change is hard, Car. Bad habits are hard to break.”
“That doesn’t mean you just resign yourself to them, though, if you really want to change them.”
He stared up at the ceiling, not saying anything, feeling like a jerk. Although change was never easy, she was right. He wanted more out of life than just a string of one night stands. A lot more. “But say I did want to change,” he said slowly. “Maybe I don’t even know where to start.”
He could feel her eyes on him. “They say that insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results. So, I guess the first step would be to try something different. Take a new path, if that’s what you want.” She paused. “Is that what you want?”
He sighed, avoiding her question as he felt the knot of confusing emotion pull at the center of his chest. “What if I try to be different and I can’t do it?” He levered back up onto his elbow. “What if I hurt someone in the process? What if . . .” He shrugged.
“Someone hurts you,” she finished for him. She propped her head up on her hand and stared at him for a long minute. “You’re scared. You don’t like that your family sees you as a slut because you want more for yourself, but you’re scared to get hurt. Scared you might hurt someone else.”
He was a nail, and she was the hammer who’d just hit him right on the head with the truth. And he wasn’t sure which scared him more: getting hurt, or hurting someone else. Both made his stomach churn uncomfortably.
“This is a super fun conversation,” he grumbled, picking at a loose thread on one of the pillows between them. “Enough about me and my fucked up . . . whatever.” He leveled his gaze at her. “Since you’re in a caring and sharing mood, let’s talk about you.”
“Oh, yay,” she said drily, but stayed where she was, head resting on her hand.
“So, Dr. Mike, huh? Seems like kind of a dick to me.” And a blind one with bad taste if he found Carly lacking, but Dean kept that part to himself, surprised at how strongly he felt that way.
She laughed. “I guess. He didn’t at the time. And he met a lot of my ‘Carly needs a man’ criteria.”
He raised an eyebrow. “You have a list?”
“Well, it’s not so much a list as a set of desirable traits that . . . okay, yeah. It’s a list.”
“And what’s on this list? Tell me about Carly’s perfect man.”
“No. And it’s not about being perfect, it’s about being compatible with me. Because I’m awesome. I just need to find someone whose awesome works with mine.”
“You are,” he said, and her eyes met his. “Awesome, I mean. Come on. What’s on the list?”
She shrugged, her shifting legs making the mattress vibrate beneath him. “You know, typical stuff. Smart, kind, financially stable.” She nibbled on her lip again, and Dean felt the sudden urge to join in, fitting that lip between his, discovering its taste and texture. “Good in bed, good sense of humor.”
Something stilled in Dean, and while he didn’t like to brag, he knew that he fit all of those criteria. But he’d be a damn fool to let himself
go there, because he couldn’t give her what she wanted. What she deserved. Even though he checked every single box on her list, he knew, deep down, that he wasn’t the man for her. He wasn’t ready for . . . for whatever came next when a manwhore decided his whoring days were over. He’d only hurt her, and the idea of hurting Carly . . . no. Bad, bad, bad idea.
He cleared his throat softly, sinking further into his confusion. “And what does this ideal man look like?”
“What he looks like isn’t as important as who he is.”
“So, he could be bald, with a beer belly, copious back hair, and missing a few teeth, and that’d be okay with you?” he asked, one eyebrow raised.
“Well, no, but I—”
He cut her off. “So it does matter. At least a little. Come on. What’s your type, Car?”
“I don’t have a type.”
“What if I guess, or give you options?” For whatever reason, he wasn’t willing to let this go. He needed to know.
“Ugh, fine.” She gave in with a roll of her eyes and a hint of a smile.
“Long hair, like Brock O’Hurn?” he teased.
“You know who Brock O’Hurn is?”
“I do have Instagram, you know.”
“Right. No, not long hair. I prefer it short. And I tend to like darker hair.”
“Mmmkay, what about eyes?”
“Blue.” She answered so quickly that he’d barely finished saying the word “eyes” before she blurted out her answer.
“Nice teeth?”
“Yeah, but not overly white, you know? Normal-looking nice teeth.”
“Gotcha. What about his body?”
“I feel like we’re focusing a lot on the superficial stuff, here,” she said, scratching at her cheek.
“We’re talking about your ideal man, Car. It’s all relevant. Broad shoulders? Six-pack? What kind of neck?”
“What kind of neck? I can honestly never say I’ve thought about a guy’s neck before.”
“Well, then let’s figure it out. You like ’em skinny, or thick? Long or short? What about mine?” He craned his neck, tilting his head so she could see his perfectly normal neck.
