With a Stetson and a Smile & The Bridesmaid’s Bet

by Vicki Lewis Thompson

  Then the doorbell rang. With a final deep breath, she jogged toward her front door and pulled it open as she pasted on her best and friendliest smile.

  To feel it slide right from her lips.

  She tried resurrecting it, she honestly did, but Brett looked so good.

  Feet in suede hikers, long legs in denim, then a soft yellow sports shirt. Her gaze traveled upward, taking in his wide grin and Scandinavian eyes.

  Young Italian women must be susceptible to blue.

  With effort, she curved up the corners of her mouth. “Hey, pal.” Friends. One of the boys.

  His eyes laughed a little. “Back at ya.”

  On the way to the parking lot they easily dispensed with the how-was-your-day stuff. At his Jeep, though, she was startled to find herself wrestling with him for the door handle.

  On her side. The passenger side.

  It took a moment to realize he was opening the door for her. Like a real, honest-to-goodness date.

  She swallowed. “Oh, you don’t—”

  “I do.” Brett put his hand beneath her elbow to boost her into the high seat.

  As he shut the door and circled to his side, Francesca rubbed at the goose bumps on her arms and tried to think. Something wasn’t quite right here.

  Too soon, he was behind the steering wheel. In the closed confines of the car Francesca breathed in his scent, just a hint of citrusy soap. Her brothers all used something orange and antibacterial that made them smell…sanitized. Closing her eyes, she sniffed again in appreciation.

  “Francesca?”

  She snapped to attention to find Brett looking at her expectantly.

  She stared back, mystified. What had she forgotten? “Uh,” she responded, exhibiting her high IQ.

  Brett grinned, then reached across her for the shoulder harness. He buckled her in like he would a child…or a woman.

  “Uh,” she said again.

  He raised his eyebrows.

  Opening the car door for her, helping her into her seat, buckling the seat belt. She couldn’t see Brett doing those things for Carlo. Not considerations you’d give to one of the boys. Or if you did, one of the boys might just slug you.

  She licked her lips, wondering where she’d gone wrong. Was this a date? Clearing her throat, she tentatively tested the theory.

  “I guess,” she started, then cleared her throat again.

  “I guess you know that my brothers are all busy tonight.”

  If he could catalog their activities, she would know he’d asked them out first.

  His sandy eyebrows came together, and a gleam entered his eyes. “Francesca.” His tone was mildly shocked and mostly amused. “You’re not trying to tell me no one will be waiting up for you tonight, are you?”

  Francesca nearly swallowed her tongue. “No! Yes!” Those double negative questions always tripped her up. “I didn’t mean anything by it.” Her cheeks burned. “Nothing at all.”

  She quickly averted her gaze to his hands, focusing on his long, capable fingers, which then turned the key to start the car. As the engine vroomed to life, vibrations hummed against her toes, curled tightly against the soles of her shoes.

  Her fingers were curled tightly too, meshed with each other in a tense bundle beneath “Roadkill” on her sweatshirt.

  Forcing out a long breath of air, she commanded herself to relax. She’d feel better once she knew for sure Brett’s expectations for the evening.

  He turned out of the parking lot and she tried again to pin down the situation. In a roundabout way, of course. “I think we’ll have a good time at the fun center, don’t you?” she said brightly.

  If he agreed enthusiastically, it signified boys’ night out.

  He shrugged.

  A shrug! What did a shrug mean?

  Francesca stifled a groan. Why, oh, why hadn’t she made an effort to date before now? With a little more experience she’d be better able to interpret these nuances. One of her hands crept over her eyes.

  “Francesca?” He sounded slightly worried. “What’s the matter? What’re you thinking?”

  “That I should be married with three kids.” Then the waiting and the wondering would be over. She’d be settled and satisfied and—

  Would have missed the chance at Brett Swenson.

  “Then we wouldn’t be having this date,” he said, just as if he could read her mind.

  “Is that what this is?” Francesca whispered. “A date?” In her jeans and her tennis shoes and her roadkill sweatshirt she was actually dating Brett Swenson?

  “What would you call it?”

  Something she should have used a curling iron for.

  Something that warranted every feminine grace and womanly wile she’d ever heard or read about.

  Something she’d wished for on every girlhood star.

  A TALK-SHOW ROMANCE GURU insisted that a man enjoyed an evening most when his date made him feel like a king.

  Francesca focused on the insight for the entire thirty steps from the car to the fun center entrance. But then an instinct kicked in—a primordial kill-or-be-killed instinct—honed over twenty-four years of being the smallest and youngest, constantly challenged by the older and stronger.

  Not just a survival instinct, but a winning instinct.

  So, without even thinking, she outscored Brett at pinball. Rammed him unmercifully with her bumper car. Beat him at air hockey.

  Not until now, she thought, as she putted into the smiling, red mouth of the clown at the seventeenth and second-to-last hole of the miniature golf course, did Francesca remember her original intention to follow the guru’s advice and give Brett the King treatment.

  And their scores were tied.

  Her cheeks burned in embarrassment as she considered the evening from Brett’s point of view. If he’d actually wanted a date, she didn’t know what she’d given him instead.

  “You’re suddenly quiet,” he said as they waited for the group in front of them to finish the eighteenth hole.

  “Thinking of the old place?”

  Suddenly quiet? Thinking of the old place? She wanted to bury her head in her hands. In between her triumphant exclaims of “Gotcha!” and promises like “I’m gonna whup you now!” she’d told Brett nearly every detail of her life—including the family decision to sell their childhood home and move into a set of apartments.

  He gave a gentle tug to the end of her ponytail escaping from her ball cap. “Some memories are hard to let go of.”

  Great. Now she had him thinking of Patricia, the golden-haired beauty who had known how to date, how to talk to a man, how to make him feel like a king.

  On the eighteenth “green” of indoor-outdoor carpeting, Brett let Francesca tee off first. The end of the hole was around a bend, and a good player would ricochet her ball off the dead end curb in front of her to send it toward the putting area. Instead, Francesca let loose a weak swing that caused the ball to stutter unremarkably down the pee-wee fairway.

  He gave her a considering look, then stepped up and made the shot that she’d wanted to. Because his ball was closest to the hole, he had to wait while she took two more ineffectual swings to get her ball within range.

  Using the stubby pencil, Francesca kept track of her strokes with hash marks. Pursing her lips, she glued her gaze to the scorecard. “You’re obviously the superior player,” she said. “I don’t have a chance.”

  He threw her another odd glance but didn’t say anything, even as she struggled to make sure her ball hit the red revolving door of the miniature schoolhouse three times before letting it finally make it through to settle into the cup.

  Brett made it in one.

  She threw up her hands. “The winner!” she said. The king. Hoping she’d gotten this date thing right—better late than never—she smiled at him.

  He didn’t smile back.

  Instead, he grabbed her hand and tugged her to the car. After opening her door and helping her in, he drove the short way home in silence.
<
br />   BRETT PULLED into the last stall in the apartment parking lot. He turned off the car but kept his hands on the wheel, determined not to use them to throttle Francesca.

  She cleared her throat nervously. “The security lights don’t reach this space well. I’ll have to do something about that.”

  “Tomorrow,” Brett answered shortly. “I like the darkness now.”

  “You do?”

  “I chose it for a reason.”

  “You did?”

  “Because if you could see my face, Francesca, I’d scare you.”

  A hint of guilt crept into her voice. “You saw the mustard stain on your shirt? I’m really sorry. That corn-dog—”

  “No.” He was so mad he couldn’t think clearly. And his anger was all muddled by the image of unholy and gorgeous glee on her face as she rammed him with her bumper car. Of her spectacular wins at air hockey and the little sizzle sound she’d made with her tongue against her teeth after licking her forefinger and then touching her skin.

  “I’m hot,” she’d said.

  By God, she was, and so was the image of her cute little tush bent over the pinball machine. The memory burned a hole in his brain.

  But then—

  “Damn it, Francesca! Why’d you go all soft on me?” He couldn’t restrain his irritation.

  “I…I don’t know what you mean,” she said hesitantly.

  “But you do. Admit it. You let me win at miniature golf.”

  Even in the darkness he could tell she squirmed on her seat. “No. You were just better—”

  “I was maybe equal.”

  She tried again. “You can’t know—”

  “I know.”

  She sagged against the seatback.

  He wasn’t going to let her off the hook. “Why, Francesca?”

  “I—” She lifted her hand, let it drop to her thigh. He heard her sigh. “You said it yourself. I wanted to go soft on you.”

  “To what purpose?”

  “I don’t know.” She sighed again. “To make you feel like a king. To show you a good time. To be a real date.”

  Something inside Brett twisted into pretzel knots. Damn. She was a walking romantic tragedy just waiting to happen.

  Another wave of anger rose. “Hell, Francesca. Tell me you know not to be showing guys a ‘good time.’ Tell me your brothers have taught you better than to make some man feel like a king.” He was working up a real mood to kick some Milano-men butt.

  Her head hit the back of the seat with a muted thud. “That’s the whole problem! They’ve only taught me to how to win and nothing about how to date.”

  He thought he just might lose it. His hands started to shake and he gripped the steering wheel to stop them. Thank God. Thank God and the blasted universe that she hadn’t made this nutty bet with Carlo months ago. Who would have protected her then?

  “Francesca,” he said, not surprised at all to find his voice hoarse. “What am I going to do with you?”

  The little bit of laughter in her voice surprised him, though. “Not beat me at miniature golf next time?”

  That pretzel knot inside him twisted tighter. He swallowed. “Exactly. Francesca, don’t change anything about yourself when you’re with a man, okay? Promise me?”

  “Even my habit of dripping mustard?” She was trying to keep it light.

  “Even that. Men don’t care about mustard stains.”

  “Ain’t that the truth.” She sat up straight and swiveled his way. “I’ve lived with four brothers, remember?”

  “I remember.” And those four brothers and one loving father had created the female before him. An incredible mix of naïveté and beauty and go-for-it guts.

  “Francesca.” He said her name just because it rolled so sweetly off his tongue, and he let go of the steering wheel.

  “I wanted tonight to be perfect,” she said, a mournful note in her voice.

  He smiled. With his forefinger, he reached out and traced the brim of her ballcap. “It was perfect. Seriously. I haven’t had a good time like that in a long while. The ‘Roadkill’ sweatshirt capped it off for me.”

  She groaned. “Don’t blame me. This was Nicky’s Christmas gift.”

  “What? No perfume? No fuzzy sweaters for his little sister?”

  She shook her head. “Nope. And the others gave me sweatsocks and cookbooks.”

  Something made him probe a little further. “No boyfriend to give you lacy naughty stuff?”

  “Me?” A shocked, very feminine giggle floated through the car. “Who could imagine me in lacy and naughty?”

  He could. The idea fired his blood to red-lace-teddy temperature. He gritted his teeth against the bam-bam-bam of his heating pulse.

  “We should probably go in,” he said tightly. Smart move. Safe move.

  “Right.” She hesitated. “Right.”

  Damn. He could read her hesitation in mile-high letters. A date should end with a kiss. A perfect date should end with a perfect kiss.

  A chaste, first-date kind of kiss and here he was, burning up thinking about her tush and lace teddies.

  He ground his molars again. So it had been a long time since he’d been with a woman. That didn’t mean he couldn’t offer Francesca the kind of good-night that she deserved.

  Sweet, warm. A simple thank-you for what had been pure fun and unexpected exhilaration.

  “You’re going to have to teach me that slick, air-hockey move you have,” he said.

  “I might,” she said with mock haughtiness. “But what’s in it for me?”

  He smiled slowly. “I have a few moves of my own I could show you.”

  And then, so that she’d know what he had in mind, he put his forefinger to her hat brim again. He tipped it off her head. It tumbled away, falling against her shoulder and then to the floor of the car.

  She bent forward.

  “Leave it,” he said.

  She froze, and he slowly leaned toward her. Simple. Chaste. Warm.

  His heart slammed against his ribs, like a warning to do this right. Do it right for Francesca.

  He cupped her cheek with his palm, curling his fingers around her jaw and tilting her mouth up.

  His blood was burning now, pounding along with his heartbeat in a steady path to his groin. He closed his eyes against the good ache and tried to think only of Francesca. Of her trust in him.

  Simple. Chaste.

  He brushed her lips. Like he might a maiden aunt or a little sister or a good friend.

  But a teasing hint of her taste tempted him. Leaning closer, he pressed harder against her mouth.

  And though he sensed it about to happen, and though he screamed No! in his mind, and though he could have moved away himself, he felt her lips part.

  Her sweet, heated breath rushed over his lips.

  Simple.

  Simply nothing could stop him from taking more.

  4

  FRANCESCA TASTED like cotton candy. The kiss melted on Brett’s tongue, pink and sweet. He should stop now. Pull away. But who had the willpower for just one taste of that fluffy stuff?

  He pressed closer again, her mouth opened again, and he moved his tongue softly inside. Okay, so he’d have belted any other guy who made such a move on Francesca on a first date, but he couldn’t resist. She inhaled a little startled gasp, and he tensed, ready to leave her, then her tongue met his, stroked against it as if she was joyfully discovering a brand new flavor of ice cream.

  He went rock hard.

  Not trusting himself, he dropped his hand from the golden smoothness of her skin. But on the way down, his fingers brushed her thigh, slender and firm, and he found he couldn’t move. He laid his palm there but thought he’d better break the kiss.

  He tried, really. But when he moved his tongue from her mouth she chased it into his. The maneuver seduced him. He gripped her thigh and the sound of another of her soft gasps lit a match to an already smoldering sexual burn.

  Heat and instinct overtook him. He reclaimed th
e kiss, sliding into her mouth with a sure stroke and then exploring her teeth, her tongue, the response she made when he set up a thrusting rhythm.

  She moaned, twisted to get closer to him, and he found his fingers dangerously close to the heat between her thighs. A hot chill ran up his arm toward his chest. Just millimeters and he could touch Francesca more intimately.

  The thought hit him like a slap. Francesca! This was Francesca moaning against his mouth. Francesca’s tense thigh beneath his fingers.

  Francesca!

  He snatched his hand from her and abruptly lifted away from her mouth. She stared at him, a dazed look on her face. Brett’s shoulders and neck tensed.

  Any minute now she’d realize what had happened to a simple good-night kiss. Any minute now awkwardness would descend and the dazzle on Francesca’s face would disappear.

  “Let me walk you to your door,” Brett said quickly. Maybe he could get her there before embarrassment changed things between them, before the wetness of his kiss on her lips dried.

  Because he wanted to go to bed remembering her just like this. Eyes dark and wide, mouth rosy and wet.

  Hell, who needed sleep?

  She jumped out of the car before he could make it around to her side. She practically ran to her apartment, pulling her house keys from her pocket even before reaching the door.

  Halfway over the threshold, she paused. As she turned around, her hand came up. Maybe she was angry. Maybe she was going to slap him. Oh, he hoped she would.

  But her face was unreadable and her palm felt cool as she laid it against his hot cheek. “I had fun, too,” she said, then slipped inside and shut the door.

  Fun? Fun? Brett worried about that term all the way back to his own apartment.

  THE NEXT DAY Brett focused on work. He didn’t let himself think of anything but briefs, cases and court appearances, and it was a good day. A very good day. Until Carlo Milano showed up in his office. Carlo, Francesca’s big brother.

  Francesca, whose mouth should come with caution signs.

  Carlo peered at him beneath one raised brow. “You with me, Brett? You have time to talk?”

  Oh, yeah. He was here as Carlo the police detective. They had business to discuss. Legal business. Unless Carlo was here to talk about Francesca. About how Brett had kissed her so damn silly that he hadn’t slept more than forty minutes last night. But he didn’t think his best friend would be wearing that faint smile if he had any knowledge of that.