by Maggie Wells
Greg merely pointed to the note he’d scribbled as he continued listening to his foreman. “No, you did the right thing staying there. Jerry’s with him, right?” Then, he dropped the pen and reached up to give Betty’s hand a gentle squeeze. “We’ll be over there in less than ten.”
Still holding her hand, he rose from the chair as he ended the call. “Come on. Hotshot got a bump on his head. I’m sure he’s going to want you to kiss it.”
She trotted after him, still trying to wrap her own head around what was happening. “Will’s hurt?”
“Took a tumble from a scaffold.” He slipped his phone into his shirt pocket then pulled his car keys from his pants. But he didn’t let her go. “Hit his head, not that it’ll make much difference. His skull is thicker than any hard hat,” he muttered. “Hit the lock, will you?”
She fumbled with the ancient doorknob lock because Greg wasn’t breaking stride. The kitchen door slammed behind them, and within seconds, Betty found herself buckled into the passenger seat of the car Will used the first night he’d taken her out to dinner. Glancing over at Greg, she wondered if he knew what had happened here on his glove-leather upholstery.
A quick twist of the ignition and the engine purred to life. He jabbed a button on the steering wheel with his thumb and a dial tone blared from the speakers. Beeps and boops filled the cabin as he ignored the fancy in-dash camera in favor of twisting in his seat to peer out the back window.
The call connected and Josie greeted him with a soft chuckle. “Still thinking about it, aren’t you? Well, you should be. I think what we did is still illegal in a few states.”
“Jo, Will’s been hurt,” he said without preamble. “I’ve got Betty. We’re heading over to St. Tony’s.”
All semblance of the sex kitten was gone in an instant. “Do we know how bad?”
“He took a fall. Julio says he cracked his hat like an egg, but he’s conscious and talking. They took him in on a backboard.”
“I’ll meet you there,” Josie said decisively. “Be there in just a few minutes.”
“Cracked his hat,” Betty whispered as he ended the call. Closing her eyes, she clung to the door handle as he took a corner a little too fast.
“That’s what it’s for.” The force of his acceleration pressed her back in the supple leather seat. “Better the hat than his head.”
The short ride passed in a blur. Greg parked the car in a questionably legitimate spot and hurried around the hood of the car to open her door. Apparently, the chivalrous Mr. Stark considered industrial accident just cause for multiple traffic violations, but no reason to forego basic good manners.
“Thank you,” she murmured as he helped her from the car.
Greg’s hand settled in the small of her back, warm and steady, but nothing like Will’s. It wasn’t big enough, rough enough. Not nearly as commanding. Or comforting, for that matter.
The hospital doors swooshed open just as a beige sedan careened around the corner, tires squealing. Greg flashed a sheepish smile and ushered her through the door. “Josie’s here.”
Betty glanced back as the non-descript car nosed diagonally across two spaces. Sure enough, Josie Stark popped out of the driver’s seat. “Not at all what I pictured her driving.”
Greg chuckled. “We’re trading it. She kept insisting she wanted a roadster, but the city streets are too rough for something that low. We test drove one the other night and she’s been begging for back massages ever since.”
Betty couldn’t help but smile as the brunette bombshell barreled toward them. “I bet she has.”
Without breaking stride, Josie took a hand from each of them and plowed ahead. “Let’s go find Humpty Dumpty.”
Greg’s conversation with the ER nurse shed an unbearably harsh light on Will’s solitary life. He was not only his best friend’s emergency contact, but apparently the closest thing the man she’d been sleeping with could call family. He had no parents, siblings, aunts, or cousins. Something unfathomable to a woman who was at least distantly related to a third of Wayne County, Mississippi. The three of them were directed to a bank of barely padded chairs and told that someone would give them an update as soon as possible.
Nearly an hour passed before a nurse called Greg’s name from outside the double doors. He gave Betty’s shoulder a pat and kissed Josie’s upturned cheek before beating a path toward the examination cubicles. Josie continued to hold her hand, but Betty couldn’t stop wishing for Will’s callused fingers and tender touches.
Barely two minutes passed when the nurse reappeared. “Ms. Asher? Your fiancé is asking for you.”
Betty blinked, her mind a complete blank, but Josie released her hand and gave her a none-too-gentle shove. “Go on. Check on that big hunk of a man of yours. I’ll go find us all some coffee.”
Embarrassment and indignation flared in Betty’s cheeks, but somehow she managed to put one foot in front of the other. The patterned curtain was pulled back just enough for her to see Greg leaning against the foot of the bed, his arms crossed over his chest. She shot the nurse a nervous glance, then peered around Greg’s arm.
“Hello?”
“Hey, honey.” Will smiled, and his dark eyes lit at the sight of her, but he grimaced when he tried to shift his weight to sit up a little straighter. “I need you to kiss this and make it better.”
She stood frozen to the spot, soldered by the intensity of his gaze and the white-hot rush of relief pulsing through her. There was a rectangular pad affixed to the side of his head with a bandana of stark white gauze and blood on his shirt, but other than that, he looked to be in one piece. He’d need a skillful haircut to cover whatever they’d had to shave to stitch him up, but his dark hair was still silky and rumpled, and her fingers itched to touch it. He smiled, stretching that ancient scar into the pirate’s smile she could never resist, then held out his hand. The hand she’d been missing just minutes ago.
She lunged for it. “Oh, God, I was so worried.”
He drew her closer, and she pressed fevered kisses to his scraped knuckles.
“I told this dork that you were the one I wanted to see, but he seems to think he’s special or something.”
Betty shot a grateful glance at Greg, then clutched Will’s hand to her chest, nestling it there between her breasts so he could feel her heart hammering. “He is special, you ungrateful wretch,” she chided, though her voice sounded choked to her own ears. “You took about ten years off both our lives.”
The teasing light faded from Will’s eyes. “I’m fine. A few stitches. Minor concussion. Bumps and bruises.”
“At your age, you’re damn lucky you didn’t break a hip,” Greg muttered.
“You’re three months older than me,” Will reminded him. “Now get out so I can kiss my girl without you turning all voyeur on us.”
“Josie’s out there,” Betty told Will, still holding his hand fast against her. “She’s worried, too.”
“All the more reason for Greg to get out.” He glanced up at his friend. “Tell her I’m fine. They’re just going to take some x-rays to make sure the wrist isn’t fractured. I’m sure it’s a sprain—”
“Wrist?” Betty gasped and stared down at the hand she was holding, furious that he hadn’t disclosed the full extent of his injuries, and mortified by the thought of causing him more pain.
“Other wrist,” he assured her.
Greg chuckled and pushed away from the bed. “I’ll be right outside if you need anything.”
“Thanks.”
“Anytime.”
They may have been simple statements. Each nothing more than a single word, but, oh, they said so much more. Betty’s breath tangled on a sob as Greg ducked around the curtain and walked away. Apparently confident that he’d left his friend in good hands. Her hands.
“Oh, Will.”
“You’re going to have to marry me,” he said in a low, gruff voice. “She might be wearing scrubs, but t
hat was a nun who led you back here.”
She blinked, trying desperately to keep up with the logic of the recently concussed. “You told her I was your fiancée.”
“And you came when I did.”
She huffed a laugh and pressed the back of his hand to her cheek. “So you’re saying you’ve made a big, fat liar out of me, Will Tarrant?”
“I’m saying that one day we’ll have to make it true so we don’t both end up with one-way tickets to H-E-double hockey sticks.”
Helpless to resist his charm, she shook her head. “You’re a bully, and you’re trying to railroad me.”
“I love you, and I think you love me, too.”
She sucked in a sharp breath, still never quite prepared for his blunt assessments. “Will, I—”
“I was lying there just staring up at the sky wondering what the hell I was thinking. It doesn’t matter if it’s your space or mine. It can be today, tomorrow, or ten years from now.” He gave her hand a squeeze. “I know you’re wary. I am, too, even though it doesn’t seem like it. And I’ve been waiting, Betty. Waiting so long for the right one to come along.”
“Oh, Will—”
“I can wait some more.” He smiled that crooked smile then drew their joined hands down to his chest. “I’ve gotten pretty good at waiting. All you have to do is tell me that I’m not wrong. Tell me we’re right, and I’ll wait as long as it takes.”
And just how the hell was a woman supposed to resist that? Wriggling her hand from his, she gently stroked his hair back from his forehead, careful not to disturb his wounded warrior headband. She stared at the impossible man, her heart so full of hope and him that she couldn’t hold it all in if she tried. “Concussion, huh?”
“I know exactly what I’m saying.”
Her smile trembled a little, but the damn thing seemed to be plastered onto her face. “I know you do.”
He reached up and wiped away a tear she hadn’t even felt streaking down her cheek. “Do you love me?”
“How could I help it?” The question burst from her on a rush of pent-up emotion. “You said it was Fate?”
His smile softened and he sank deeper into the lame excuse for a pillow propped under his bandaged head, tensed muscles relaxing until he felt as warm and lax as putty in her hands. “It is. It is Fate,” he answered, challenging her to refute his claim with a lift of his brows.
She leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss to his forehead. “If you have a concussion, someone will have to stay with you.”
“I hope it’s you. Greg snores, and Josie hogs the blankets.”
“If you want to live to fulfill your destiny, you’ll cease all allusions to sleeping with anyone but me.”
He blinked innocently. “Before you came along, I was a poor, sad, lonely bachelor. Practically a monk.”
“You were terrible, and I have the phone messages to prove it.”
“Ah, but those days are behind me now. I’m a changed man.”
“Too bad. I kinda liked the guy I picked up that night.”
“Almost picked up,” he corrected. “Besides, you love me now.”
She hesitated only a fraction of a second. “I do.”
Will pressed his knuckles into the bed and sat up a little straighter. “I wanna hear you say those words again when I get these bandages off.”
“Will,” she whispered, her eyes filling.
“I know you said you’re happier alone, but I’m not. If you love me, you want me to be happy, right?”
Betty sniffled and blinked rapidly. “Yeah. That’s right.”
He smiled, sank back onto the pillow and pulled her hand to his lips. “You can’t fight it, Betty. I knew you were mine the minute I saw you. Say you want me to be yours, too.”
“I do, Will.”
“And you’ll marry me?”
“I will.”
“Good.” He sighed and let his eyes drift shut, his hand wrapped securely around hers. “You’ll look fan-fricken-tastic in white. Much better than the pink.”
Meet the Author
Maggie Wells is a deep-down dirty girl with a weakness for hot heroes and happy endings. By day she is buried in spreadsheets, but at night she pens tales of people tangling up the sheets. Fueled by supertankers of Diet Coke, Maggie juggles fictional romance and the real deal by keeping her
slow-talking Southern gentleman constantly amused and their two children mildly embarrassed. They are the food purveyors to a demanding dog and an impertinent house rabbit she claims is the love of her life. Shh. Don’t tell her husband. For more please visit www.maggie-wells.com.
Read on for a sneak peek at the first book in the Coastal Heat series!
Going Deep
Brooke Hastings almost won a Pulitzer Prize for her hard-hitting reportage. Now she’s sitting on the story of a lifetime and wants to prove she’s not a one-hit-wonder. But in order to get the world to take notice, she’ll need the help of the one person she loves to hate—Brian Dalton.
Brian Dalton stumbled into celebrity when he landed a show on the Earth Channel. But the hunky marine biologist never forgot the serious, studious boy who left Mobile a decade before. Now back in Alabama, he’s looking for the quiet life he always wanted and hoping for a chance with the girl he always loved. When Brooke asks him to help expose some of the lingering effects of the Gulf oil disaster, Brian jumps at the chance to help preserve the place both call home…
Going Deep on sale now!
http://www.kensingtonbooks.com/book.aspx/31679
Chapter 1
“If I didn’t have Harley Cade and his ten million ways of making a girl happy on the hook, I’d cling to that man’s hull like a barnacle.”
Brooke Hastings drowned a smirk in her martini glass. Twenty years of friendship did little to lessen the shock value of Laney’s declarations. Brooke took a cautious sip. The cocktail was pinker than a My Little Pony, but the triple sec and vodka packed a punch that more than made up for the girly color.
Dragging her gaze from the former classmate-turned-television-hunk she was here to stalk, Brooke turned to face her best friend. “That man told Mrs. Wise you had your Spanish conjugation written on your thigh.”
Laney refused to be put off by something as fickle as fact. “If I’d known he’d grow up to be rich, famous, and hot as Hades, I would have let him conjugate whatever he wanted on my thigh.”
“You told your mother you’d drown yourself in the ocean if she made you invite him to your birthday party in third grade.”
The feisty redhead at her side pursed her lips and made a great show of scanning the room. “She invited him anyway.”
Revisionist history or no, Laney wasn’t one who took being thwarted lightly. Nearly twenty years had passed since that birthday party, but the sour expression on her face said the sting of her mother’s betrayal hadn’t yet faded.
“Do you have Harley Cade on the hook?”
“I could,” her friend said, eying the crowded room. “I’d only have to give that line a little old tug.”
Brooke smiled. She admired Laney’s confidence, but she wished they could be having this conversation anywhere but in the middle of one of Mobile’s most popular social gatherings.
Glittering jewels and porcelain veneers shone in the light of the ancient chandeliers, adding sparkle to the mansion’s faded glory. The first floor of Putnam House, one of the ruthlessly preserved mansions that graced Mobile’s historic district, was crowded—every square inch packed with potential donors. Saints Preserve Us was the premier fundraising event for their alma mater, St. Patrick’s Academy, and one of Brooke’s mother’s pet projects. Her mother and her merry band of fundraising fiends plied their victims with Guinness, Jameson’s, and heaping helpings of flattery in hopes of getting them to write big, fat checks.
Thursday night television programming may not be what it used to be, but Brooke had a reason for being here. She wasn’t in a position to dona
te the scraps of cash left over after she stretched her paycheck to the max. Frankly, she wasn’t interested in whether the football team could afford new jock straps or if the Drama Club had to—insert shudder here—rent costumes for their spring production. She wasn’t here because her mother insisted she come. No, she was trussed up in her Spanx for a reason. A motive she shared with 99.9 percent of the women in that room. She was there for Brian Dalton.
“Any Tucker sightings yet?”
The question jerked Brooke from her mini-sulk. The possibility of running into Jack Tucker was exactly what kept her miles away from the Gulf Shore’s social whirl in the last few weeks. News of Jack’s return to Mobile after his divorce had lit a spark of hope inside her. The possibility of rekindling their romance seemed to lighten the miasma of loneliness that covered her like a heavy blanket. Alone in her bed, she allowed herself to spin a fantasy of marriage and family that was not only attractive but convenient, as well. Then she ran into him at her parents’ club and her thinking shifted from possibly-maybe to never-gonna-happen.
Unfortunately, her mother had hopped onto the Jack Tucker bandwagon the minute the man crossed the city limits. Emmaline Hastings wasn’t a woman whose mind was easily changed. That meant Brooke’s best course of action had been to avoid Jack altogether. Eventually her mother would find a project more promising than the daunting task of marrying off her almost-thirty-year-old daughter.
“No. Thank goodness.”
“You used to get all twitterpated at the thought of seeing old Jack Tucker,” Laney drawled.
“And you used to spend your entire study hall plotting ways to torment Brian Dalton.”
Laney remained as impervious to criticism as she’d been in high school. It was one of her greatest charms. “He brought it on himself.”
Hard to argue that logic. Back in those days, Brian did earn a good bit of his torment. His fall from social grace started the day he displayed a clock powered by a potato for second grade show and tell. His position as class pariah was written in the stars before Brooke scored the blue ribbon at the eighth grade science fair, but he cemented it in high school. Brian Dalton was worse than a nerd. He was a nerd who thought it was cool to be arrogant and condescending to anyone he considered his intellectual inferior. This meant practically everyone.
