Husband Material (Left at the Altar Book 3)

by Raine Miller

  As if sensing my next question, she explained, "It is reminder. For why I left home. Why I came here."

  By now, she looked so distraught that I only wanted to take her in my arms and comfort her. Instead, frustration thrummed in me—at myself, for prying where I shouldn't have.

  "Listen, Giselle…" I took her hand. "I—"

  And then, a gust of wind snatched her drawing away. As it sailed through the air, Giselle leapt up, taking off after it. "Merde!"

  I scrambled up and after her, already several paces behind. Suddenly, with a cry, Giselle toppled to the sand.

  When I reached her, her foot was clasped in her hands and her toe was streaming blood.

  "Shit. Are you all right?"

  Giselle shot a glare at the nearby rock jutting up from the sand responsible for her injury. Then, she tossed a wistful look over her shoulder as the wind whisked the paper out of sight. "Looks like that is the end of your portrait, Gage."

  Her jaw set in pain, as I looked around for something to wrap her toe in. The best option was a piece of palm leaf from the nearby tree. She barely made a noise while I fiddled with the leaf. Cassidy would have been crying blue murder, demanding to sue the beach for a hidden rock. Although, she’d never allow sand to get between her manicured toes, so I guessed that point was moot. Yet, Giselle was quiet. Fearless. I tied the leaf around her foot twice, but despite the way I bound it, red blood still seeped through my makeshift bandage. Should I take her to my place for some proper first aid?

  She gave a small, bitter laugh. "Ought to have been more careful. I am one for the mishaps. And then there is the whole name of this beach."

  Despite the situation, I found myself smirking. "Folly Beach, yeah."

  I made up my mind.

  Before I could think about it, I grabbed my surfboard and swept her up in my arms. There was a second or two of a communal balancing act—but she ended up higher in my arms, and my Hypto Krypto in hers. It would work.

  "What are you doing?"

  "Taking you to my house. The hospital is a good thirty minutes away, and even if you just want to go to a drugstore, that's a twenty-minute walk. My house is about five."

  Giselle relaxed in my arms. "All righty then." She peeled her eyes away from the reds and pinks the setting sun was flinging into the sky and aimed a testy look up to me. "Promise me you are not an absurdly attractive axe murderer?" Absurdly attractive axe murderer? Where have you come from, Giselle?

  I gave her a small squeeze. "Promise."

  Our eyes locked together.

  Adrenaline flowed through my veins as we returned to her notebook underneath the palm tree. We gathered up everything a second time between us, and I carried her to my beach house.

  Except this time as I walked, "absurdly attractive axe murderer" ran through my head like an addictive sort of tongue twister.

  And she is an alluring, French beach fairy.

  3

  “So, we have pink, blue, or regular old white."

  At the kitchen table with her injured foot propped up on a dinner plate, Giselle tilted her head at me quizzically.

  "Bandages," I said, holding up the three cloths.

  I left it at that. I wasn't going to explain how my ex was the reason I had pink and blue cloth bandages in the first aid kit. She was a smart girl, and had probably already it figured out anyway in the time it took me throw on jeans and T-shirt. Even though I loathed the feel of salty skin under clothes, I’d shower later. Right now, I had a beautiful woman in pain to tend to. She crinkled her nose at me and said, "What the hell, I choose pink."

  After inspecting and cleaning her cut, the injury didn't look quite as bad as I'd originally thought, so a simple wrapping over some antibacterial would probably best do the job. If her toe was broken, then time was the only thing to heal it. Thankfully it wasn't her big toe that had taken the blow against the rock. I could feel her eyes on me as I worked, so I looked up and gave her a smile. She'd given me so many. Smiles. In a short time, I'd become rather addicted to Giselle's smiles. I didn't have a lot of experience with smiling women—any really—but I knew enough to understand that I liked them from her. A whole fucking lot.

  "What?" she asked.

  "Your English." I made the final wrap-around before tucking the excess pink fabric in. "How'd you learn to speak English so well?"

  "Oh that," she said sweeping out her hand. "I was just a nerd, I suppose. Ever since I was small, my dream was to see with my own eyes the America I'd read about in my textbooks and seen in the movies. The America with the mint-green goddess of Liberty, the delicious apple pie, and where everyone was so loud and wild and raw. So, in class I was one of the few ones who paid attention and studied on my own. And so"—she cracked a smile—"here I am."

  "Is it what you expected?"

  Her head shake was decisive. "Nope."

  But that still hadn't told me what I really wanted to know. "Why here, though? Charleston, hell—or even South Carolina for that matter—isn't exactly on most foreign traveler's top ten."

  "I already did check out New York City and Los Angeles." She made a quick sequence of finger tapping, from her thumb to her pinky, as if that was how fast her trip had gone by. "Anyway, I ran out of money and was tired of all the city, city, cities. I wanted somewhere more quiet…on a beach. Like Cannes in France, but small."

  "You choose well then. Guess your English lessons paid off."

  Her eyes lit up with mischief. "Not exactly. Our English classes themselves were trash—all Disney movies, and mocking whatever the teacher said to us. It was more my stubborn pigheadedness, as my père used to say, that got me anywhere, and studying at home with Brynne, an American university student who lived with us in Paris. I did my lessons with her. Things like that."

  I nodded. "The French classes at the private school I went to were pretty much trash too. I mean, don't get me wrong, the teachers really tried. But I think it's like you said, most of us kids just weren't interested. My French exam in the twelfth grade was passed by the slimmest of margins—sixty-one percent and only by writing Dr. & Mrs. Vandertramp on my frog eraser."

  Giselle stuck out her bottom lip at me in a pout. "Alors tu ne peux pas parler à moi?"

  My blank stare probably said it all, as my dismal years of primary French failed to comprehend what she'd said. "Uh, bonjour?"

  Giselle threw her head back and laughed, the deep rumble making her body shake all the way from the long length of her dark golden hair down to her delicate tan feet. After few seconds, she paused. Sticking up the big pink mummified creation that was her middle toe, she wiggled it, and laughed some more. "It is like a big pink marshmallow."

  "Just don't go eating it," I said wryly, seeing that she did have a point.

  She stuck her tongue out at me playfully, and then it hit me. "Hey, you must be hungry. Sorry, I didn't even think to ask."

  Giselle nodded her head up and down dramatically. "The worst host, you are."

  Her frown held for a quarter of a second before it cracked, letting loose another peal of laughter. "Although I would appreciate anything you have, really." Her smile sheepish, she added, "When I get into drawing like I do, I often forget to eat."

  I strode over to the pantry and then looked back over at her. "I don't know. I feel like I really have to live up to this worst host thing." I wasn't one to tease in conversation, but with her it felt very natural. Easy.

  Our eyes locked on to each other's in a sort of sarcastic staring contest. What were we even doing here?

  Crossing her arms across her chest, Giselle flicked her head in a sideways uncaring motion. "At least when I die of starvation, you will not have to waste any more of your beloved pink bandages on my corpse."

  Opening the cupboard, I retrieved a package and tossed it at her. "That should hold off your starvation for at least another hour or two."

  She caught the bag of giant marshmallows and set it on the table with a grin. "My subconscious powers of suggestion work
ed."

  I nodded, sitting at the table. "You're lucky you didn't say your bandage looked like a mushroom, because I have some of those too."

  She wrinkled her nose adorably.

  I noticed our feet were touching under the table. Giselle's good foot had draped lazily down and was now resting against mine. She didn't try to move it either, as she busied herself with trying to open the bag of marshmallows.

  Frustrated, she shoved the bag over to me. "If you meant to mock me by providing me with a marshmallow bag that doesn’t open, congratulations, you have succeeded."

  With one quick rip I tore open the bag and tossed a marshmallow her way.

  Giselle jerked toward it and caught the marshmallow neatly in her mouth.

  Impressive.

  As she chewed, she winked at me, with what was most certainly a surprised expression on my face. "Drawing is not my only skill."

  "That's obvious." Her words sent a stroke of excitement down to my cock, keeping me on the edge. Just being around this unexpected woman, I sensed there was more truth to her words than even she herself realized. What would it be like to be where that marshmallow was right now…pressed against her rosy lips? Having her tongue moving against me…licking and sucking. Shit.

  Something soft hit the side of my face. Giselle's expression of pure innocence changed to disbelieving when I picked up the marshmallow she'd thrown and tossed the entire thing in my mouth.

  "How?"

  As her brown eyes widened, I managed to squeeze another giant one into my mouth and kept on chewing.

  As she raised her half-eaten marshmallow and pointed at my mouth expectantly, I shook my head and mumbled, "Hink hat's it."

  Lips pursed, Giselle leaned over, steadying herself on the table with the hand that wasn't clasping her own half of a marshmallow.

  Determined, she mashed her marshmallow half into my already stuffed mouth slowly. The whole process was as sexy as fuck, and I did not stop her. Couldn't. Once finished, she clapped her hands together. "Ha!"

  Her eyes dipped to my lips, paused. Our eyes met and held. Every atom in me urged me to lunge forward and press my marshmallow-coated lips to hers.

  But I didn't.

  I got up from my chair instead and strode over to the sink, cranked on the faucet, and shoved my hands under the cold stream. This was not for the purpose of cleaning my sticky fingers or mouth, but actually to force myself into some space and perspective.

  I'd just met this girl, and she was clearly in a vulnerable situation with an injured foot. Whatever my simmering mental state, right now wasn't the time to act upon my urges with a total stranger.

  But right now I did have Giselle sitting at my kitchen table, with her features set into what looked to be pain.

  "You okay?" I asked.

  She mustered up an unconvincing smile. "I will live."

  I felt a bit helpless, and it was fucking frustrating seeing her this way. "In France, what do they do for pain? Like, to take your mind off it?"

  A smile lit in her eyes. "The same way I presume they do here in America."

  I liked the sound of this already. "Oh?"

  She glanced down, her cheeks blushing pink. "Wine."

  She looked back at me, meeting my gaze brazenly this time. For what seemed like one long dreamlike minute, we stared at each other. Was it just my imagination? Or did Giselle have more than a fair idea of what I'd like to do with her? Maybe something she wanted…too.

  She was the first to tear her eyes away. "Sorry. That was a bit assuming of me, asking for wine after you have been so generous and accommodating already. You do not have to. In fact, forget about it."

  I'd already made my way to the wine cupboard, though. "You don't have to apologize for anything. Before I met you, I'd had a shit day myself. Some wine would be an excellent way to top off the night. I'll even throw in cheese and crackers while I'm at it to show you my social skills aren’t a complete waste of—"

  As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I realized I couldn't just toss her out onto the beach when we were finished drinking the wine. She didn't have a car or a way to get home that I knew of, and she wasn't walking back in the dark with an injured foot.

  "Would you like me to drive you where you're staying?"

  She shook her head no.

  "Sorry, I didn't even ask you about that before I brought you here. I forgot—I don't even know where you live." My rambling seemed to do nothing in the way of earning me any more information from her, so I finished it by making her an offer. "Although, you're more than welcome to stay here too, if you'd prefer." Oh, that's smart, asshole.

  Yet I really wanted her to say yes. What the fuck, man.

  Giselle looked past me. "Whatever is easiest for you is perfect for me."

  My decision was big, significant—and yet I made it in a split-second, sensing that if I pondered for a second longer then I wouldn't firm up the offer. I didn't invite women to my house to stay the night. Ever. Not even pre-Cassidy.

  "Then you can stay. But I only have one bedroom furnished at the moment, so I'll sleep on the couch."

  At this, Giselle firmly shook her head no. "It would be impossible for me to stay if you did that. Please, let me have the couch. These past few months I have slept on the odd couch for a night or two when necessary, and in horribly crummy hostile beds that are like glorified sacks of potatoes."

  I tried to bite back my grin…and failed.

  "What is so amusing to you, Gage?"

  You. Everything you say. The way you are.

  "Just, the beds. Did you mean hostel beds, or were the beds themselves actually hostile to you?"

  Hearing her mistake, Giselle giggled while I scanned the bottles in the wine case carefully. "How does Château Margaux 2010 sound?"

  Giselle clapped a hand to her lips. "Oh no, I could never. That wine is…rare and very expensive."

  She was right…and knowledgeable about wine. Cassidy's parents had gifted us the bottle. A thousand-dollar bottle of cabernet to enjoy on our honeymoon. In the madness of the wedding cancellation and shipping out Cassidy's things, I'd forgotten about it. And nobody had asked for it back, so they’d probably thought it was tainted from its original purpose. Good thing I didn't share their sentiments.

  I set it on the marble countertop and popped the cork, pouring two glasses and then handing her one. "I think you can, Giselle. Enjoy it while I set up the rest of our night-time feast."

  Smiling slightly, she accepted her glass without a word.

  When I returned with the cheese and crackers, I didn't miss her wince of pain as she got up and tried to follow me. I glanced to the adjoined living room. "Here, let's get you on the couch now."

  She made no protest as I swept her up again and carried her over, although she did let out a small exhale of surprise. "You made that look very simple."

  That's because it is. I set her down on the suede cushions, grinning like an idiot. "I'm sure if you went to the gym as much as I do…plus, you are easy to carry." I’ve never carried a woman like this. For some insane reason, it felt right. She felt right in my arms.

  "Ha." Giselle threw up a hand. "Do not lie."

  "I'm not lying," I said, passing her glass to her and depositing myself on the opposite end of the couch.

  I was far enough away that when she lifted her glass to make a toast, I had to really reach in order to clink my glass to hers. "To a failed drawing, but a successful evening nonetheless, yes?" she said.

  I nodded slowly and tasted my wine. We stared at each other, shared shy smiles, and mostly said nothing. Right now, in the warm, dim lights of my living room, she was all I could see. In her blue dress, with her golden skin and long silky hair—a contrast to the soft tone of my sofa—she looked…beautiful. Perfect. Like there was nothing else in the room to look at but her. It took all of my self-control not to kiss her.

  So, we sipped and ate in a comfortable silence instead. As the clock ticked out the minutes, I pushed away a hundre
d different comments and excuses to talk to her, because sitting beside her like this was amazing. Not in any way awkward. Giselle was simply easy to be with, and I didn't want the moment to end.

  "Gage?"

  "Yes?"

  Seeing her glass was empty, I reached for the bottle to refill her glass, but she declined with a sad smile.

  "This has been more than enough. It has been months, to tell you the truth. I-I…" She shook her head, and another sad smile appeared on her lovely face. "No matter. The point is"—she met my eyes and bit on her luscious bottom lip again—"I really just want to thank you…for your incredible kindness today."

  I tried to keep my focus on her eyes and not the distracting lip-biting thing she did so well. "Of course." Right this second, every part of me was screaming to move closer to her, to meet those lips of hers that looked so delicious.

  Instead, I got up from the sofa and made my way to the kitchen with the cheese plate and the half-empty bottle. "Tomorrow, I've got an early morning. Should probably be getting to bed." It was a lie, though. You're a pussy.

  But what the hell was I supposed to do? Giselle was essentially a stranger. She probably didn’t want some horny American guy leering at her. Let along touching her. Kissing her. Tasting her.

  Oh fuck. Yeah, you’re still a pussy.

  "Oh. Of course," she said, her tone quiet, unassuming…possibly disappointed even. I refused to look her way. The next words she spoke to me were dismissive, coming from a stranger's voice. "You may turn off the light on your way up."

  No.

  Frustration rattled through me as I snapped off the light switch. I was halfway to the staircase when she said, "And Gage?"

  "Yeah?"

  "Can you come back for a moment? There is just one more thing I want to say to you."

  Caution had every hair on my body standing on end, but now that my feet had been given permission to do what they'd been itching to for hours, they strode back to her obediently.

  As I stood behind the couch and she peered up at me, I came to another realization. In the moonlight, her features had assumed an almost mystical clarity, as if this were her intended state all along. Like she was always meant to be here in my house, on my sofa, staring up at me, wanting me to be with her. There couldn't be any other reason.