Hank shot Olivia a look of horrified shock. “Bloody hell, Cole is cooking?”
She nodded.
“Why didn’t you say so?” he said, reaching for a Corona with one hand and his fiancée with the other.
“You go on,” Rebecca told Olivia. “I’ll make the next batch and join you in a minute.”
“You’re a doll,” Olivia said, wiping her hands on an Aztec-print towel. She grabbed a beer and a bottle of water before hurrying after the others.
The last thing Rebecca heard as she reached for the bottle of tequila was Hank, still chuckling to himself as they made their way out of the room. “Hope you have a fire extinguisher handy, luv.”
Chapter Five
Sports might have paid well, but if Cole’s penthouse was any indication, it was nothing compared to technology. The guy owned the whole damn floor. Even had a private elevator. Brody made a mental note to tell his real estate agent to find him a place with one of those. Not only was it cool as fuck, but it would certainly take the privacy level up a notch or two. The stone terrace he had wasn’t too shabby either. After growing up on a ranch, Brody worried about having cabin fever living in a glass castle in the clouds, but his friend’s outdoor space was nicer than most people’s indoors. With modular sofas and pots of ornamental grass, the place could have passed for the swanky rooftop bar at his hotel. Of course, there was also a double rattan hanging chair in the far corner that looked to have been straight out of a Pier 1 catalog. Judging by its deviation from the rest of the decor, not to mention the colorful cushions, there was little doubt the hippie-ish comfort had been selected by Cole’s bride.
“There’s the little missus now,” Cole said as his wife came through the sliding glass doors that spanned the entire front of the penthouse. Brody had seen pictures of Olivia Grant online, but thanks to his rigorous travel schedule, this was the first chance he’d had to meet her. The photos he’d seen hadn’t done her justice. While she’d looked beautiful attending various society galas on her husband’s arm, there was something even more striking about her that night. Barefoot and in blue jeans, with her blond waves in a messy bun, Olivia Grant practically glowed. Then again, maybe that had something to do with the top-secret bun in the oven.
She greeted her husband with a smile that made Brody quite sure at least one of the dudes at this party was going to get some tonight. “Thought you might be working up a thirst out here.” She handed Cole a bottle of Corona, then goosed his butt as she made her way past the grill. “You must be Brody,” she said.
Brody extended his hand. “Pleasure to meet you.”
“We don’t shake hands around here,” she said. “We hug.”
He caught Cole’s amused grin over Olivia’s shoulder as she squeezed the bejesus out of him. “Runs in the family,” he said, waving his grill tongs in the air. “Hers, not mine.”
Prince Henry and a voluptuous redhead joined them a few moments later, looking more like a couple teenagers who’d just spent seven minutes in heaven than the darlings of European royalty.
“Great to see you again, Brody,” Henry said. The last time he’d seen Henry had been at a Formula One race in Dubai. They’d only been in town for thirty-six hours and were drunk for thirty-five. Good times.
“Hey man, good to see you too. Long time.”
They shook hands and exchanged a manly slap on the back, eliciting a tiny eye roll from the woman at his side. No doubt she was a hugger too.
“And you must be his fiancée?”
“Cassandra Miller,” she said with a nod of her head. “Of the Milwaukee Millers.”
“Watch out. She’s a cheeky one,” Henry said, gazing down at her like he could eat her up with a spoon.
“But you can call me Cassie,” she said. “And you can call him Hank.” She giggled. “At least when he’s not wearing a crown.”
Come to think of it, Brody had never actually seen Prince Henry looking like, well, a prince. He’d also never seen him looking quite so casual either. He usually dressed more like an investment banker, wearing tailored suits at events where most everyone else was wearing denim. Then again, going incognito in jeans and a faded baseball cap was how he’d met his future queen, or so Brody had read in one of the magazines at his dentist’s office. Perhaps the experience had given him a new appreciation for the more comfortable ways of life.
Olivia twisted the top off her water bottle and took a long drink. When she finished, her gaze fell to Brody, and more specifically his empty hands, and her hazel eyes grew wide. “Didn’t my husband offer you a drink?” She shot Cole a look.
“Hey, I’m the chef, not the bartender. Conor was supposed to handle the drinks.”
Conor looked up from the basket of chips he’d been methodically eating since joining them on the patio. “Why do I get blamed for everything?”
“Because it’s usually your fault, dipshit,” Cole shot back.
Conor looked up at their hostess. “Save me, Livvy.”
Olivia laughed. “Sorry, Conor, but you’re fired as bartender for the night.” She eyed the half-empty basket of chips. “And you definitely suck at passing out snacks.”
A wide grin spread across Conor’s face. “So, my plan worked.” He kicked back on the sofa with the basket on his lap and crossed his ankles on the padded ottoman.
Olivia started for the doors. “Corona? Margarita?” she asked Brody.
“Corona’s fine,” he said. “But let me get it. You haven’t even had a chance to enjoy your own party.”
She turned and placed her hands on her hips. “Thank you, Brody.” She smiled at him before directing her next comment in Conor’s direction. “Nice to know someone is willing to pitch in.”
“Dude, you’re such a suck-up,” Conor said before slugging back the rest of his beer. “But while you’re there, get me one too.”
“Conor can fend for himself.” Olivia shot him a teasing glare before turning her attention back to Brody. “But would you mind giving Rebecca a hand? She offered to finish the margaritas, but it’s a lot to carry.”
Brody had no idea who Rebecca was, but if there was a damsel in need of assistance from an extra set of hands, then he was more than ready to accept the challenge. In his experience, there was no setting more conducive to scoring—off the field, that is—than a kitchen. Women seemed to cream themselves over a man willing to help out, and if there was alcohol involved, it only sped the process along.
Excusing himself, Brody made his way inside. Up until that point, the only part of the penthouse he’d really had a chance to check out was the terrace. They’d passed through the living room on their way outside, but a flare-up on the grill had had Cole rushing them through the glass doors. Now that he was on his own, Brody took his time checking out the digs his friend called home. The place was about as cold and stark as Cole’s office. With high ceilings and oversized abstract art, the living room looked more like a museum than somewhere to kick back and have a few beers. Where the hell was the television? Probably came down from the ceiling, he decided. And while the glass dining room table that sat atop a giant boulder seemed a bit odd, what really struck Brody as strange was the fact that nothing in the two main rooms reflected the presence of a female who, from all accounts, was a bit more laid-back than her husband.
Back toward the foyer, a door stood open that had previously been closed. Brody poked his head around the doorframe and smiled. Now, that was more like it. The room had obviously been a study at one time, with floor-to-ceiling bookcases spanning one of the wood-paneled walls and a limestone fireplace dominating another. But while the features still remained, there’d been a definite change in “vibe.” Wood he suspected had once been dark and masculine was now whitewashed to give it a vintage look, and while the limestone remained, the hearth displayed several maps with tiny flags pinned to various locations. There was a saucer-style chair in one corner with enough pillows piled on top to decorate the entire penthouse, and sweet Jesus, was that a lava
lamp beside it? Beaded curtains hung on either side of the wide window, but it was the desk shoved against the glass that really gave him pause. At least he was fairly sure it was a desk. It was hard to tell given the amount of paper scattered across the top in haphazard piles. The contrast to the way Cole kept his desk at the office—devoid of everything but a computer monitor, a small notepad, and a row of pens—was startling. Maybe that was the key to successful cohabitation, separate spaces. Brody made a mental note to remember that when the day came for him to settle down with a wife and his own mini offensive line. Last thing he wanted was a bunch of chick stuff or kids’ toys in his man cave.
A long hallway stretched out to his right. Assuming the darkened path led to the bedrooms, Brody went left instead, following the sounds of a mariachi band until he found the doorway to a kitchen that was nearly as big as the house he grew up in.
If the living room was all Cole and the den was all Olivia, then the kitchen was the true reflection of their blended lives. While the overall design was modern and sleek, Olivia had definitely left her mark. It was as if the entire place served as a black-and-white canvas, a backdrop of sorts for her brightly colored selections. Brody’s gaze traveled from the set of bright-red cookware that sat atop a stove with matching colored knobs, to the fringed curtains that hung over the sink, before landing on the pile of colorful towels stacked on top of a white marble island where a petite brunette stood in front of a blender, pressing the buttons in ascending order.
For the first time in his life, Brody understood what people meant when they said their heart skipped a beat. Because while his blood was still pumping, for a moment, he felt as though the world stood still.
It wasn’t just any petite brunette standing in Cole’s kitchen with her hips swaying to the rhythm of the music as the steel blades whirled through ice. It was her. His petite brunette. The one who had preoccupied nearly every waking thought for the last six days.
Rebecca.
Now he not only knew her name, but her friends. With any luck, he’d have her number by the end of the night. Who was he kidding? He was Brody Dixon. He’d have more than her number by the end of the night. He’d have her in his bed, and luck wouldn’t have anything to do with it.
Brody smiled to himself as he watched her, his presence in the doorway still unnoticed. Part of him knew he should announce himself. Hell, the whole reason he was there was to lend a hand. And he would, but not before he’d taken a little time to enjoy the view.
Rebecca.
Damn. She even was sexier than he remembered, putting the fantasies that had taunted him since they’d met to shame. Her short dark hair framed her delicate face, with tiny wisps curling behind her ears and at her nape. He longed to walk up behind her and press his lips to the soft skin on the curve of her neck. He’d tease her at first, coaxing her with flicks of his tongue before gently nipping and sucking the sensitive spot until she was grinding against him in a silent plea for more.
Fuck yes.
His gaze drifted lower, taking in the entire package. She wore a pair of faded jeans that rode low on her hips and a pink sleeveless sweater that, while too high-necked to show any cleavage, was tight enough to let his imagination fill in the gaps. His fingers flexed at his side, impatient to caress her gentle curves. He could just imagine the way her skin would pebble beneath his touch and the soft sighs that would escape her lips as he teased her past the point of no return.
The thought had him adjusting his jeans, but then the blender stopped, and he froze. Rebecca lifted a plump strawberry out of a glass bowl beside the blender and brought it to her lips. His breath caught as she sucked on the end before finally taking a bite of the succulent fruit. She moaned softly then giggled as some of the juice dribbled down her chin. It was the most devastating combination of sexy and sweet he’d ever heard. Her fingers caught the sticky liquid, and then one by one she brought them to her mouth, sucking each one in a way that had his cock begging for attention. It wasn’t hard to picture himself between those pouting lips, gliding in and out while she looked up at him with her enormous blue eyes.
Heat settled low in his belly, and he drew a deep breath through his nose. Keep it together, Dixon. Their first meeting hadn’t gone so well. That was an understatement if he’d ever heard one. Truth was, he’d sounded like a teenager trying out lines he’d read in Penthouse. Last thing he needed was a repeat performance of that train wreck. But then her tongue darted out to lick the last drop of stickiness from the corner of her mouth, and he nearly came in his pants. What the hell was it about this woman? It was like her every movement was designed to tease and torment him. It wasn’t intentional, of course. She didn’t even know he was watching. And yet, there he stood, pulse racing and cock twitching.
He had to have her. If for no other reason than to snap himself out of whatever hold she had over him.
She reached for two of the margarita glasses, filling each with a hefty pour before garnishing the sugared rims with a strawberry. Two more glasses sat waiting, but there was no way she’d be able to carry them by herself. The show was over. It was time to speak up.
“Need a hand?” he murmured in a deep, sultry drawl.
Rebecca spun around so quickly, she knocked over one of the margarita glasses. “Oh shit,” she said, reaching for one of the gingham towels.
Brody rushed to her side. “Here, let me help,” he said, using one of the other towels to sop up the frozen concoction.
When the situation was finally under control, she glanced up and her eyes grew wide. “It’s you,” she said. Her voice conveyed her surprise, but for the life of him, Brody couldn’t tell if it was of the good or bad variety.
“Brody Dixon,” he said, holding out his hand.
Her face registered absolutely no hint of recognition whatsoever. It was rare although not unheard of for a woman not to recognize Brody by his face. But the name? That never failed to get a reaction. At least until now.
“Rebecca Halstead.” She didn’t bother shaking his hand. Instead, she turned her attention back to the blender, dumping in several ingredients without much care for amount or measure. “What are you doing here?” she asked right before pressing the button.
“Cole invited me,” Brody shouted over the whirling blades. He realized he wasn’t sure if she meant at the party or in the kitchen, so when the blender quieted, he added, “Olivia asked me to give you a hand.”
She straightened. “So you figured you’d scare the daylights out of me?”
He placed his hand over his heart. “Unintentional, I swear.”
Rebecca reached for another glass to replace the one that had toppled over. “I’ve got it covered. Thanks.”
So far, their second encounter was going about as well as the first. It was as if he had no game at all when it came to this girl. “Look, we got off on the wrong foot—”
She raised one perfectly arched brow. “Don’t you mean you stepped on mine?”
Oh, this one was spunky. “Well, technically, I knocked you down.” He waited until she looked at him, then flashed a grin guaranteed to unleash the dimple. “Could even say I swept you off your feet.”
A hint of a smile tugged at her lips. It was only a small crack in her carefully constructed veneer, but it was a start.
“Did they teach you that one in caveman school?”
“Sure did, right after the whole lecture on dragging a woman back to the cave by her hair,” he said without missing a beat. “But I like to save that move for the second date.”
“That wasn’t a date.” She cut her eyes at him. It was only a glance, but he could see a flicker of interest that had him pressing on.
“True, but I would still be glad to take you back to my cave tonight.”
Her head fell back on a throaty laugh. “Oh man, that was bad. Like really, really bad.”
He chuckled. “Yeah, it was.” There was no sense in denying it. And while her reaction wasn’t exactly the one he’d been going for, t
he sound of her laugh made his crash and burn completely worth it.
“Does that line usually work for you?” She turned to face him full on, and when she did, something deep inside his gut twisted and turned. It was a sensation he’d only felt on the football field, right before the start of a game. A mixture of nerves and excitement served with a chaser of adrenaline.
“Can’t really say I’ve tried it before.” And then for the first time in his life, Brody Dixon dropped all sense of pretense and just leveled with a girl. “I don’t know what it is exactly, but something about you gives me all the game of a fourteen-year-old.” He was about as horny as one too, something that was going to become fairly obvious if he didn’t get the bulge in his jeans under control.
Rebecca sank her teeth into her bottom lip. She was trying to fight it, but she was definitely feeling the effects of the Dixon charm, even if he did sound like an idiot. Now to make the most of it.
“You have a bit of…” He pointed to the corner of his own mouth.
Rebecca’s hand flew to her face, fumbling to find the rogue strawberry juice. Perfect. She was caught off guard, on her back foot, so to speak. Time to swoop in for the ultimate one-two.
“Here, let me,” Brody said. He reached up and caught the last bit of strawberry juice with his fingertip. But instead of sucking his finger into his mouth as he’d watched her do just a few moments before, he carefully traced the fullness of her bottom lip.
“I think I’d like a taste,” he murmured. His voice was low and rough, perfectly conveying his barely leashed restraint.
Her mouth opened on a small gasp, and he took full advantage, claiming her with a possessive kiss. At first, she stilled, but then her fingers found their way into the hair at the base of his neck and her body went lax against his. Brody wasted no time, slipping his tongue inside her warm mouth with a wet, searing stroke. She tasted so fucking good, a sweet mix of strawberry and mint laced with a desire that lay just below the surface of her cool exterior.
Save the Date (Wild Wedding Series Book 3) Page 6
