Lyndie started a group text to both of her friends: Guys! Here’s the LD. Brock came over last night and asked me to temporarily sign on to be Mrs. Hudson. For business reasons! I said yes. For a baby! Cabernet told me to keep the secret until I was positive I was going to go through with it, but clearly cabernet led me astray. I’m so sorry! I should have told you immediately. Forgive me? Say yes, and I’ll do you both the incomparable honor of being my co-matrons of honor. FYI: I’d call you “maids of honor” but you’re both married…and getting plowed on the reg. Lucky!
Ryanne: Ha! You’re forgiven. Since I’m getting plowed on the reg, I’m always in a supergood mood. Amazing how that works.
Dorothea: I need a minute to deal with all the feels. Okay. Now I’m ready. CONGRATS!!!! I’m sad you guys aren’t gonna stay married, but I’m over the moon about the baby!!
Ryanne: BTW, I totally predicted this. I told Dorothea you guys would end up together, one way or another.
Dorothea: She sure did. She also told me you’d bring Brock to his knees. I’m most looking forward to THAT.
Bring a man like Brock to his knees? Her? The idea intrigued her in ways she never would have guessed, even made her shiver. But actually succeeding? Impossible.
He had too much experience while she had too little. But very soon, Brock would be in her bed, inadvertently teaching her everything he knew about sex. After one night with him, she would probably become an expert.
After her divorce, a single, independent Lyndie would have more confidence. She might decide to get a little some-some from another hottie.
Talk about another perfect plan! So why did she suddenly have a knot in the pit of her stomach?
* * *
The next week passed in a whirlwind of activity, making Lyndie feel as if she was running all over hell’s half acre. Rings had to be purchased, a prenup had to be drafted and signed, medical tests had to be done, a gown had to be bought, and a reception at the Strawberry Inn had to be planned. Appearances, appearances.
To Lyndie’s absolute amazement, Brock let it be known he expected to be part of every decision and help plan every detail and even wanted to go dress shopping. Maybe because of that gown fetish he’d claimed to develop. The thought made her smile.
She suggested half-price boutiques, but her fiancé—so weird using that particular F-word—whisked her to a fancy-schmancy place in the city.
Along the way, she did her best to make polite conversation. “Will any of your other Army buddies be coming to the wedding?”
“No,” he said.
“Bummer. Did you guys not keep in touch?” Or did he not want any of them to know about her?
He adjusted the thermostat. “Before I forget, would you like to visit a spa the day before the wedding? I can arrange everything.”
“No, thank you.” She wanted to be surrounded by her friends, no one else. “So, did you and your Army buddies not keep in touch?”
As he pondered his answer, expertly weaving in and out of traffic, she looked him over. He wore a plain black T-shirt, the short sleeves hugging the perfect sculpt of his biceps—biceps that tensed every time she spoke. Interesting.
“Some did. Some didn’t,” he finally said.
She waited for him to say more. Silence reigned.
Wait. Did he not want to talk about the people he’d met in the military?
Made no sense, but okay. She tried another subject. “What was growing up in New York like? I’ve never been outside Strawberry Valley.”
“New York is crowded, and no one ever sleeps,” he replied. That was it. He shifted uncomfortably, as if he was in the middle of an interrogation. “Let’s talk about something else.”
Okay, what was the problem here? This was odd, right? Was she not supposed to ask about anything but his romantic past? She wouldn’t think anything of his reluctance to talk if he hadn’t been so open about his relationship track record or the deets he’d spilled the night he proposed. He’d had no shame, no secrets. Why keep this stuff to himself?
Because she was Lyndie Scott, her mind leaped to a bad place. Was he hiding something? What didn’t he want her to know?
Red flag! Red flag! Should she cut bait and run?
Argh! Stop looking for a reason to end a good thing.
Perhaps he’d assumed she pitied him for his mother’s abuse and had decided not to share anything else with her? But…but…he couldn’t be more wrong. She identified with him now. He knew the pain of a parent’s betrayal. They were part of a secret club.
But dang it, she wanted to know more about him. Wanted him to feel comfortable enough to share other details with her. Because they were friends now. Because they trusted each other—right?
And okay, okay. Maybe she was being ridiculous, expecting too much when their romantic relationship had a predetermined expiration date. But maybe not. If they didn’t trust each other, this whole thing was a big mistake. Huge.
Inhale, exhale. Count to ten. Good, that was good. Calm returned. Something she’d learned in therapy: Fears painted a worst-case scenario for no reason. She had to recognize the signs, and put up roadblocks.
By the time they reached their destination, Lyndie had her thoughts under control. She’d let her fears get the best of her, but no more. All would be well.
Brock opened her car door to help her out. Hand in hand—a development she liked a little too much—they headed inside a chrome and glass building. Crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling, illuminating dresses that cost more than she made in a year. The scent of money saturated the air. Or what she believed money would smell like if it bathed in perfumed oils and rolled in a bed of rose petals.
Another amazement? No other customers were present because Brock had booked the entire salon for a private appointment.
With his mouth at her ear, he whispered, “I want to see you in every gown.”
Knees growing weak, she nodded. Then she allowed a salesgirl to lead her into a room.
As Lyndie modeled different dresses, Brock lounged on a couch. All the while, heat blazed in his eyes, and masculine awareness stiffened the muscles in his shoulders. He gripped his knees as if to hold himself in place.
He really did have a gown fetish. Or maybe he just wanted to make a move on her?
“You are exquisite, Scottie.”
“Thank you.” Desire nearly felled her and definitely made breathing a little more difficult. Only one thing kept her upright. Feminine power. How badly can I make him want me?
Not going to find out. Not today. But soon.
After a salesgirl served him a glass of champagne, Lyndie said, “I feel like we’re living Pretty Woman.”
“If you want to take this fantasy a step further, I’m game.” The words were a low rasp, yet they exuded enough sultry heat to tempt a woman to strip anytime, any place.
Feigning nonchalance, she said, “So we’ll pretend you’re a prostitute with a heart of gold and I’m your sugar momma?”
“Exactly.” He didn’t miss a beat. But then, he never did. “I’ll do whatever you pay me to do.”
And once again, desire threatened to fell her. Her knees shook, her body softening, readying for his possession. “How would I pay you? What currency?”
“What else? Orgasms.”
Mercy! Thoughts shot through her head at breakneck speed. Couldn’t forget he was a one-and-done man. No marriage, no baby.
Ugh! Why do you think so little of him?
Because…just because! A girl couldn’t be too careful.
“Maybe later,” she mumbled and headed back to the dressing room. But not before she caught a glimpse of disappointment.
Oh, yes, this man wanted to make a move on her. Desperately. Just as before, the knowledge went straight to her head. Potent, heady. Intoxicating.
A salesgirl passed her, entering the room ahead of her, and Lyndie paused. She glanced over her shoulder, and concentrated on Brock.
Another salesgirl sauntered over to give
him a fresh glass of champagne. As he sipped, she leaned closer, adjusted one of the buttons on her blouse, and even placed her hand over his.
Air wheezed between Lyndie’s teeth. If he dared respond—
Brock politely but firmly extracted his hand, and Lyndie expelled a sigh of relief.
As the salesgirl scurried off, he lifted his gaze—and locked on Lyndie. So much heat. With a low groan of need, she darted back into the dressing room. When she caught sight of her reflection in the full-length mirror, she had to do a double take. Her eyes were soft, luminous, her pupils blown. Her color was high, and she was smiling big.
Well, why not? Brock wanted her and continued to prove it with heated glances, suggestive texts and a desire to spend time with her; he’d even refused the attentions of a very pretty girl, keeping his promise to Lyndie. Soon he would be in her bed, naked. He would kiss and touch her. She would kiss and touch him too. And probably scream with pleasure. Fingers crossed!
Considering all the self-help progress she’d made, she deserved a reward. Brock was the thing she wanted most. He was like a rare book she’d been dying to read while languishing on a wait list for months; finally she got to check him out for a few weeks.
When she found the perfect dress, she decided not to show her hubby-to-be. Lyndie wanted to surprise him at the wedding. Would he groan with desire? She hoped he groaned!
The next day, she got busy hunting for an attorney. She needed someone to draft an airtight prenup with specific terms spelling out everything that would happen to and for her and her baby after the divorce, just in case she did, in fact, get pregnant. But dang, attorneys were expensive, and they spoke a language she couldn’t quite translate.
Maybe she should do a Google search—become your own lawyer—and draft up the legal documents herself.
In the end, she went with the cheapest guy she could find.
“Use my guy,” Brock told her the next day. They met at the LPH Protection offices to go over the prenups. “I’ll pay his fees. Trust me, you don’t want me to sign this.”
She was so, so tempted to say yes. But… On my own, or bust. “No, thanks. Your guy has your best interests at heart.”
“I have your best interests at heart, which means he does too. And I hate to be the one to tell you this, Scottie, but you hired an idiot. The way this is stated,” he said, pointing to a line of text, “could be interpreted to mean you’re entitled to nothing of mine but I’m entitled to anything you buy after our marriage.” He quickly pointed out three other glaring errors. “Let my guy fix everything, okay?”
Well, crap. Guess you get what you pay for. Which sucked, because she thought she’d paid for lobster but she’d gotten imitation crab.
What else could she do but agree?
Brock came over later the same day to show her the new paperwork. She relaxed on her couch and sipped merlot while reading. Some of the language struck her as odd.
“This means the baby, if there is a baby, will be mine and only mine, right?” A mom had to be sure.
He sat across from her and looked her dead in the eye. “I told you I didn’t want to be a father. The baby will be yours. However, the new terms ensure you receive a million dollars to cover medical care and anything the child needs. At eighteen, the child receives a million for college and anything else that is needed. The money will be given to a Scott, one way or another.”
Maybe just this one time, she thought. Then her stomach got all knotty again. One time now, one time later. When would it stop? Every journey began with a single step.
She gritted her teeth. Dang it! Her child deserved every possible advantage.
“I know you want and value your independence,” Brock said, “but everyone needs help now and again. That doesn’t make you weak. That makes you human.”
The words did something to her, affected her. He saw her. The real her. He did understand her motivation and reasoning. And he was right. Everyone needed help at some point. Even Ryanne and Dorothea, the strongest women she knew.
“What about you?” she asked. “Have you ever needed help?”
A moment passed in silence, and she thought he might ignore her question. Then he surprised her. Expression sad, he said, “Every day. I could not survive without Jude and Daniel.”
Her heart nearly melted inside her chest. “Thank you,” she said, her tone soft. “I accept your offer, and your terms.”
He heaved a relieved breath, kissed his fingertips, and stretched out his arm ceiling-ward, as if blowing God a kiss. “Two million is nothing. You have no idea how desperate I am to give you more.” Before she could reply, he added, “Also, you’ll be happy to know the new prenup denies me access to most of your things.”
The fact that Brock continued to go to such great lengths to protect her, added to the fact that they kept having these wonderful moments together…
She’d made the right decision, accepting his proposal.
“Most? I have nothing of value,” she said. Besides, if he had two million dollars in pocket change, he wouldn’t want anything she owned.
“Oh, I don’t know about that.” His gaze slid down her body, slow and languid, heating. “I can think of several things I’d like to have.”
Shivers. Tingles. Need. Heaven help her, Brock was sexy.
Only a few more days to go, and he’ll belong to me… Kind of. I can wait. Barely.
“Hold that thought until after the wedding,” she said, a tremor in her voice. “That’s when I’ll be into a little B and E.” Or a lot.
He arched a brow. “Beds and ecstasy?”
She grinned. “Exactly.”
“You’re killing me, Scottie. Killing. Me. And I like it.” Grinning himself, he stood and gathered his keys and wallet. “Come on. Let’s go to dinner. You’re hungry, right?”
“Starving.”
They ate at Two Farms, the best dining experience in town (according to the owner.). Brock kept her riveted with tales about different jobs he worked as a teen in an effort to earn his own money.
She loved the way his eyes crinkled at the corners when he laughed. Adored the way he leaned toward her whenever he spoke, as if he had a secret to share with her and her alone. Enjoyed the way he watched her over the rim of his water glass every time he took a drink, as if he couldn’t bear to look away.
When their knees brushed, she sucked in a breath. Need coiled deep in her belly, and wine couldn’t be blamed. She was stone-cold sober.
He reached out and toyed with the ends of her hair, the way he’d seemed to want to do the first time they’d run into each other at the bar. “When I get you into bed,” he said, his voice low and rough and quiet, “I don’t want to leave for a week.”
She gulped. “I could be talked into taking a bed-cation.”
“Is that so?”
“Most certainly.”
“Then I’ll be putting together a PowerPoint presentation on the merits of saying yes.”
Just keep doing what you’re doing.
“Where do you want to go for our honeymoon?” he asked.
Easy. “My house.”
He frowned. “Not a ritzy hotel in the city, at the very least?”
“Nope. I don’t want to leave the cats.” Or her safe place. And, to be honest, the less romantic their surroundings, the better. He’d already engaged her emotions in ways she hadn’t anticipated.
Understanding softened his eyes, his expression, and caused a pang to cut through her chest. “Very well,” he said. “The house it is.”
Had any man ever been so accommodating or kind to her? A girl could get used to—
Nope. Not gonna go there.
“Shall we head home?” she asked, practically croaking.
As they drove away from Two Farms, Lyndie realized Brock had relayed no new information about his family, despite a steady stream of conversation and tidbits about his working teenage years. He’d told her nothing about his Army days, either. The two subjects he’d avoided b
efore.
Unease returned, but even still, desire continued to burn inside her. They were about to part, but she wasn’t ready to say goodbye. What would one kiss hurt? Surely she could refrain from jumping him after.
He walked her to the door, a tower of confidence and strength. “I had fun with you today.”
“I had fun with you too.” More than she’d ever had with another man.
She turned into his body, his warm breath fanning over her face. Her heart drummed erratically. This would be her first kiss in years. As she leaned in…
“Goodbye, Scottie. Sweet dreams.” He stepped back, pivoted on his booted heel, and walked away.
She watched him leave, her nerve endings buzzing, delicious warmth pooling between her legs. I want him. I want him bad. Why hadn’t he kissed her?
Maybe he didn’t trust himself not to try and take things further? Maybe he wanted her to remain in this worked-up condition, to crave him so desperately she would race down the aisle just to get him into bed?
Yeah. That. The man was positively diabolical when it came to the fairer sex.
Well played, Hudson. Well played.
Chapter Six
Brock parked in front of the log cabin he’d leased when he first moved to Strawberry Valley. Moonlight framed the wraparound porch, and a hammock was hooked to two support beams. The cabin itself had only one story, but two thousand square feet of space. Acres of trees, flowers, and a babbling brook created the perfect backdrop.
Jude and Daniel would arrive any minute. They planned to throw him a low-key bachelor party. For the first time in years, Brock would rather be alone with his thoughts. Because those thoughts revolved around Lyndie, and the woman had scrambled his mind. She’d also turned his body into a live wire.
He craved her, other women not even a blip worth considering. Only Lyndie would do. She was the real deal, the redhead in his fantasies, and fakes no longer held any appeal. Actually, they’d never held any appeal, but he’d made the best out of a difficult situation.
Can't Get Enough (The Original Heartbreakers Book 6) Page 6
