by RC Boldt
Smoothing her silky hair back to bare one shoulder, I lock my gaze with hers in the mirror. I lower my head, bringing my lips close to her ear, and they brush against the shell as I speak. “You just might give Maggie a run for her money.”
“Stop trying to sweet talk me.” Her pulse point is beating rapidly, and combined with the slight breathlessness in her voice, it gives her away.
“We’re supposed to have a truce,” I whisper softly. “For Maggie and Ry.” She eyes me warily. Holding her gaze in the mirror, I tip my head to the side with a quizzical expression on my face. “Do you feel that?”
Squinting at me with suspicion, she asks slowly, “Feel what?”
I widen my eyes in excitement. “I feel a hug coming on.”
Her eyes narrow, and she steps away, intent on making her way to the changing room. “You should feel it dissipate. That’s what you should feel, Westbrook.”
“Is that any way to talk to the best man?” I watch as she walks away, body encased in lavender, and her ass beckons me. She mutters something before shutting the door behind her, and my eyes drop to the only visible part of her body—her sleek, muscled calves and delicate feet, her toes painted a soft pink.
Shit. I discreetly adjust myself. Clearly, I’ve sunk to an all new low by letting a woman’s lower legs and feet arouse me. What kind of a fucking weirdo is she turning me into?
“Mr. Westbrook?” At the sound of the tailor’s voice, I turn and find him watching me with an apologetic expression. “I’m sorry for the wait. Your tux was accidentally misplaced.”
He looks nervous as hell, and it’s probably because the abundance of wealthy people in this area believe that having money means you don’t need good manners or have to be kind to others.
Offering an easy smile, I wave him off. “Don’t worry about it…” I quickly scan his nametag. “Allen. I’m not in a hurry today.”
The relief on his face is palpable. “Thank you, sir. We’ll get you to a changing room over here and then ensure your measurements are accurate.”
Following him to the men’s fitting room on the other side of the boutique, I quickly disrobe and pull on the tux. As often as I wear a suit for meetings with new or potential clients, you’d think I’d be accustomed to it. Even so, I still prefer casual clothes any day. But, hey, this is for my best friend’s wedding. I’d do just about anything for the guy.
Fastening the buttons of the white shirt, I tug on the jacket and pants. Allen wants confirmation that everything fits properly, so I step out of the dressing room door. Automatically, my eyes seek out Sarah, and when I watch her turn from perusing a display of fancy looking purses and other accessories, her gaze snags mine, and she appears to falter slightly at the sight of me.
Allen appears pleased with the fit—aside from my inseam, apparently. I give him a sharp look when his hands get a little too “neighborly” with my crotch. He skitters away, muttering that my tux will be ready in time for the wedding. I guess I can’t blame the guy for wanting to get handsy with me. Plus, I realize it’s karma for pretending to be Ry’s gay lover for a year.
Raising my eyes from the elevated steps where I stand, I can see the top of Sarah’s blond head in the shoe section. Evasion. I know she liked the sight of me—know she still feels that fierce tug of attraction whenever we’re in the same vicinity. Which is likely why she took advantage of Allen’s handsy moment and my subsequent distraction to move farther away.
“Oh, Sunshine,” I call out to her. I watch as she ducks down, trying to hide. Chuckling softly, I return to the dressing room to change.
You can run, but you can’t hide.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Sarah
It’s confirmed. I’m in love.
I’m seriously in honest to goodness love. It might be one-sided, but I swear it’s the real thing. I have the sweaty palms, the shortness of breath, the dry mouth—the whole nine yards.
“If it were possible to be sexually attracted to an object, this would be it,” I murmur softly to myself, coveting the sparkly heels in my hands.
“Then get them.”
The sudden sound of Jack’s voice behind me causes me to physically jerk. My lips tip down at him suddenly homing in on my special moment. And trust me, it was special. It was just me and these spectacular heels beautiful enough to remind me of something Cinderella would wear to a ball.
Minus the asshole prince who doesn’t remember what she looks like when she’s not wearing a face full of makeup and a pretty dress, of course. Because, yeah. Talk about a douche of epic proportions.
Scrunching my face, I give him my best side-eye. “I can’t do that.”
“Sure, you can.” He says it just like that. Like it’s easy peasy.
With a long sigh, I stare at him.
He simply waves a hand at me. “Don’t look at me like I just confessed to sharing responsibility for kidnapping the Lindbergh baby or something.”
Huffing out a short laugh, I return my eyes to the shoes as I place them back in their box on the shelf.
“Get them, Sunshine.”
I’m ignoring his new—and obviously snarky—nickname for me because I don’t want to get into it with him. “I can’t do that.”
“Why not?”
“Because”—I purse my lips—“I’m a nurse, and I don’t…have anywhere to wear them. Aside from the rare occurrence of a wedding.”
“Or out to a nice dinner one night.”
I peer at him skeptically. “A nice dinner?”
“Yeah. A nice dinner out where you dress to the nines and splurge a little on food that’s delicious and packed with calories. And”—he leans in with exaggerated emphasis—“you even get dessert.” He covers his mouth with his hand, eyes going wide as if what he just said was scandalous.
And it kind of is.
“I don’t…know…” I’m hesitant. He’s planted the seed, and can you hear that? That sound?
Damn it. The roots have already begun to grow.
But, no! Nooooo. It wouldn’t be practical. It wouldn’t be—
Jack abruptly grabs the box with the heels I’ve been coveting and walks down the aisle toward the counter.
Sputtering, I give chase. “But wait! You can’t—”
He stops suddenly, causing me to nearly barrel into him, but I catch myself just in time. “I can.” He pauses. “Are these your size?”
I can only manage to nod numbly.
His expression softens. “You’re one of the hardest working people I know, Sarah. You deserve this.” With a shake of his head, he adds, “Actually, you deserve far more than this.”
Just as he turns back, I blurt, “And who’s going to take me out to this fancy dinner you speak of?”
Meeting my eyes again, he steps closer and his word is low and husky.
“Me.”
* * *
Two and a half hours have passed, and Jack and I have taken care of the final fittings, checked on the deliveries for the wedding cake, and chosen our personal gifts for Maggie and Ry.
Now, we’re in floral hell trying to choose centerpieces because neither Maggie nor Ry can decide—or care—about any of the floral arrangements.
“What about plain roses? Then we can have the DJ play the Tango.” Jack plucks a long-stemmed rose from a nearby bucket filled with dozens upon dozens of the fragrant flowers and places it between his teeth. His fingers encircle my wrist, and I’m tugged against the firm wall of his chest. Quickly setting the shopping bag with the heels he insisted on purchasing for me aside, he nudges it beneath the nearby display table. One of his hands settles at my waist while the other grasps my hand.
And he freaking leads me into a Tango-like walk down the main aisle of the flower shop.
Before I can escape his clutches, he dips me, and my hair flies back. He has that stupid rose still secured between his perfect teeth with his lips curved into a smile. His dark blue eyes are dancing in amusement, and I can’t resist a little laugh at hi
s antics.
He lets the rose drop soundlessly to the floor, and his features change, eyes darkening, as they flicker between my lips and my eyes. My breath catches with the anticipation that he’ll close the distance between us and kiss me. What’s worse is I want him to. Badly. Even after what happened.
Traitorous lips. Traitorous hormones. Traitorous—
“Hey, you two!”
At the sound of the shop owner’s voice, I jerk with a start, causing Jack to nearly lose his grip on me. Thankfully, he rights us swiftly enough that I’m certain my hair whipped forward so fast I’ve given my own cheeks brush burn.
Smoothing down the fabric of my sleeveless blouse, I attempt to compose myself and do everything in my power to avoid meeting Jack’s gaze. It feels like I’ve blasted back in time to the fifth grade when I lied to my teacher about being allowed to wear lipstick. Totally failed at looking Mrs. Frost (and she lived up to her last name, in case you’re wondering) in the eye back then and can’t look Jack in the eye right now.
At least I learned to leave bright fuchsia lipstick a memory. Turns out that’s far easier to leave in my past than Jack Westbrook.
“Hi, Ms. Paisley! So great to see you!”
Shit! Why do I sound like a peppy cheerleader? Maybe I should just break out the old back handspring and end it with one of those little spirit finger waves, too, while I’m at it.
Kill me now.
The weight of Jack’s eyes on me is heavy, but do I look over? Nope, nope, nope. Not going to happen. I’m staying strong here, people.
Ms. Paisley’s eyes dart curiously back and forth between me and Jack. The older woman is in her late sixties, not to mention the kindest lady around, and has owned this floral shop for ages. She donates arrangements to terminally ill patients in our hospital and is also well known throughout our community as an active city council member. Ms. Paisley is one of those people who makes it a point to get to know everyone who crosses her path.
“What are you up to today?” she asks sweetly.
“Oh—” I start to answer, but I’m cut off.
By the new official bane of my existence.
“Nothing much, Ms. P. Just trying to make out with Little Miss Sunshine here,” Jack interrupts, playfully nudging the older woman.
My death glare is fierce, and let’s get something clear. I’ve perfected this glare since I’ve had to use it on a few pretentious doctors I’ve dealt with over the years as well as some asswipe patients who think they’ve watched enough Grey’s Anatomy to know what’s what. This particular glare has quieted burly men who look like they’d just gotten off the set of the movie Deliverance. I like to think it has the same power as Darth Vader’s little Jedi move where he squeezes people’s throats simply by thinking it. My glare is paralyzing.
Or so I thought. Because, yep, you guessed it. Jack Westbrook is not only immune to it, but he has the audacity to smile at me. No, scratch that. He’s grinning smugly because he knows it pisses me off.
Yet I still want him. I’d even go so far as to consider giving up the last, jumbo chocolate-covered strawberry from Sweets ‘N’ Treats—and those suckers are like manna from heaven, I tell you—on Valentine’s Day just to let him have his wicked way with me.
Minus the biting and spanking thing, obviously.
Jack continues sweet-talking Ms. Paisley, telling her all about Maggie and Ry’s wedding and asking for her input since she knows the couple as well. I stand back, not so discreetly watching the two interact. Or more aptly, watching the way Jack interacts with the older woman. His side profile with that straight nose and strong square jawline with just the right amount of dark scruff to send him over the line of the “Wow, he’s sexy” category and into the “He needs to get me naked NOW” territory gets me feeling swoony.
Damn it.
My eyes drift up to his hair, and I recall how soft it felt that night I gripped it while he put his mouth all over me. My gaze trails down the dark gray shirt stretched over his firmly muscled torso, and I falter at his jeans. Sweet Jesus, those jeans. My vagina lurched a little when I caught sight of him earlier. I swear I felt it move as if it were practically trying to flag him down like, “Jack!! Over heeerrrrrreeee!!”
Whoa. That was weird. Plus, directionally speaking, it should be “down here,” shouldn’t it?
Oh. My. God! Why am I having an internal conversation about my vagina waving at a guy? I blame it all on Jack. He’s making me crazy. As if that’s not bad enough, my eyes are locked on his jeans and the way they hug him in all the right places. Specifically, over his ass and crotch. Over that really nice—
The sound of Jack clearing his throat is jarring, yanking me from my inner turmoil. When I meet his gaze, those blue eyes crinkle at the corners and one eyebrow rises. It’s clear what he’s silently saying. Checking out my package, huh, Sunshine?
Gah. I totally hear his voice in my head, too! I need an escape. NOW.
“I’ll be just a moment.” Turning, I rush out the shop’s door; the tiny bell sounding at my exit as I practically spill out onto the sidewalk.
CHAPTER NINE
Jack
That wasn’t quite the reaction I expected.
“Now, Jack. Are you giving that poor girl a tough time?”
Turning back to see Ms. Paisley peering up at me with that lopsided smile, the only sign of her stroke a few years back, I see her eyes sparkle with humor. I can’t help but grin back at her.
“Me?” My expression is one of faux innocence as I place a palm over my heart. “Why, I would never!”
She giggles, swatting at me before her expression sobers. “I may be old, but I still have this”—she taps her finger to her temple—“and I can tell you’ve messed things up with her.”
With a curious look, I have to ask, “How’s that?”
She scoffs at me, turning to head back to the front counter when the phone rings. “By being a typical man, of course.”
“Huh. Of course,” I mutter to myself before snagging Sarah’s bag and heading outside the shop in search of her.
She’s not difficult to find, standing next door by the bakery window; her blond hair tousles slightly with the intermittent, soft breeze. Warmth spreads through me, and it’s as though my brain nearly stutters. Because it’s here at this moment that I have an intense yearning for her to turn to me and smile. And it wouldn’t be one of those polite smiles, but a bright smile that grows wider and wider at the sight of me.
Instead, when her eyes meet mine, I receive what must be the wariest and least encouraging look.
Shoving my hands in my pockets, I shrug slightly. “So I’m thinking lilies. Something simple but still classy. What do you think?”
This is the most pathetic attempt at an “olive branch,” but it’s all I’ve got to work with at this point. Damn Maggie and Ry for being so indecisive in choosing floral centerpieces for their wedding…and meddling. Because I know for a fact they could’ve easily asked Ms. Paisley to choose the flowers for them instead of asking Sarah and me to do it.
“Sure. That sounds great.” Her words sound forced and rushed, and she nods quickly, her eyes darting to where I’m still grasping her bag containing those sparkly heels she’d lusted over. I’d never be caught dead spending more than a hundred bucks on a pair of shoes that had next to nothing but a heel and straps because, hey, I’m a guy, but apparently, Jimmy Choo knows his stuff.
When I hand over the bag, her slim fingers wrap around the handles, and she hesitates briefly. Her blue eyes dart to mine, lips parting.
“I can…pay you back for these.” Uncertainty lines her features, and the combination of that, along with her words, pisses me off.
“I don’t want your money, Sarah.” My tone has a bite to it, and I run a frustrated hand through my hair before turning toward Ms. Paisley’s store. I’m not worried about the damn money. I just want…her. “Let’s get in there and get the flowers straightened out.”
Before I reach the door to
the floral shop, Sarah calls out. “Jack.”
Something in her tone has my shoulders relaxing infinitesimally, and I turn to look at her.
“Thank you for the shoes.” She worries the edge of her bottom lip with her teeth. “And for saying I deserve them.”
Not wanting to screw up our tentative truce, I simply nod and walk inside.
And I feel the weight of Sarah’s gaze on me the entire time.
* * *
“Well, I have to say we’ve been pretty damn productive today.”
I’ve officially resorted to pleasantries boiling over with awkwardness. Damn it, I feel like I’m back in high school all over again.
“Ready for our final stop?”
“Final stop?” I hear the hesitation in her response, but I don’t care. I’m pushing past it.
“Yep,” I answer with much more confidence than I feel. “We deserve a good lunch after all these errands.”
Sarah holds up her hands, two shopping bags dangling from her fingers and an amused expression on her face. “Somehow, I ended up with more gifts today, simply by running errands with you.”
I’d insisted on a small clutch purse to match her shoes after I’d noticed it had snagged her attention, sitting in a display window. By the look on her face, I knew she had to have it.
Her brows furrow as she peers curiously at the small bag of my own, nodding toward it in gesture. “You never did mention what you got from Ms. Paisley’s shop.”
Grinning smugly, I lead her toward a nearby bench along the sidewalk. I retrieve a small white box out of the bag and hand it to her. When she grasps it, her fingertips brush against mine, instantly sending an electric-like charge rushing through me.
Her eyes dart up to me as she holds the small, rectangular box in her hands.
“Go on. Open it.”
I feel like crossing my fingers that she’s okay with this gift…of sorts. My breathing slows as she slides a finger through the thin strip of tape securing the lid, releasing the top of the box and lifting it open.
At the sight of the blue flowers inside, the confusion lining her features is clear. Because these particular flowers aren’t anything to write home about in the least. In fact, they’re pretty plain.
