“Joe Coyote,” she called, and Blake’s old football buddy limped self-consciously up to the stage while Lauren Belgado and a girlfriend cheered him on. He knew Joe and Lauren had been seeing each other. Things had to be pretty serious for her to be able to talk quiet old Joe into something like this.
“Bill Williams.”
The bar erupted with screams and clapping as the cocky cowboy in a Western shirt and jeans tight enough to show off his package swaggered up to the stage. Bill was obviously a crowd favorite and Blake couldn’t help glancing in Samantha Sterling’s direction to see if the guy was a favorite of hers. Apparently not. She was frowning.
“Blake Preston.”
Now Samantha looked as if she’d just drunk vinegar and Blake felt his face catching fire as all eyes turned to him. Lauren seemed surprised but she and her girlfriend dutifully clapped and cheered along with a couple of other women.
“Sorry, I’m not competing,” he called.
“Oh, come on. No chickening out,” Charlene teased, clearly enjoying his discomfort. She started the crowd chanting, “Blake, Blake, Blake.”
He shook his head and moved to Samantha’s table, seating himself next to her. She bristled at his arrival.
The crowd gave up and moved on to fresh meat and, under cover of the loud talk and laughter, Samantha hissed, “This table is taken.”
“I can see that,” he said. “That’s why I chose it. I wanted to talk to you.”
She downed what was left of her cocktail in one gulp and then hiccupped. “Well, I don’t want to talk to you.”
“You didn’t give me a chance to explain yesterday.”
“Like your actions needed an explanation?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact, they did.”
She cocked her head and stared at him as if trying to bring him into focus. How many of those drinks had she gulped down?
The cocktail waitress was at their table now, asking him what he’d like to drink.
“Jack Daniel’s straight up,” he said.
“And I’ll have another of these.” Samantha held up her near-empty martini glass.
“How many of those have you had?” he asked.
“None of your business,” she informed him.
The waitress seemed hesitant. “You’re not much of a drinker, Samantha. Two might be your limit.”
“Three is a nice even number,” Samantha said. “Bring me one more.”
The waitress frowned. “Okay, but after that Hank’s gonna cut you off. I can tell you that right now.”
“Fine,” Samantha said with an airy flick of her hand. Now she turned her attention back to Blake. “Are you still here?”
“I’m afraid so,” he said agreeably.
“You know, you really are a snake. And a hypocrite. Entering our Mr. Dreamy contest while you’re trying to steal our company.”
“I didn’t enter your contest and I am not trying to steal your company,” he said.
“Yes, you are. You want to give it to Trevor Brown. I’m not stupid.”
“I never said you were.” Actually, he thought she was one smart cookie.
“You’re probably the reason our permits are lost somewhere in city hall,” she said, pointing a finger at him.
“What?” Oh, that smarted. After enduring a lunch with Priscilla Castro drooling over him, he deserved a medal, not a cold shoulder.
“We need permits to have all those festival booths downtown. You can’t just plant ’em like flowers. We need permission to sell food and alcohol and have musical performances. We need an event permit. And so far we have nothing. Nothing!” She waved a hand, almost taking off his nose. “Do you know what a bust the whole thing will be if we can’t put up booths downtown?” He opened his mouth to speak, but she talked right over him. “Not that it matters,” she said, contradicting herself. “We’ll still have our dinner and our ball and our Mr. Dreamy contest and we’ll sell lots and lots of chocolate. And I’ll pay you and your bank buzzards everything I owe you.” She grabbed her martini glass and tossed back the last of her drink.
“Hey, you’re supposed to sip that stuff,” Blake cautioned.
“I am,” Samantha said. “I like big, long sips.”
“And now, before we start our shirtless-man parade, let’s have a few words from Samantha Sterling, one of our judges,” Charlene said from the mike.
Amid much clapping and hooting, Samantha stood—a little unsteadily but she made it to her feet and then to the mike. “Thank you all for turning out,” she told the crowd. “Ladies, if you haven’t gotten your tickets for the Mr. Dreamy pageant yet you can purchase them at the Sweet Dreams gift shop, along with our fabulous chocolates. Nothing is better than chocolate, especially if it comes from Sweet Dreams.” With that, she gave the mike back to Charlene, who started down the line of men, having them peel off their shirts one at a time. Fired by alcohol and hormones, the women went wild.
Samantha returned to the table and fell into her seat. “Oh, good. My drink is here.” She frowned at Blake. “And so are you. Don’t you have somewhere to go?”
“Huh-uh,” he said.
She continued to frown and took a sip from her glass. “You always did think you were hot fries, didn’t you? Big man on campus, giving all the girls a thrill. Did you play football in college?” she demanded as if that was, somehow, a crime.
“No, I blew out my knee my freshman year.”
Down went more of that cocktail. She was drinking it like it was soda pop. “Too bad,” she sneered. “I guess you had to work for your degree, then.”
“Actually I did. Same as you.” Now she was beginning to bug him. Samantha Sterling had a mouth on her.
She grunted and took another swig. “What did you major in?”
“Business.”
“Monkey business, I’ll bet,” she muttered. “Why are you at the bank, anyway?”
“That’s not what you’re really asking, is it?” he countered.
“Oh? What am I really asking?”
“You’re asking, ‘Why aren’t you Arnie?’”
Her face fell and she stared into her glass. “Well, why aren’t you?” she said, her voice tremulous. “He wouldn’t stand by and let my family lose our company. He understood the importance of community.”
“That may be, but he didn’t understand the importance of being wise with money. Sadly, a lot of people don’t.”
She reared back her head and looked at him through bleary eyes. “Are you accusing me of not being wise?”
He knew she’d inherited the mess she was in. “Not at all. I’m just saying—”
“I don’t want to hear what you’re saying. I don’t want to talk to you. I want to have fun. Girls just want to have fun, you know. Why does everyone get to have fun but me? Why do I have to worry about the company and Mom keeping a roof over her head and not letting everyone down? I should be partying. I think I will,” she decided, and began to climb up on her chair, showing enough leg to bring every shirtless man running from the other end of the bar. It was a wobbly assent, sure to summon disaster.
Blake grabbed for her and she shied away, ricocheting off another table and upending a drink in a woman’s lap. “Oops, sorry,” she said to the sputtering woman, and giggled. “Girls just want to have fun, you know. And I’m gonna have fun.” She started dancing, waving her arms back and forth over her head. “I want to dance in the sun or the moonlight or whatever it was.” Once more she tried to sca
le the chair, but wound up draped over the table. “Who’s spinning this thing?”
“Those drinks you inhaled,” he told her.
She managed to crawl up on the table but was now stuck on all fours, glaring at him through a curtain of red hair. This was hardly the moment to be turned on, but Blake was.
She tried to blow her hair out of her face, then scowled at him. “You keep pretending you want to help me. Well, help me up on this table.”
“I don’t think that would be a good idea,” he said. Bad enough that he couldn’t stop her from making a fool of herself. He didn’t want her falling and knocking herself unconscious on top of that.
“Fine, if you won’t help I’ll do it myself. I don’t need anyone to help me, anyway.” She struggled to get up, leaving him no choice but to assist her.
Oh, boy, this would be one more thing she’d blame him for once she was sober.
“Oh, it’s high up here. I can see everyone. Go, Mr. Dreamy!” She pumped the air with one hand and immediately lost her balance, toppling from the table. He caught her before she could bang her head.
“I think it’s time to go home,” he said, setting her on her feet.
Now Charlene was at the table. “Samantha, how many of those have you had?”
Samantha’s brow furrowed. “How many what?”
“Never mind.” Charlene thrust out one hand, palm up. “Give me your car keys.”
“Don’t worry. I’m taking her home,” Blake said.
“To her home,” Charlene said.
What did she think he was? He didn’t bother to dignify that remark with a response. Instead, he got out a bill and laid it on the table. “Come on, party girl,” he said to Samantha. “You’ve had enough fun for one night.”
He put an arm around her and started moving her out of the bar. No one noticed. They were all too busy cheering on the Mr. Dreamy wannabes as the men paraded through the maze of tables accompanied by the Weather Girls singing “It’s Raining Men.”
They passed the now-empty restaurant. Patrons had either fled the noise or gone to the bar to add to it.
“Is my head still connected to my neck?” Samantha asked as he opened the door for her. “It feels like a balloon.”
“Yes, it’s still connected but not enough for you to be driving.”
“I don’t want to go home with you,” she said petulantly. “And I’m not going to run around the bank in my underwear or let you drown me in a vat of chocolate, either.”
He blinked. “What?”
She blinked. “Uh, never mind.”
They were at his car now, a classic red Camaro in which he took great pride. He opened the door and she fell onto the black leather seat, giving him a view of leg and beyond that sent the blood rushing from his head to an area slightly farther south.
Alcohol and a gorgeous female he was attracted to—that was all it took to make him want to do what men were designed to do. There were only a couple of drawbacks. Three actually. One, she was drunk. Two, she despised him. Three, he pretty much despised himself.
His parents had raised him to be a gentleman and that was exactly what he was going to be. But his fingers itched to touch her.
He got behind the wheel and started the engine, and the car roared to life like a giant beast. That made two beasts on the road. She leaned her head back against the cushions and closed her eyes, unaware of how sexy she looked with that long neck exposed, just waiting for someone to nibble on it.
“I’m tired,” she sighed.
That comment had nothing to do with the time. He slanted a look her way. Now she was staring at him with those big hazel eyes.
A tear slipped from one and rolled down her cheek. “I’m trying so hard.”
Oh, no. Don’t cry. Please don’t cry. “Samantha,” he began.
She held back a sob and turned her face to the window. “I’ve drained my savings, I’ve had to beg all our suppliers to keep—” She pressed her lips firmly together to stop any more secrets from leaking out and wiped at a corner of her eye.
He pulled off the street. Now they were by the park. The giant fir tree that the town made great ceremony of lighting every Christmas loomed, creating the illusion of privacy. “Come here,” Blake said, and drew her close to him, not an easy task considering the fact that this damned car had bucket seats.
She looked up at him, her head on his shoulder. Her hair brushed his cheek like a caress. “So many families in this town depend on us. What would Icicle Falls be without Sweet Dreams? Without chocolate? What would the world be without chocolate?”
This probably wasn’t the time to tell her he was allergic to the stuff.
“Nothing in this world is better than chocolate,” she murmured.
“Oh, there are some things,” he said, staring at her lips. Don’t do it.
“Ha! Like what?” He knew the second she recognized the glint in his eye. Her eyes widened, then her gaze dropped, showing him a flutter of long lashes. She looked at his lips and wet hers.
Okay, gentleman or no, he knew an invitation when he saw one. He leaned over and kissed her. She whimpered and he deepened the kiss, threading his fingers through her hair. He could feel her melting, all that female softness surrendering to him. Oh, yeah, there was something in this world a lot better than chocolate.
He had just gotten her into his lap and had a hand sliding along her thigh when her fingers froze in the middle of taking a trip up his neck. She pulled back and gaped at him in horror. “You…you…”
Beast. She was right. He was taking unfair advantage and they needed to stop. But not this way, not with her wearing that look of betrayal. “Samantha,” he protested. “I’m not your enemy.”
“Yes, you are and I almost slept with you!” she cried.
A few hot kisses on a cold night did not equal sleeping with the enemy.
She didn’t give him a chance to tell her that, though. She was already scrambling off his lap. Now she had her hand on the door handle. “Samantha, wait,” he begged.
She didn’t. She got out of the car, pulling her purse after her, and slammed the door. Then she was off, marching a crooked path down the street.
He fumbled the keys in the ignition and started the car, then rolled down the window. “Where are you going?” he called.
“Home!”
He cruised alongside her. “I’ll take you.”
“You’ve taken me far enough for one night,” she snapped. “I’ll walk.”
“You can’t walk,” he protested. But of course she could. It was perfectly safe in Icicle Falls. Really, the only danger to her had been the wolf behind the wheel, he thought glumly as he watched her lurch away.
He swore and smacked the steering wheel. This whole situation sucked.
He needed to reconsider his career choice.
Chapter Sixteen
Helping your family is the equivalent of helping your family’s business.
—Muriel Sterling, Mixing Business with Pleasure: How to Successfully Balance Business and Love
After two days in bed feeling like Death had put out the welcome mat, Cecily awoke on Saturday morning to the realization that she was going to live, after all. She called Charley to let her know she’d be able to work that night. Then she enjoyed a long, hot shower followed by a breakfast of fruit and her mother’s homemade white-chocolate-lavender scones. That, along with two cups of tea, left her feeling ready to get b
ack to work. It was now almost ten in the morning. Samantha should be awake. She’d check to see how the kickoff for the Mr. Dreamy competition had gone.
It took several rings for Samantha to answer with a weak hello.
“Were you still asleep?” Cecily asked. Samantha probably got in late. She should have waited to call.
“No.”
Then why did she sound so funny? “Are you okay?”
“I have the mother of all headaches,” Samantha said. “I think I had one too many chocolate kisses.”
There had been an inspired idea. Not that Cecily was fishing for compliments or anything, but… “How did those turn out?” Okay, so she was fishing for compliments.
“Fabulous. They’re also death in a glass. My head feels like somebody stomped on it.”
“How many did you have?” Her sister had never been a big drinker. It wouldn’t take much to put her under the table.
“I can’t remember.”
“You know, most of us get this drinking thing sorted out by the end of college.”
“Well, I’m a late bloomer.”
“Can you remember anything about last night?”
The only answer Cecily got was silence.
“Oh, no,” she groaned. “What happened?”
“Nothing,” Samantha said irritably. “The kickoff was a smashing success with shirtless men and girls going wild. We’ll probably have a population explosion nine months from now. And yes, I made sure to put in a plug for Sweet Dreams.”
“That’s all good.”
“Yes, it’s all good. Everything’s good.”
“Okay,” Cecily said dubiously. “Do you still want to work this afternoon?”
“Not particularly,” Samantha said, “but we need to. Let’s meet at the office around one. Maybe by then these rhinos stomping around in my head will have settled down for a nap.”
They ended the call and Cecily sat at the kitchen table, idly twirling a lock of hair and wondering what had happened the night before that her sister hadn’t told her.
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