by Marina Adair
“Closet is bigger than our last encounter. Then again, so are you,” he said—to her chest.
Let him look, she thought. He wasn’t the only one who’d filled out since high school. While Mila could never be called busty, in the right bra her cleavage could hold its own against any redheaded file clerk’s, from Town Hall to Tucson.
“You have me here,” he started. “Question is, what are you going to do with me?”
His tone implied he was open to suggestions. All kinds of flirty, sexy suggestions that her nipples were one hundred percent in favor of. She crossed her arms. Not fast enough, because he slid her a sexy grin that was equal parts amusement and male appreciation.
“Before we start, I’d like to clarify things, so there’s no confusion.”
He rested a shoulder casually against the door, effectively blocking her exit. “Clarify away.”
“There will be a kiss.”
“Don’t I have a say?”
She thought about that. “No. And it will be a single kiss.”
“Just one?”
“That’s usually the definition.”
He gave a low whistle. “You’d better bring your A game.”
“There will be no games, A or otherwise. Just a simple smooch, then I’ll leave the closet, where you will count to five before leaving. I will go right. You will go left.”
“That doesn’t work for me,” he said, and she held her breath, waiting for the humiliation to set in.
Instead, it was a hot rush of irritation. She couldn’t exactly force him to kiss her. Could she? “Fine, you can go right, but that closes the discussion portion of our evening. So to recap: Kiss. I leave. Go left. You count. You leave. Go right. Understood?”
“We talking tongue or no tongue?” he asked, stumping her. She’d hadn’t thought that far. The way he was looking at her lips made it impossible to think at all. “Because I want to make sure you respect me for my mind first.”
“Doesn’t matter, since after this we’re going our own separate ways.”
He considered this. “Yeah, that doesn’t work for me.”
“I don’t care what works for you. It’s always been about you. Tonight is about me.”
He shrugged. “I can live with that.”
Mila opened her mouth to argue, then closed it. “You can?”
“Sure.” He shrugged. “I’ve always been a ladies-first kind of guy. Plus, I get to be right.”
“Go right, and you’re missing the point.”
“Then explain it to me,” he said quietly.
She met his gaze, but instead of teasing, she found a tenderness that reminded her of the boy from her childhood. Not the one who’d passed by her at school the next day as if she were nothing more than the quiet girl from across the street, but the sweet boy from the closet who’d made her dream of forever.
“The point is you ruined me!” she said, surprised that he still had the power to hurt her.
“That’s a pretty bold statement for someone you haven’t spoken more than a dozen words to over the past seven years,” he said, as if he were the offended party. “Care to explain?”
The time for pointing fingers had come and gone. All that was left between them was to break the curse.
“That kiss, the one in Abigail’s closet—” She felt the need to clarify, in case he had her mixed up with one of his many closet conquests.
“I remember the kiss in question.”
“It was . . . well, it was . . .”
“Epic? Amazing? Mind-blowing?”
“We can go with good,” she said—liar, liar, pants on fire.
“Good?” He sounded outraged. “It was a hell of a lot better than good.”
“Okay, it was better than good.”
He seemed comforted by her reassessment. “Then what’s the problem?”
“That every kiss after you has sucked. Every single kiss. You.” She poked his pec. “Cursed.” Poke, poke. “Me.” This time he caught her hand and held it against his chest. She tried to pull away, but he wasn’t having it.
“Cursed?” He laughed. “I knew I was good, but seven years good? Can I get that endorsement in writing?”
“Don’t let it go to your head. I’m sure it was just some kind of first-kiss deal, which will be proven when we kiss again.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure about that. What was that last tip? Oh yeah, practice makes perfect.” He leaned down and whispered, his breath tickling her ear, “You should try me now. I’ve had a lot of practice.”
She’d like to say it was bats she felt fluttering around her belly, but it was magical, whimsical butterflies.
“You say that like the whole town doesn’t know.” This time she did snatch her hand back. “All I want is one kiss. Then you can go practice on someone else and I can get on with my life.”
“I don’t know, Buttercup. It sounds like the last kiss lasted seven years. Just imagine how long this kiss will haunt you.”
“Not concerned because nowhere on my list does it say ‘haunting kisses.’ ”
His lips twitched. “Let me guess, Top Five Tips for Landing Your Dreamboat?”
“Psh. Nothing that ridiculous. It’s just a list of traits I’m looking for in my partner.”
“Partner? It sounds so clinical.”
“Not clinical,” she said primly. “Sensible, practical, compatible.”
“We’ve already proven compatibility’s not an issue,” he said, and before she could tell him to dream on he pressed her up against the wall and planted one on her.
No hesitation, no room for question. It was a move so bold and decisive it made her head spin. Practice had indeed made perfect, because the once kissing legend had risen to the level of kissing god.
There was nothing sensible or practical about it. Their compatibility defied logic.
She gripped his face, reveling in the rough stubble of his jaw against her soft palms as she kissed him back, over and over again. One turned into . . . way too many to count and, oh boy, she was in trouble. All these years, she had assumed she’d oversold its power—his power—but if anything, the kiss was even more magical than she remembered.
More magical didn’t sound like a safe bet. It sounded messy, dangerous, and like a direct violation of every step in her multi-tiered plan. How was she supposed to go on with her life after this kiss, when the second their lips touched it felt as if her life had finally begun?
Unnerved, she pulled back. “Wow.”
“Yeah, wow,” he whispered.
Neither could look away. “Ford, how is it possible that it was even better?”
One minute he was right there with her, in the heat of the moment, going on the same insane journey with her, and the next he was gone. Blank. Removed. It was as if someone had entered him in the ice bucket challenge and forgotten to tell him.
His hands dropped from her hips so quickly, she stumbled back and bumped into the coatrack, sending hangers and purses clattering to the ground.
He wiped his lips, as if wanting to wipe away any trace of her, then reached for the door. “Wrong twin, Buttercup. Again.”
Chapter 3
Hudson James was used to life moving at a steady 500 rotations per second. He’d traveled the world, first in the Marines and then as a chopper pilot-for-hire in some of the most remote and dangerous places on the planet—always in control and in charge. Those well-honed traits had saved his life more than once.
Seven minutes in a closet with a blast from his past had him rattled. He didn’t do rattled. Which was why he’d come to his grandpa’s hangar on his day off. To remind himself what was at stake.
His grandfather’s legacy. A legacy on the verge of bankruptcy.
Good thing Huey had taught his grandsons the value of discipline and hard work. They’d survived their childhood together, the two of them against the world; they could survive running Huey’s business. For that to happen, they first had to bring Huey’s AirTaxi into the current cent
ury. And Hudson believed he knew exactly how they were going to accomplish that.
Reimagine. Rebrand. Revive.
Focus locked and loaded, he headed up to the loft that looked over the rest of the hangar, his tactical boots reverberating off the steel steps.
Ford peeked out from the upper-level office and smiled in surprise. “What are you doing here?”
“We’ve got a meeting at two.”
“We? Since when do you sit in on business meetings? You hate business meetings.”
Hudson had to laugh. Since Ford could befriend a rabid grizzly, they’d decided he would hold down the business side of things, while Hudson would stick to anything above sea level. Hudson would rather be neck-deep in enemy territory than sit around with a bunch of suits.
However, today’s suit was going to be a doozie.
“I’m making an exception.”
“Why? You hate anything that forces you to be indoors.” Ford leaned forward, resting his elbows on Huey’s old, battle-scarred desk. “What are you up to?”
No good, that’s what.
“Maybe you don’t know me as well as you thought. Maybe I’m turning over a new leaf.”
Ford lifted a brow. “I knew you in utero, when I kicked your ass and got out first.”
“Last time you’ve beaten me at anything.” Hudson sat down on the old leather couch in the corner, which still smelled like cherry tobacco, motor oil, and simpler times.
“Seriously, why are you here?”
Hudson leaned back, stretching out his legs and casually crossing them at the ankles. “Grandpa wanted us to work this business together.” It was part of the truth. “In order to do that, we have to be in the same room together. There’s a dictionary on the shelf behind you; look it up.”
His twin, doing the other-half thing he always did, called out, “Bullshit.”
Before Hudson could reply, their suit walked in and, Devil be dammed, what a suit it was. Red, fitted, above the knee, and crafted for the single purpose of making a man stand up and take notice.
And notice he did. From the open toes of her do-me pumps, all the way up to her silky black hair, twisted into some kind of complicated knot at the back of her head. Then there was every glorious inch in between.
Ford jabbed an I’m on to you finger Hudson’s way.
Great, just what he needed, his nosy twin all in his business. And how could a pint-sized princess pack a punch to his chest, with or without her lips on his?
“Gramps is going to whup you from the grave for that lie,” Ford whispered, but Hudson wasn’t listening. He was too busy watching Mila strut across the hangar floor, her heels clacking on the concrete, her hips swaying with confidence. Then she looked up, their gazes locked, and she came to a stop. A full and complete I’m going to steam your nuts over a boiling cauldron stop.
“What are you doing here?” she accused.
Hudson stood and walked to the metal railing, resting his forearms on the top. It put him in a dominant position, not to mention a glimpse-down-her-blouse position. Had he been a glimpse-down-her-blouse kind of guy, which he was not. Instead, he met her gaze.
“Why let Ford have all the fun?”
Ford snickered and then he, too, stood. “Are we here to talk about business or do you two need a closet?”
Hands digging into her hips, foot tapping the floor with irritation, she pressed her lips into a straight, pissed-off line. “You told him?”
He lifted a casual shoulder and she shot him a look that probably would have had her ex-boyfriends cowering and stumbling over themselves with an apology. Time she learned that Hudson didn’t cower and he sure as hell wasn’t a boy.
“Well, Buttercup, I figure since you called me Ford, twice, he had the right to know,” he said dryly, wondering why he was acting so hurt.
“Twice, huh?” Ford grinned. They both ignored him.
“When I answered the ad, I had no idea you were even back in town.” As if that made everything okay.
“Friday night proved that.”
She considered this for a long moment before turning her attention to Ford. “I understand if you want to go with someone else.”
Even from twenty feet up, he could see her confidence waffling. But it was the defeat in those big brown eyes, the resignation etched in her every muscle, that ate away at him.
This was supposed to be an interview and, instead of acting professional, he was acting like an idiot. The way she avoided his gaze was a forcible reminder that while his ego might have been bruised, the situation wasn’t entirely her fault.
He’d never clarified all those years ago that he wasn’t Ford, and, to be honest, he knew when she approached him at the tavern she thought he was his brother. This was all on Hudson.
“No,” Hudson said. “Let’s table this for now. I remember what a great artist you were in school, and from what I’ve seen around town, you’ve only gotten better.”
She rolled her eyes. “I paint goblins and sales announcements on windows.”
“It’s so much more than that. I saw the mural you did at the Thirsty Raven. It was incredible, Mila,” he said, confident that was what she needed to hear. That he believed in her, saw the talent she brought to the table. “And you’re right; most people would have painted a goblin and some pumpkins. You went further, creating a story with this eerie forest landscape and a terrified woman running from a beast emerging from billowing fog.”
“Landscape? Emerging? Billowing?” Ford snapped his fingers, then held out his hand. “Man card. Hand it over.”
“All I’m trying to say is it was amazing,” Hudson defended. “What she did was original and impressive, something out of the box that still honored tradition.” He looked at Ford. “Three things we’re looking for in the person who’s going to rebrand our business.”
Her eyes met his and, pow, there it was. A thousand-watt, adorably shy smile aimed his way. Had he known that all it took was a reminder that someone was in her corner, he would have said it the second she’d walked into the hangar. Because, hot damn, she was a sight to behold. Smiling Mila scrambled his brain.
“You noticed the beast?” she asked.
“Why do you sound so surprised? Just because I don’t have some fancy degree on the wall like this asshole”—he jabbed a thumb at Ford—“doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate culture.”
“I didn’t mean that. It’s just . . .” She shrugged. “No one else noticed him. I purposely made him a shadow in the fog, a little wink from the artist.”
“A breathtaking wink,” he said, rolling his eyes at himself. “It was H Tinh, right?”
“H Tinh?” Ford whispered under his breath, and Hudson shot him a hard look.
“He’s a nine-tailed fox who lures villagers back to his cave and eats them. Could take you any day of the week,” Hudson informed his twin, whose attention bounced between them as if he were at a Wimbledon match.
“How did you know you that?” Mila asked.
Because eleven-year-old Hudson had made it his adolescent mission to learn every detail about the beautiful girl across the street. “It was your Halloween costume one year, and when I asked you why your fox had nine tails, you explained how your dad would read you the story every Halloween night.”
“I don’t remember telling you that,” she admitted.
“Well, clearly he does,” Ford said. “Now are we going to talk about business? Or stand around listening to Hudson school us in folklore?”
“Business,” Mila and Hudson said in unison, and she paused as if processing the moment, her expression wide with realization and another emotion he couldn’t decipher. He was certain she was going to say something important, something that would give him the opening he needed, when Ford, always used to being the center of attention, clapped his hands.
Mila blinked and, bam, the moment was over.
“Now that we got that squared away, come into the office and let’s hear your pitch.” Ford waved her up, the
n led the way, taking a seat behind the desk. Mila chose the seat farthest away from Hudson. “I’ve already talked to a couple of other bigger firms from Augusta, but I’m interested to hear what direction you would take this.”
She smoothed her hands down her skirt. “I actually wanted to get a better picture of what you . . . I mean, the two of you are looking for. I know how much this business meant to Huey, and I’m so sorry for your loss.”
For the first time since entering the office, she looked Hudson’s way, and the genuine sympathy she offered cut straight through his chest.
“Thank you,” Hudson said, wishing like hell he’d been there when his grandpa passed. Instead, he’d been on the other side of the world, flying rich assholes from one oil refinery to the next. By the time he got home, he’d missed the funeral and saying good-bye to the man who’d raised him.
He hoped to God he wasn’t too late to keep the small, family-run charter company airborne.
“I wanted to find a way to merge the old with the new,” she continued. “Honor Huey’s legacy while personalizing the company’s image to the two of you.”
Ford sent Hudson an impressed look. Fitting, since she’d just impressed the hell out of Hudson.
He was in trouble. Deep trouble. He’d already had a second taste and, after seeing her today, he wanted a third. No, he needed a third. Then he’d be a dead man walking.
“Are there any colors or images that inspire you both—” She stopped in midsentence and turned back to Hudson. “Wait. I’m sorry. There’s something I need to clarify before we continue. Did you know I thought you were Ford when you kissed me the other night?”
Hell yes, he knew.
Hudson may have only had seven minutes in a dark closet with that full, lush mouth on his, but it was as if every one of those 420 seconds was imprinted on his mind—and a few other places. Not to mention the thousands of fantasies she’d starred in.
He’d been dreaming about a replay since that night. Clearly, from the way she’d reacted, she had too.
“Before you get all worked up, I think you’re forgetting one important detail. You kissed me back.”
Ford let out a low whistle. “That better have been a good kiss, because you were representing me.”
