Stiff Suit: A Ponderosa Resort Romantic Comedy

by Tawna Fenske

  I should hate the idea of her seeing me like that, undressing me in a vulnerable moment. So why the hell is my body buzzing with something that feels like lust?

  “Knock it off.”

  I say the words out loud, hoping I’ll comply. Hoping I’ll get it together. Hoping the Tylenol kicks in soon.

  I set to work getting dressed in my tuxedo pants and shirt. I can’t find my wallet, so I’m hoping I had the good sense to hand it off to one of my brothers. My phone is on the dresser, so I shove that in my pocket and make my way down the hall to a sunny kitchen with a butcher block island and bright copper pots hanging on a rack overhead.

  A red toaster waits near the fridge with a loaf of seedy bread beside it. Beside that are my car keys.

  I should go home. I’ve got bread there; coffee, too.

  But something draws me to that cheerful little island, to the warmth of Lily’s kitchen. Maybe I’m avoiding reality, or maybe I need a few more minutes here in this sun-drenched room that smells like vanilla and cinnamon.

  I’ve just shoved a piece of bread into the toaster when a huge, yowling creature bursts through a hole in the wall.

  “Arrooo!” says the animal, which I’m realizing is a dog. “Roooooooo!”

  There’s a blur of slobber and thrashing tail, and I can’t figure out if it’s trying to eat me or say hello. It’s like sasquatch mated with a Saint Bernard. What the hell is this thing?

  “Down, boy. Er, girl?” I forget what Lily said, and I’m not about to go crawling around under it to inspect the creature’s genitals. I settle for scratching it behind the ears. That earns me a moan of pleasure as the beast flops at my feet and offers up its belly.

  Oh. All right, it’s a girl.

  “Magma,” I say, the name coming to me in a flash. It is a dog, right? I’ve never seen one this big. “Do you eat toast, Magma?”

  The dog thumps her tail on the floor and drools on my shoe. I shove a second piece of bread in the toaster as the first one pops up and I slather it with butter. “Here.” I tear off half the toast and hold it out. “Don’t tell.”

  Jesus. I’m in bad shape if I’m trusting a dog with secrets. Maybe this is why I’ve never had a dog. One second it’s letting me rub its velvety belly, the next I’m blurting all my darkest sins.

  I pour a cup of coffee from the pot Lily left warming for me.

  Lily.

  How sweet is that name? Sweet as she was last night and this morning, even though I know damn well I don’t deserve it. Even though there’s fire under that sweetness, I’m positive. I saw it in her eyes, in the sway of her hips.

  “So you want to know what I’m wearing under my dress?”

  The flash of memory socks me in the gut, and I fight to recall how I responded. Was I a gentleman?

  Or did I act like my father, the late, great Cort Bracelyn?

  “I have to go.” I stand up too fast, startling Magma. “Be good, okay?”

  She gives me an adoring tail thump and watches me with baleful eyes as I make my way out the door. Do I bolt it behind me? There’d be no question in Manhattan where I grew up, but I’ve learned in the last two years that half the people I know here don’t ever lock the front door. I play it safe and flip the lock, hoping Lily calls me if she can’t get in.

  I sling myself into the black BMW—yes, I’m a cliché—and roll the windows down to let the juniper-laced breeze wash away the scent of Scotch and perfume.

  It’ll take more than that to rinse off the stench of shame. What the hell was I thinking?

  You know damn well what you were thinking. What you thought you saw in the back of that chapel.

  But no, that’s not possible. It was my mind playing tricks on me, that’s all.

  The drive home is blessedly short, and I ease up to my cabin with relief coursing through me. Relief that Bree had the sense to suggest building our family cabins separate from the resort ones. Relief that Sean already left on his honeymoon and that Bree lives out at Austin’s now, and that Mark and Jonathan made plans to hike Smith Rock this morning because they’re not idiots who drink too much at wedding receptions.

  So it’s just me, thank you, Jesus.

  I let myself inside and make a beeline for the bathroom. Pants, tuxedo jacket, all of it lands in a heap on the floor as I duck under the shower spray and let the water rinse me back to some semblance of normalcy.

  Breathing deeply, I recall the smell of Lily’s hair, the way her body felt pressed against mine. I can do without remembering every detail of last night’s embarrassment, but I’m damn glad I held on to that.

  By the time I step out of the shower, I’m feeling halfway normal. Regretful, but normal. Wrapping a towel around my waist, I make my way to my bedroom.

  The scent of cigar smoke hits first.

  That and an undeniable, gut-chilling sense of dread.

  I know then.

  Even before my eyes scan the room and land on the leather chair in the corner. What I saw at the wedding last night wasn’t my brain playing tricks on me.

  It was him, my dead—very much alive—father sitting splay-legged now in the corner of my bedroom. He’s wearing tan linen pants and a flowered shirt that looks remarkably like the one he wore in the coroner’s report from Thailand.

  Motorcycle accident.

  Even then, it seemed suspicious.

  He grins when he spots me. “Hello, son.”

  My hands curl into fists as I stare at him. “You’re not supposed to be here.” I force the words out through gritted teeth, praying to God no one else saw him.

  The old man just laughs. Laughs and takes a big puff on one of his expensive cigars. “Lighten up a little.”

  I close my eyes, willing this to be a bad dream, willing him to disappear, willing him to return to pretending to be dead so I can have my life back.

  “Have a seat, son,” he says. “We’ve got things to talk about.”

  And like the idiot I am, I open my eyes and step forward to do my dead father’s bidding.

  Chapter 3

  LILY

  I’m an hour into my workday when I find it.

  “Damn.”

  Blanka Pavlo—a hydrology researcher here at USGS—peers around the corner with her blond hair falling over curious eyes. “What’s wrong?”

  “A guy asked me to hold his wallet for him last night, and I forgot to give it back.”

  I stare into the depths of my little black clutch, and there it is. Expensive leather, stiff and shiny like its owner. On the surface, anyway.

  For a second, I consider looking inside to confirm it belongs to James. But there’s no need. It’s not like I went around snatching guys’ wallets last night, and besides, I’m no snoop.

  “You go, girl!” Blanka holds up her hand for a high five.

  I grant it because it’s the easiest course of action and besides, I like my man-eater rep.

  “I knew you’d get a piece at the wedding.” She grins and crosses her legs. “How was he?”

  “Weird.” I’m too distracted to come up with anything else, or to spend any time clarifying my hookup that wasn’t a hookup. “I need to get this back to him,” I tell her. “You heard Myra say there’s a team flying to Guatemala tonight if El Fuego blows.”

  “You’re on the list?”

  “Yep. It ties to my research on seismicity and low-level, open-vent dynamics.”

  She stands up and shrugs out of her lab coat. “Need someone to dog-sit Magma while you’re gone?”

  “I already called my grandma,” I say. “Thanks, though.”

  I stand up and tuck the beaded clutch under my arm. It’s not the first time I’ve come to work toting accessories from a party the previous night, which some might call the walk of shame.

  I’ve never felt shame about my sexuality. Just satisfaction, honestly, and maybe an urge to do it again.

  Right now, the biggest urge I’m feeling is to get this wallet back to James.

  Okay, if I’m being hon
est, I kinda want to see him again. I’ve admired the guy for more than two years, fascinated by his cool green eyes, his devotion to neckties in this denim-clad town, his ramrod posture, his smiles as rare as kimberlite magma.

  Maybe it’s wrong to ogle my friend’s brother, but I always wondered what it would take to ruffle those perfectly-arranged feathers.

  Now that I’ve seen ruffled, I want more.

  But no, this is about getting his wallet back to him. That’s all.

  I keep telling myself that as I drive out to the resort with my windows open, the warm breeze fluttering my hair around my shoulders. I’ve got one hand on the wheel as I cruise the winding driveway to the resort. Flipping on the AC would keep my hair from morphing into a snarled ball of twine, but the breeze feels dreamy rippling over my bare arms, and pleasure should always come before appearances.

  My mother used to say that. A pang of nostalgia hits me in the spleen, and I glance in the rearview mirror, half expecting to see her sprawled on the backseat like she’d do sometimes after chemo.

  Goddamit.

  I blink hard, clearing my vision as I pull into the parking lot at the main lodge. Then I remember what James told me last night.

  “Tomorrow’s my day off.” He said it like he expected a medal. “First time in two years.”

  “I hope you’re doing something fun,” I told him, deliberately brushing his arm with my breast as I leaned past him to refill my water.

  “Spreadsheets.” He said it with a gleam in his eye, and it took me a moment to realize that wasn’t a euphemism. The guy really gets jacked up by work.

  If ever I’ve met a guy who needs a distraction, it’s James Iceman Bracelyn. Not that seducing him would be a pure act of charity, but it’s a plus.

  I bypass the main lodge and head for the family cabins, hoping I can remember which one Bree pointed out as his. It’s the first time I’ve shown up at a guy’s place the morning after he slept over, and I’d never do this normally.

  But I remind myself that James isn’t the sort of guy who can function without his wallet, and besides, I could be on a plane to Guatemala in a few hours. That’s the reason I’m here.

  It’s not hard to pick his cabin out of the cluster of log structures perched on the ridge beyond the main resort. Bree’s place has flower boxes brimming with petunias, though it’s mostly a guest cabin since she moved out to Austin’s. Sean’s Audi sits in front of his place with “just married” scrawled across the rear window. They must have taken Amber’s car to the airport. Mark’s cabin has a pink bicycle leaned up against a little girl’s dollhouse, and beyond that is the smaller place Brandon Brown lived in before he moved in with Jade at the reindeer ranch.

  That leaves the big cabin off to the side. No flowerbeds, no fancy curtains in the windows. Just sleek lines and rustic cedar and a garage I’m guessing holds his shiny black BMW.

  Killing my truck’s engine, I glance at my watch. Hopefully, I can do this fast and get back to the lab. I suppose I could have called, but I don’t have his number and figured it would be awkward telling Bree her brother left his wallet at my place.

  My heels wobble on the paver pathway as I click my way to his front door. I knock once and hear nothing. Twice. Still nothing, though the third time I swear there’s some rustling inside.

  I’m about to try once more when the door flies open.

  James blinks at me through a three-inch opening. “Lily.” He opens the door a little wider, and that’s when I notice what he’s wearing. A towel slung low around his hips and not a damn thing more. Nothing but a look of utter bewilderment.

  My mouth goes dry. Yeah, I saw him shirtless this morning, but this is different. His damp hair curls around his ears and there’s a deliciously soft happy trail leading under that terrycloth. One sharp tug and I’d have my hands on the muscular curve of his ass.

  Good Lord, the man is built.

  He doesn’t look thrilled to see me. I order myself to stop ogling as I slip my hand in my purse and pull out the wallet. “You’re missing something.”

  “Oh.” He blinks, expression morphing from confusion to relief. “Thank you.”

  His fingers graze mine as he takes the wallet, and I could almost forget the cold look in his eyes a few seconds ago. There’s a spark where our hands touch, and I swear I’m not the only one to notice. He looks down like he’s trying to figure out what the hell just happened.

  I drop my hand and brace it on the doorframe, conscious of his eyes flitting over my cleavage, darting away so fast I would have missed it if I wasn’t looking.

  I’m always looking.

  “I would have called, but Bree’s the only person I could think of who has your number, and I’m guessing that could be awkward.” I tuck back a hunk of hair that’s blown loose in the breeze. “I’m getting on a plane to Guatemala in a few hours and figured you’d want this right away.”

  “Oh. Yes, of course.” He doesn’t bother asking about the Guatemala thing the way a normal person might. “Thank you. That’s very thoughtful.”

  He’s getting ready to close the door in my face, and I should probably let him do it. Just turn and go my merry way, accepting the brush-off with grace and dignity.

  But my left foot acts without my consent, shooting out to block both the door and the dismissal. “Look, there’s one more thing.”

  “Um.” That’s it, his complete response.

  My foot’s still braced against the door and James shifts just the tiniest bit with his hand against the jamb. It’s a total accident, but his bare knee brushes mine and my body responds like he caressed my boob.

  I take a deep breath and order myself to get a grip. “I need my panties.”

  James blinks. “What?”

  “You have my panties in your pocket.”

  “I have no such thing.” He stares at me like I’ve gone mad, but I’m not the one who drank eighty gallons of Scotch last night.

  “’Fraid so.” I offer my most nonthreatening smile. “Normally I wouldn’t care, but they’re part of my favorite La Perla set—matching blue thong, pretty lace right around here—”

  I trace a finger at the edge of my cleavage and watch James’s eyes flicker again. A memory comes flooding back to him, I can see it in his face. He remembers now, how we speculated about that couple’s underwear. He scoffed at my theory that a woman could slip off her panties and tuck them in her date’s pocket without detection. No way that could happen.

  He’s rethinking that now.

  “Dear God.” James presses his lips together. He glances behind him into the house, then lowers his voice. “This isn’t really a good time right now—”

  “Thirty seconds.” I lean against the doorframe. “That’s all it’ll take you, and I’ll be on my way.”

  “I’m not even sure where—”

  “Right pocket, tuxedo jacket,” I tell him. “And I know for sure you haven’t had time to hit the drycleaner yet, so it’s gotta be here somewhere. Come on. Just grab my panties, and I’ll be out of your way in a second. Or were you planning to wear them?”

  A muffled laugh echoes somewhere in the cabin. Television? Or maybe I imagined it. James launches into a coughing fit, and I decide I’m hearing things.

  The look he gives me is pained. “I’ll check.” He steps back and starts to close the door in my face but seems to think better of it. “Just—wait here, okay?”

  “Oh.” Realization dawns, and I grin at him. “You have a woman here.”

  “What?” He’s genuinely alarmed. “You think—I—”

  “Hey, it’s cool. You want me to tell her myself that nothing happened between us last night?”

  “No!” He rakes a hand through his hair. “I just—hold on, okay?”

  Stepping back from the door, he turns and practically sprints to the back of the house. I stand there in the doorway and wonder if he’s being weird because he’s embarrassed or some other reason. I don’t really think he’s hooked up with some rando
m chick in the last twelve hours, though anything’s possible.

  The thought annoys me more than it should.

  It’s not like I really know him, so maybe he is that sort of guy. I wouldn’t have guessed he’d get rip-roaring drunk at his brother’s wedding and sleep over at my place, but here we are.

  “You were right.” James reappears with my blue lace thong folded neatly in his palm. He hesitates, glancing down at it like he’s memorizing the pattern of lace. He holds it out, and I do an involuntary shiver at the size of his hands.

  “Thank you.” My voice cracks as my fingertips brush his palm. “You’ve got calluses.”

  “What?”

  “I noticed last night.” I tuck the panties in my purse and nod at his hands. “For a guy who wears a tie every day, you’ve got working man’s calluses.”

  “Oh.” He turns his hand over and examines it like he’s seeing it for the first time. “Right. Yes. I do a lot of woodwork.”

  “You do?” I couldn’t be more surprised if he told me he has a tattoo of Justin Timberlake on his right butt cheek.

  “Yeah.” Something in his expression softens almost imperceptibly. “My brothers and me, we built all the tables in the lodge.”

  He’s not trying to shove me off his porch anymore, and there’s something almost warm in his expression now. It’s like something thawed between us just now, but I’ll be damned if I know why.

  “A woodworking CEO lawyer, huh?” I shift again, brushing his knee on purpose this time just to watch his eyes spark with interest. “You’re full of surprises, James Bracelyn. Where’d you learn woodworking?”

  “My father.” There’s a tiny clench in his jaw. “He taught all of us, my brothers and me. Weird, right? For a billionaire to be good with his hands.”

  “I don’t think it’s weird,” I tell him. “Nuance is what keeps people from being soap opera characters.”

  “I suppose so.” There it is again, that softening in his eyes.