Be sensible. Keep it light and casual. Protect your tender heart.
“Don’t worry about it,” I say. “I’ll just bunk with one of the other bridesmaids.” Only problem is, the maid-of-honor and the other bridesmaid are already rooming with each other. They’re friends from culinary school. I’m the odd one out, sister of the groom.
“Are you close?”
“Not really, they’re Alison’s friends.” I head for the en suite bathroom to gather my toiletries, feeling unusually irritable. My bag is still mostly packed from when I arrived this morning. I tell myself to chill. Jack did his part and he’s doing his best to keep the peace with my family.
My mom appears in the bathroom doorway. “Could I speak to you for a minute?”
“Sure.” I tuck my toiletry bag into my large wheeled suitcase and follow her down the hall to the master suite.
The moment I arrive, my dad gets up from the bed and walks out of the room, shutting the door behind him. Oh-kay. Mother-daughter talk. This should be good. Not.
My mom studies me for a moment. “I asked Sam about you and Jack, and he says it’s serious.”
“You did? When?”
“At the rehearsal dinner.”
“Oh.” That must be why my parents invited Jack to stay at the house, even though they seemed so tense around him. They were trying to make the best of things. My mind rewinds to the rehearsal dinner. I was sitting there in a state of shock that Jack said all those nice things about me, and contemplating what it all meant. Now that I think about it, my parents didn’t talk to us much after that. They mostly talked to Sam and Alison.
“Your dad and I are concerned. The way Sam described Jack all these years makes him sound more like a clown than someone to get serious about.”
“We’re dating, that’s all. It’s not like we’re married.” I laugh, but even to my ears it sounds forced. Why did I say that?
She stares at me for so long I have to look away. “Don’t even joke about that,” she says crisply. “We’d disown you if you ever married a clown like that.”
I swallow hard. I’ve never heard such stern disapproval of a boyfriend of mine before. Of course, the others were all conservative accountant types. Jack’s different than my usual type, but he’s not just a clown. I consider what to say about him, but then I realize it doesn’t really matter. This is all temporary.
“Don’t give it another thought. Jack’s cool, and we’re just dating.” I kiss her cheek. “Goodnight. See you tomorrow for the big day.”
I rush from the room, eager to escape. When I get back to my room, Jack’s still sitting on my bed, looking at his phone. He looks deep in thought, kind of serious. I shake my head at myself. I’m reading into things, assuming he’s being serious. I’m just stung by my mom’s dismissal of him as a clown. For all I know, he’s looking up the score of the Yankees’ game.
He looks up. “Hey, everything okay?”
“Yes, sorry for the delay,” I say, heading for the closet. “Just some wedding stuff.” I snag my lavender bridesmaid dress with too many ruffles. Blech. So not my style. I’m all about simple elegance.
“No problem.”
I flash a quick smile at him and grab my wheeled suitcase.
He takes the dress from over my arm, carrying it for me. “Hideous.”
“Right? It’s the bride’s way of making sure all eyes are on her.”
He laughs and opens the door for me. I head out with my suitcase ahead of him.
“Everything work out at the hotel?” I ask over my shoulder.
“Not exactly.”
I halt. “What do you mean?”
“Don’t worry. I got ya covered.”
“Oh good,” my dad pipes up from downstairs, looking up at us over the open stairwell from the foyer. “I’m getting tired. I’ll give you a ride to the hotel, and then I’m hitting the hay.”
“We could take Mom’s car,” I say. The last thing I want is another tense car ride, especially now that I know my parents disapprove of Jack. For me, anyway. He’s fine as a friend of Sam’s.
My dad points at me. “You know, that’s not a bad idea. Just have it back after the wedding. We were going to use my car tomorrow anyway.”
A few minutes later, Jack’s at the wheel of my mom’s Lexus. He asked if he could drive, and it was fine by my dad. Me too. I don’t enjoy driving.
“Sweet ride,” he says as he eases it out of the garage.
“My mom barely uses it. Just to the commuter lot of the train station.” My mom commutes to the city.
“Commuting sucks. Should I program the navigation, or do you know the way?”
“I know it.”
“Great.” He hits the accelerator so hard, my head hits the headrest.
“Ow.”
He laughs. “Sorry for the whiplash. I’m used to driving a construction truck where you really have to floor it to get it going.”
He looks relaxed at the wheel, so I assume whatever the issue was at the hotel wasn’t that big a deal. I give him some quick directions. The hotel isn’t far.
“So what happened with the hotel?” I ask. “Did they give me a crappy room by the elevator or something? Only a full-size bed? I’m not that big. I can work with that.”
“You’re with me.”
I still, my heart thumping hard. “What do you mean I’m with you?”
He stops at a stop sign and looks over at me. “I mean, and I quote, ‘We can not accommodate a last-minute reservation.’ It’s wedding season and they’re full with two weddings full of guests.”
“But I thought we weren’t—”
He hits the accelerator, smoother this time. “We’re not. I’ll take the floor.”
“Jack, I can’t make you take the floor.” I wring my hands together. Part of me wants to go for it with Jack—I may never have the chance again—and part of me feels guilty for wanting that because it means going against what he explicitly said he wanted—no to the hookup, yes to the annulment. Hell, maybe he’s not even tempted by me. The kiss he gave me earlier was so chaste. This attraction is probably all embarrassingly one-sided.
“You should just take me back to my parents’ house,” I say. “They’re probably already in bed. If they ask, I’ll make up an excuse that you wanted to hang with the guys tonight for Sam’s last night as a bachelor.”
He frowns. “I’m sure Sam’s sneaking off to be with Alison. He can’t help himself. Besides, that would make it look like things were already going south in our relationship. I want them to think I’m a good boyfriend.”
My stomach does a weird topsy-turvy flip. “You do?”
“Yeah. No one ever saw me like that before. It’s, I dunno, kinda nice.”
I stare at him in surprise and then face front. The fact that my parents disapprove of him doesn’t discount his sincere effort in their regard. Now what?
We’re sharing a hotel room.
He’s being so good to me.
I want him. God, how I want him. It’s been building for years.
And maybe I don’t want him to be so good to me. He’s treating me like Sam’s little sister, respectful and hands off. If I’m only getting this one night, I want the bad boy I’ve heard about all these years. I want the full Jack experience.
I turn to him. “All Sam ever talked about is how fun you are, but ever since we got married, you’ve been serious.”
“Excuse me?”
“It’s true. It’s like marriage turned you into a different person.”
“Are you saying our Vegas wedding made me a dud?”
“Yes.”
He makes a right-hand turn and accelerates smoothly. “Well, Princess Riley Walsh-Rourke, you’ll be eating those words.”
“I didn’t take your name.”
“Can’t be a princess without it. Your girly canopy bed and room told me everything I need to know about where your head’s at. Now I know what you saw in me with your secret fantasies. Woman, you’ve got princes
ses and unicorns written all over you.”
“When I was six!”
“Funny how you never updated your room in your teen years.”
I ignore that. So what if I had secret romantic fantasies of a prince on a white horse and believed that unicorns were real longer than most girls? A girl is entitled to a few vices, especially when her mother is always on her about excelling in school. “As far as last names, I’d use Rourke in private and keep Walsh professionally.”
“Spoken like a true superhero accountant.”
I crack up. “If you keep calling me that, I’m going to have to come up with a good moniker.”
“Super Spreadsheet Girl.”
I deflate. “No.” This is how he sees me.
“Corporate Calculator.”
I suppress a sigh. Spreadsheets and calculators. Might as well call me Number Nerd. I don’t want to hear any more geeky monikers for me. “Maybe you should be the superhero. A builder superhero.”
He grins. “My prowess on the work site is topped only by my prowess in other areas.”
My breath catches at the flirtation in his voice. “Will I find out about them?”
He shakes his head sadly. “Look, there’s some things you do with your wife and some things you don’t.”
“I didn’t marry you for this dud side.”
“I’m being princely.”
Now I’m curious. “Is that how you were raised?”
“Hell no. I’m flying by the seat of my pants here.”
“Just be yourself.”
“I’m not sure you’d actually appreciate that.”
“I would!”
He stops at a red light. “Myself is an acquired taste. Most women don’t appreciate my brand of humor.” He winks. “Frankly, they just want me for my body.”
“You have a pretty face too.”
“Pretty. Gimme a break. How can you call a guy with a beard pretty? I’m all man.”
“You are.” My voice comes out breathy.
He gazes into my eyes for a long moment, like maybe he noticed my breathy tone, before facing front.
This is my one and only chance. I have to try. I tell myself I’ll keep my heart locked up tight. I just want to experience a little more with him than a chaste kiss.
I take a deep breath and blurt out everything. “You’re honestly the most gorgeous man I’ve ever met. I’ve had a crush on you since I was eighteen. There, you know everything now. Feel free to use it against me.”
He chucks me under the chin. “A crush from a young girl isn’t the same as an actual relationship. It’s good we have a time limit. I don’t want to disappoint you.”
I clench my teeth. “I’m not a young girl anymore. I know what I want, and it’s not to be treated like your friend’s little sister. I want the fun Jack everyone talks about. And I know it’s just temporary, but we have tonight, and I want…more.”
The light changes, and he drives on without a word.
I’m just infuriated enough to put it all on the line. “Jack, if you can’t be yourself with me—your crazy, spontaneous fun self—then I’m just going to walk. I’m tired of being treated with kid gloves.”
“What? You’re dumping me?”
I bluff like a champion. “Yup, that’s right. I’ll walk, and then you can tell Sam tomorrow at his wedding reception that we broke up because you were too chickenshit to be your authentic self with a woman.”
Silence. Extremely tense silence.
Crap. Maybe I went too far. I pissed him off by bringing Sam into it. Or maybe it’s because I called him chickenshit. Should I apologize? I was just being honest. I want him to be himself—flirty, charming, funny—not a serious husband who never touches me. I really want him to touch me. Sometimes it seems like there’s something between us, some shimmering tension, but then it vanishes. I don’t know if it’s just me or not. All I know is that the more time I spend with him, the more I want him. I don’t have any expectations beyond tonight, but I want tonight. I want him.
I can’t back down now. I’ll wait him out. He’s got to say something. No guy could possibly ignore being called a chickenshit. It’s in guy DNA—must defend manliness.
We finally arrive in the hotel parking lot, and he turns off the car, making no move to get out. This is it. Do or die time. The tension is thick in the air.
I slowly turn to meet his eyes.
He leans close, his blue eyes gleaming. “Challenge accepted.”
I gulp. I don’t know what that means, and I’m too chickenshit to ask.
4
Riley
I follow Jack into his hotel room with a pounding heart, my stomach fluttery, every nerve tingling in anticipation. This is really happening. I’m alone in a hotel room with Jack, this time stone-cold sober. I think he’s going to make a move.
He’d better make a move.
Hey, I’m a modern woman. I can make a move. Of course, that was easier before with several drinks in me. I danced quite sexily with him back in Vegas, and it definitely got results. I glance around the room in search of a minibar. Just a room service menu. Maybe I should suggest a drink. Just one to help ease my nerves.
My gaze falls on the king-size bed, and my stomach does a topsy-turvy dance. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Jack hanging my bridesmaid dress in the closet next to his tux. I catch his eye briefly as he picks up my suitcase.
“Relax, I said I’ll take the floor,” he says, putting my suitcase next to a cushioned chair in the far corner of the room.
“I am relaxed,” I say, releasing the grip I suddenly realize I have on my hands. I can’t let nerves get the better of me. I have to be bold. I have to make it clear what I want. I have intentions. Lusty intentions. I open my mouth to tell him exactly that, but what comes out is an utterly polite offer. “It’s your room. You should have the bed. I’m fine with the floor.”
Woman up! Gird your loins!
He shakes his head and takes a pillow and blanket from the top shelf of the closet, setting them on the floor next to the giant bed of temptation. Why can’t he be tempted by me? It would make this seduction go so much easier.
I watch as he props the pillow up to lean against the nightstand and settles on the floor, leaning back against it.
He gestures to the TV mounted on the wall. “Perfect view of the TV.”
“Is it?” I settle on the floor next to him. “Maybe I’ll sleep on the floor too.”
He narrows his eyes. “You really want the floor?”
“Sure.”
“Fine.” He stands, props up the pillows against the headboard, and settles himself in bed.
I join him a moment later.
“Ry,” he says on a long exhale.
I prop up my pillow on the headboard too. “What?”
“This isn’t going to work.”
My hopes soar. He is tempted by me. He can’t possibly share a bed with me without touching.
I give him what I hope is a seductive smile. “Why not?”
“Because,” he says tightly.
“Because you’re tempted by me?” I hold my breath.
“Any man would be tempted sharing a bed with any woman. That’s simple biology.”
I suck in air, stung. He doesn’t notice I’m upset. He’s too busy grumbling to himself and taking the floor again.
I get out of bed. “I have a better idea. Stand up.” I gesture for him to get off the blanket. Then I set the blanket on top of the bed. “See? Now we can both be comfortable. You sleep on top of the blankets and I’ll be underneath.”
He yanks the blanket off and tosses it to the floor. “I’m being a princely gentleman. Now leave it.”
He sounds kind of mad, which isn’t really princely or gentlemanly. He should be gallantly offering the bed if he really was a princely gentleman. Which I inform him of since I think he might be new at this gallant thing.
His blue eyes narrow. Yes, he definitely is mad. And for what? I’ve been perfectly accommoda
ting.
“I’m taking a shower,” he growls. “You settle in bed and stay there.”
I glance at the clock on the nightstand. “It’s only eight thirty.”
“Then just relax on the bed. Can you do that for me?” He turns on his heel and stalks to the bathroom.
Geez, huffy. To think I was nervous about sharing a hotel room with him. First because I thought he might be gearing up to pull a prank on me, and then because of the possibility of a wild passionate night (which I’m still dying to have). Just regular old biology preventing us from sharing a bed, nothing personal. I’m completely resistible. This sucks.
I know what would make things better. I’ll order room service. I grab the menu off the top of the desk. Mmm, this sounds good. A Moscow Mule. The vodka will give me just the kick I need to be bold. Ha! A mule kick to boldness. And I wouldn’t mind this brownie sundae topped with vanilla ice cream and hot fudge sauce. I skipped the dessert at the rehearsal dinner because it wasn’t chocolate. I only splurge on the calories if it’s chocolate. I should check if Jack wants something too.
But first I come up with a new bed solution, shifting his blanket and pillow back on top of the bed and arranging a wall of pillows down the center. There. Both of us can be comfortable, and there’s a boundary in place for those of us who feel one is necessary. Easily overcome if the mood strikes, or the mule. Ha-ha.
I head over to the closed bathroom door and listen to the shower running. “Jack?”
No reply. I’m not a peeping Tom, so I try again, speaking loudly through the door. “Jack, do you want something from room service?”
“What?” he yells.
I try the doorknob. He didn’t lock it. I open the door and poke my head in. “You want room service?”
“Want what?”
I get closer. “I said do you want room service?” I go right up to the white shower curtain, which reveals nothing unfortunately. “I’m getting a Moscow Mule and dessert. Real dessert, a brownie sundae.”
The curtain jerks back, but he only shows his head. Damn. “What’re you doing in here?” he demands.
“You couldn’t hear me, so I got closer. The door was unlocked.”
“Didn’t I tell you to get comfortable on the bed and stay there?” He shuts the curtain again with a snap.
Rogue Rascal (The Rourkes, Book 9) Page 5
