Eight
Turbo’s ass was grass? Joe arrived just in time to overhear Stevie’s irritation. He stood at the back door, looking out. Watching her wiggle her butt as she inched into the crawl tunnel. He barked his laughter. Unable to resist, he pulled his iPhone from his pants pocket and took her picture. A sweet-cheek memory.
He stepped outside, walked across the yard to her continued mumbling. He could see the stub of Turbo’s tail wagging through the spy holes. His boy was playing with her, but Stevie didn’t find it amusing.
Joe snuck up behind her, braced his legs, and leaned down. Doggy-style came to mind, inappropriate but fitting, as he grabbed her by the hips, and hauled her out. With her back against him, her ass fit his groin. Nicely. His dick jacked.
A small scream died in her throat when she realized it was him. “You scared me,” she accused.
“You could’ve gotten stuck.”
“Hardly,” she huffed. She swatted his arm. “Stop pressing me.”
The pressing felt good. He liked holding her. He surprised them both by kissing her neck, right below her ear, where his hickey had faded. The contact was arousing. She stiffened slightly, but didn’t shove him away. He breathed her in.
“You sniffed my hair.”
“I like your perfume.” Faint citrus.
“Don’t smell it all up.”
He nuzzled her ear, flicked his tongue to her lobe. Then nipped, gave a gentle pull with his teeth. A sexual tease. He absorbed her shiver. He kissed her again, and her elbow caught his thigh. Dangerously high. Too near his boys.
He muttered, “You have bony elbows.”
He eased back, uncomfortably hard, and shook out his leg. Making an adjustment. Stevie faced him now. She dipped her head to hide her awkwardness. Long hair would’ve concealed her blush. Short hair opened her face to his view. He tipped up her chin with his thumb. Her eyelids fluttered, not flirty, but nervous. She worried her bottom lip. Peaked nipples were visible beneath her polo. Her legs squeezed together. He’d bet she was wet.
He had provoked. She’d panicked. “Don’t be embarrassed,” he said. “Desire shows itself.” He was still half-cocked.
“I don’t want you.”
“I say you do.”
“Believe what you will.”
“I’m a believer.”
She blew by him, all heightened color and heaving breasts.
“Turbo,” he called to his dog. The Rottweiler shot out of the tunnel as if he’d been fired from a cannon. He barreled toward Joe, body-slammed him. Joe barely kept his balance. He knuckled Turbo’s ears. “I’m glad to see you, too.” The rottie accepted his greeting, then hauled ass after Stevie.
“It’s feeding time,” she called over her shoulder. “I’m off your clock. Take care of your dog.”
Joe tracked them to the kitchen and found Stevie reading a note from Twyla posted beneath a Saint Bernard magnet on the front of the refrigerator. He scanned it, too. Braided rug is fully repaired. Entertaining George at the guesthouse.
He grinned. “‘Entertaining,’ huh?”
“Cards,” she explained, clearing his mind of sex. “My aunt plays gin.”
“What do you play?” he asked. Opening a cupboard door to the left of the sink, he removed a dog dish and a bag of kibble. He gave Turbo dinner. Gone in thirty seconds. Joe poured out more, called it “dessert.”
“Cards are fun,” she told him, “but I also like Jenga, Yahtzee, backgammon, Scrabble.”
She went to the pantry off the kitchen for a package of light butter flavor popcorn, then placed the bag in the microwave. She leaned against the countertop, asked, “Your board game of choice?”
Loaded question. “Adult XXX. Dirty Minds, Lust, Sexdrive.”
“You’re making this up?”
He shook his head. “I recently played Sexdrive.” He and his party posse. “Challenges of sexual know-how, show-how, and tell-how. Players answer questions or perform ‘body shop’ tasks to show what they know about sex. The goal is to obtain your ‘sex driver’s license,’ move to the ‘inner course.’”
“Is there nudity?”
“With the advanced version.”
She went so still, he wasn’t certain she was breathing. He stuck his finger under her nose to be sure. She swatted his hand away. Neither spoke. Pop-pop-pop broke the silence.
The microwave beeped; the bag was ready. She opened it, tipped the contents into a large plastic bowl. “Invitation to your popcorn party?” he asked.
“I’m headed to the sitting room to watch TV.”
“So was I.”
She cut him a curious look. “Why aren’t you out with your friends?”
“You are my friend.”
“No, really.”
“Pax took several single players and couples sailing. Sunset’s a nice time to be on the water.”
“Why didn’t you go?”
“I was at the Dodge dealership, wrapping up paperwork on the Sprinter. I missed cast off.”
“I’m sorry.”
“There’ll be other times.”
“Twyla’s very grateful for the van.”
“She’s a good woman. I don’t give many gifts, but when I do, I like them to be meaningful.”
“You have a place in her heart.”
“What about yours?”
“I don’t need mine broken.”
He frowned. “I’d never purposely hurt you.”
“I’d never take that chance.”
Her response was telltale. She was protecting herself from him. That explained a lot. Why she was so standoffish, sarcastic, despite their sexual burn. He sensed there was more to it. That she still hid something from him. A secret? Hopefully to be revealed. When she was ready.
“I need to check on the Afghan hound,” Stevie said, as they left the kitchen.
Turbo took off ahead of them.
Stevie next.
Joe followed.
Dusk snuck into the house, leaving deep shadows in the hallway. She flipped on lights. Anastasia blinked awake in the Geriatric Room. Plenty of leftover noon kibble in her bowl. Soft chewy snacks on a tray. Fresh water. Stevie left the door cracked in case she wished to join them.
They took the stairs together. The staircase reminded him of the bridal shoot. “You prepared for Saturday?”
“Pretty much. You?”
“Ready or not, I’d do anything for Turbo.”
She scrunched her nose. Unexpectedly cut him some slack. “Don’t feel obligated, Joe. Your dog can stay—you, too, even if you back out of our deal.”
She mixed him up. “Are you wanting to replace me?” That didn’t set well. Women desired him. Yet Stevie remained distant.
She stopped on the landing, the popcorn bowl clutched to her chest, looking serious. “Your call. You dislike weddings. You’ve said so. I have four days until the shoot. Enough time to find a substitute groom if necessary.”
He had an escape. Yet he didn’t want to run. “I’m cool.”
“No freaking out at the last minute.”
“Under control.”
She smiled her appreciation. Her first real smile of the night. Bright eyes. Color in her cheeks. Pretty curved lips. A natural beauty. “You nervous at all?” he asked her.
“I’ve yet to pick my dress. You’ve yet to try on your tux. Enough said.”
“You could model the gowns for me tonight.”
“Bad luck for the groom to see his bride in her wedding dress before the ceremony.”
“Superstitious? It’s make-believe, sweetheart.”
“No fashion show.”
“Planning to wear our garter?”
“Something blue? It’s still under debate.” Her expression softened. “Something old from my aunt, a lace handkerchief. Something borrowed from Lori, a pearl bracelet. I know it’s all pretend, but I want it to be perfect.”
“I have something new for you.” The bridal thong.
Her expression showed apprehension, then curiosity. “What?”
“To be presented prior to the shoot.”
“I’d rather know now,” she insisted.
“I’m not telling.” He left her in suspense.
They continued to the sitting room. A small space with a short fabric couch, ottoman, an overstuffed chair, TV mounted on the wall, narrow bookshelf, and a round game table. Turbo claimed the chair. Stevie sat on the sofa. Joe dropped down beside her, settled deep into the cushions. Purposely crowding her. She squeezed sideways, gained an inch. An inch he soon took back with a shift of his hip. The Afghan hound slowly found her way upstairs. She curled up on the floor at one end of the couch.
Joe dug into the popcorn. Salty, buttery. He went for a second handful, only to skim Stevie’s thigh when she held the bowl away from him. “One piece at a time. Don’t scoop with your palm.”
He laughed at her, earning her frown. “One piece is girly.”
“I want the popcorn to last.”
He took a single piece, tilted back his head, tossed it in the air, and caught it in his mouth. “Hardly worth the chew.”
“The remote.” She felt around between the cushions. The back of her hand brushed his hip, butt, low on his back. “Sorry,” she mumbled.
“I’m not. Keep searching.”
Remote found, she turned on the TV. Channel surfed. “Preference?” she asked him.
“Sports.”
“Second choice.”
“The Walking Dead.”
“Reruns. Next.”
He eyed the TV listings in the corner of the screen. “Supernatural starts in an hour.” It was fantasy horror, and Joe’s all-time favorite show. “Claiming it.”
“I like Sam and Dean,” she tentatively said.
The two brothers followed in their father’s footsteps as supernatural hunters, fighting evil beings. Monsters, demons, and gods that roamed the earth. Joe rubbed his hands together. “I like Crowley.” A demon and the current king of hell.
“No surprise there.”
“I have a hellhound tat.”
“Good for you.”
“Want to see it?”
“Mmm-hmm, no.”
“Got to, babe. Chaos is worth a look.”
An intake of breath. “You named your tattoo?”
“After my own state of mind.” Joe lifted the front of his T-shirt, hooked his thumb in the waistband of his jeans, and slid them down his abdomen, one inch, then two. A hint of his hip bone appeared. Just enough so she could glimpse the red eyes of the mythical beast at his groin.
She darted a glance. Stared overly long.
So long, he had to ask, “Want to pet him?”
She blinked. “Your best pickup line?”
“It works.”
A soft release of breath. An inquiring whisper. “Why a hellhound? ”
He told her. “I read The Hound of the Baskervilles as a kid. One of the few stories I finished.”
“Detective Sherlock Holmes.”
“I got caught up in the mystery,” he admitted, straightening his jeans, but leaving his T-shirt untucked. “The legendary beast left an impression. Too bad the demonic dog turned out to be no more than a mix of bloodhound and mastiff, painted with phosphorus to give it a hellish appearance.”
“I read the book, too. I saw the 1959 movie on late-night TV. The Gothic setting gave me the shivers.” Her brow creased. “Dartmoor in England’s west country, I believe.”
“The 1939 film is scarier. Black-and-white feels more menacing than color. More horror elements, too. A lethal tarantula.” He scooped a handful of popcorn. She didn’t complain. Once he’d finished it, he went on to say, “The Rogues’ players got inked two years ago. Team unity. The hellhound fit me. Strong. Fearless. Aggressive.”
“Nothing carnal?”
“Don’t need a tat for sex.”
There was a break in the conversation, and they simultaneously reached for the popcorn. Touching fingertips. Palms. He ran his thumb over her wrist. Her pulse jumped. Arousal raised goose bumps on her forearm. He affected her. She got to him, too. Want surged hot and vital. He shifted on the sofa. Drew the hem of his shirt over his ridged zipper, attempting to hide what could still be seen.
Back to the TV. “We’ve got time before Supernatural. What do you want to watch?”
A corner of her mouth twitched in a subtle grin. “It’s All About Me.” She located the channel.
A bridal show? There went sixty minutes of his life he’d never get back. Joe sat in silence, squinting at the screen. Not wanting to watch the program full-on. He didn’t need to be brought up to speed on what was happening. The reality show was scarily explicit and would shock any groom as brides morphed into unidentifiable creatures under the stress of wedding arrangements and unrealistic expectations. Their worst sides were quickly revealed as they stepped on anybody who got in their way. Each of these brides selfishly believed it was her day, the groom insignificant. Damn.
He ate popcorn, but found it difficult to swallow, as one wife-to-be tried to select the perfect wedding gown. Trying on dress after dress. “Brunette’s picked twelve effing gowns.” He snorted. “She’s driving the bridal consultant crazy. Me, too. The first one looked the best. What’s her problem?” he asked Stevie.
She explained, “The bride wants to be sure there’s no dress better than the one she chooses. A friend of mine once tried on forty-five.”
“Women need to make their minds up quicker.”
“She wants to be her most beautiful.”
“How many dresses would you try on?” He seemed concerned, for no apparent reason.
“I have three available for the magazine photo shoot. It’s still a tough decision. Each one is unique.”
“Coin toss?”
“Could come down to that.”
Joe’s hands were sweaty by the time the bride finally selected a dress. She returned to the first, but only after running the sales associate in circles. The poor woman scurried from the dressing room to the revolving couture racks, hauling heavy layers of satin and lace. Long and short veils. He grew tired and irritable just watching her. Still he couldn’t look away. A wedding train wreck.
The bride soon met with a professional wedding planner. Joe edged forward on the couch cushion and took in the reception consultation. “Bride wants a confetti cannon fired as the couple leaves the church?”
“She’s decided to change out the colorful paper for white rose petals. That sounds romantic.”
The planning continued: The formal reception would be held at a prominent hotel with a lavish sit-down gourmet dinner. Menus were discussed. Six courses. Joe curled his lip over the main item. “Pan-seared Chilean sea bass with coconut shellfish broth. Why not just steak and potatoes? ”
“Too hearty,” Stevie explained. “Sits heavy on the stomach. Guests would be yawning at the table, wanting a nap. The bride’s going for elegance.”
Elegance, his ass. Seating of the bridal party and decorations came next, giving him heartburn. He noted the enormous hanging centerpiece to be displayed over the head table. “Those floating white orchids seem to defy gravity. Impractical.”
“Quite lovely, actually,” from Stevie.
“White this and white that.” He liked color.
“To symbolize innocence and purity.”
“Are the brides on this show virgins?”
“Doesn’t say in the program details.”
“Couples need to know whether they are sexually compatible before exchanging vows. No man wants a surprise mannequin in his bed.”
“‘Mannequin,’ huh?”
“A woman who just lies there.”
The wedding coordinator guided the bride around the Crystal Ballroom. Five-tiered prism chandelier, thick Victorian columns, pale paneling, and wide-arched windows. Stevie sighed. “Check out the dance floor.”
He did and gagged at the absurdity. It was a raised clear acrylic platform with bright yellow, pink, and purple flowers lit from beneath to create a garden in the middle of the ballroom. He had an alternate plan. “They could just set pots of flowers around the perimeter.”
“Not the same effect. This bride’s going for an illusion. Fantasy. Magic.”
“The fairy tale ends with the ring on her finger. She looks the type to put more effort into the wedding than into the marriage itself.”
“How can you tell?”
The back of his neck prickled. “Gut feeling. The chick is bitchy.”
“The strain reveals the worst in her character.”
“I think the show reveals her real self.” The camera focused on her sending a nasty text to her mother. Arguing over the cost of her wedding. She’d already hit six figures. “Where’s the groom?” he wanted to know.
“Most men leave the planning to the bride. They’ve selected the woman they wish to marry, they’ve proposed. They’re done.”
Joe grinned then. “Involve the guy, and fire-breathing, car-crushing robots might arrive at the reception. Xbox games on the tables. Camera drones overhead. Cool.”
He ran his hand down his face when the discussion on-screen turned to having a private jet to take the married couple to an exclusive destination. He held up his hands. “Too much for me.”
“Yet you watched the entire show,” she teased.
“Sucked in. I’ve never seen anything like it before. Never plan to again.” He fell back on the couch. Reached for a handful of popcorn. Scooped. “We’ve watched what you wanted. Now it’s my turn.”
Stevie clicked the remote, located Supernatural. His show. He exhaled, and his body sagged against her. All tension left his expression. His shoulders. He stretched his arm along the back of the sofa. His hand brushed her shoulders. His fingertips, her upper arm. Lightly stroking.
“What are you doing?”
“Getting comfortable.”
“You’re making me uncomfortable. You’re too close.”
“I need to be close.”
“Why?” She elbowed him.
“To kiss you. Practice for the photo shoot.”
“There’s no kiss scheduled.”
“Last frame. Always a kiss.”
Her breath caught. She jarred the bowl of popcorn on her lap. Half the snack rolled over the rim. Joe helped clean her up. She went fast. He, slow. His fingers collected popcorn from between her legs. Lingered over the pieces at her V.
She shoved his hand away. “All done.”
“Not done, babe, just getting started.”
“Watch your show.”
A corner of his mouth curved. “Catch you at the commercial.”
He’d warned her of his intention. Prepared her for his kiss. The idea was daunting, nerve-racking. Yet it left her expectant. Conceivably it would be no more than a kiss on her forehead. Possibly, parted lips and tongue.
Her breathing deepened. Her belly butterflied. If she was smart, she’d hop off the sofa, take the Afghan hound downstairs, outside, and settle her in for the night. Wash out the popcorn bowl in the kitchen sink. Then head back upstairs for a bubble bath. Early to bed.
Rational thought vanished when it came to Joe, however. The lines between right and wrong faded. One kiss would break her promise to her cousin Dean. She was a woman of her word.
All the same, the longer she remained, the more susceptible she became to the Rogue. To his kiss. They sat so close, air couldn’t squeeze between them. Joe dwarfed her. A tilt of his shoulders, and she nestled against his chest. His very wide chest. Solid and muscled. His mouth interested her. Full lower lip, narrower upper one. He was an experienced kisser. Should she leave or stay?
She stayed. Apprehensive. Aroused. Afraid.
Joe flagged his hand before her eyes. “You okay?”
Her “Fine . . .” sounded weak.
He bumped his knee against hers. “You’ve been lost in thought. Staring at the television screen, but not watching the show.”
“I’m watching.”
“What was the last commercial for?”
She’d missed the ad. “Cereal.” Wild guess.
“Super Poligrip. Not on my breakfast table.”
Denture adhesive cream. She blushed. Supernatural returned. Her commercial window for a kiss disappeared. Had he played her? Wound her tight, let her spin? She’d waited, wanting him, and he hadn’t made a pass. She felt let down.
She huffed. He heard her. “There’re more commercials to come.” Humor was in his voice.
“I don’t care.”
“Yeah, you do.” He was so self-assured. “You expected me to kiss you within the first ten minutes. Give it time, babe. Anticipation. Sexual psych.”
The postponement rode her last nerve as she sat through the next set of commercials. Her chest squeezed. Her stomach cramped. Ford trucks drove her back to the demon hunters Dean and Sam, brothers on the run. Chasing the king of hell, Crowley. She got lost in the action of the show. Her gaze was on the TV and not on Joe.
He took her unaware, waiting for no product promotions. Devious man. He smoothed his mouth over hers in the softest kiss ever. Gentle, pleasurable, skilled. It was short-lived, yet it had the greatest impact. Her scalp tingled. Her tummy fluttered. Her toes curled.
The man could kiss. Her lips parted slightly. The tip of his tongue touched inside her lower lip. He tasted her. But he never gave her time to respond. To fully kiss him back. He detached. Practice over. She sighed against his mouth. Which he heard.
“No sound effects at the photo shoot, Stewie.”
“No visual aids, Joey.” He was stiff.
He laughed at himself. “I’m better than PowerPoint.”
He tucked her into his side. This man who cruised through life without commitment. She felt amazingly safe and protected. Reality reminded her that he had a party posse. Hot, sexy babes who were all about him. Women who would play naked water polo on Friday nights. Not her sport.
A potato chip commercial, and Joe kissed her forehead.
A kiss on her nose during a pet food ad.
Supernatural ended. Once again, Crowley had evaded Dean and Sam.
Joe never took her mouth again. Disappointing.
Instead of kissing, he wanted to talk. “I’m your groom for the afternoon on Saturday. Is the magazine only taking pictures, or will an article be attached?”
“No article was mentioned. Not yet, anyway.”
“Your sixty-second bio, just in case.”
“Born in Roanoke, Virginia.”
“Richmond, for me.”
“Stop taking my seconds.”
A sarcastic, “Sorry.”
“My mom is a triplet; Twyla is one of her sisters. I’m an only child. With lots of cousins.”
He interrupted once again. “You mentioned a male cousin who always had your back.”
Dean. “Our families are close.” Enough said.
“Education?” he asked.
“A degree in professional bridal consultation.”
Pained expression. “Yanking me, right?”
“You almost believed me,” she teased.
“College of William and Mary. Williamsburg. Psychology. I’m in your head.”
No smile from the man. His body tensed. He removed his arm from across her shoulders, distanced himself. “You’re analyzing me?” The possibility seemed to bother him a lot.
“Not officially. I’ve yet to set up practice,” she said honestly. “I see what I see. On the surface, the obvious. You’re complicated. Mental bumps and bruises. Darkness and shadows.”
His gaze narrowed. “Blame my childhood.”
“We all grow up,” she dared. “Elect our adulthood.”
He leaned forward, rested his elbows on his thighs. Said, “I like who I am.”
“Do you?”
“I can live with myself. Back off, Stevie.” Firm and final.
“If you ever want to talk-”
“I don’t.” He pushed off the couch. Stood over her. Suddenly withdrawn as he recited his own rundown. “University of Virginia, Charlottesville. Sports medicine. Preventive care to rehabilitation. Fallback career if baseball fails. Broken home, which you’ve already guessed. I haven’t seen or spoken to my parents in years. One younger brother. A hellion. Can’t hold a job. Jason walks the fine line between justice and jail.”
He jammed his hand through his hair. His jaw was set. “I work my ass off at baseball. Play hard outside the park. I have a few select friends. Hangers-on come and go. I know who’s using me and who’s got my back.” Pause. “March birthday. I like to travel. I sleep in the nude. I’d have sex twenty-four/seven if time allowed. That’s it. We know each other well enough now. I don’t do close.”
Her heart squeezed. Hurt. “I never thought you did,” she whispered.
“I’ll need an overnight for Turbo on Friday,” he went on to request.
No explanation. She already knew why. Naked water polo. He and his posse. “I’ll put his name on the weekend list.”
A short nod, and he whistled for his dog. They left the room together. Solitude sat heavy on her chest. She hadn’t meant to provoke him. Their sixty-second bios had ended the evening poorly. A hostile silence lingered in the room. Television no longer appealed to her.
Joe’s reputation accounted him a hard-ass. Destructive. He didn’t always play fair. Regardless, she’d witnessed his good side. He’d saved her from boardwalk security. Requested a wig for young Ashley. Bought a transport van for Unleashed.
Throughout their time together, she’d been caustic. He hadn’t cared. He’d tenaciously pursued her; kept the beat going between them. They’d practice-kissed, in preparation for the photo shoot. She’d liked it. He had a sexy mouth.
Her mention of psychology had flipped his switch. He’d shut down. Lost trust in her. She’d had no ulterior motive. His past was relevant, yet evaluating the man served no purpose. He needed to work through his own issues. He obviously had a few.
She would leave him alone. Let him return in his own good time. Hopefully he would be true to his word, and wouldn’t stand her up on Saturday. Fingers crossed.