Brian drummed the steering wheel, half in time with the radio pumping out classic rock, half in annoyance at the truck ahead.
Racks of shiny diamond-tread toolboxes rode the bed rails above a pristine white body. Early June sun meant good things for the fields of patchy green blobs slipping past in neat rows. Near-sunset glare off the truck meant less-good conditions for his eyes. Shouldn’t have stayed late to finish the terrain analysis and forgotten his sunglasses at his desk. He flipped the visor down.
They cruised along at the speed limit, courtesy of the work truck’s driver. Dead-on, not even the nickel above everyone did. Good thing the delivery menus plastered on his fridge wouldn’t complain when he walked in late on a Thursday night.
Eight-inch-high black letters taunted him from the tailgate. You break it, we’ll take it.
Towing company, maybe, but the back lacked a winch or a hoist or—
The tail-end bounced. The back tire uncoiled. Pop-thud-smack.
As thick rubber flapped and flew, he jerked the car hard right. “Motherf—”
Streaking past the driver’s side in chunks, the tire missed the windshield by inches. The burnt rubber stench invaded his coupe via the open window. Close enough to singe a cat’s whiskers, Christ.
The truck wobbled but recovered, coasting in a straight line without the knee-jerk flash of brake lights. Good man behind the wheel to keep a steady hand in a blowout.
Matching the driver’s gradual slowdown, he tamed his roaring pulse and coasted his coupe onto the gravel shoulder. No traffic in the rearview, but he snapped on the flashers for good measure. Light bounced off the truck’s tailgate deco.
Might as well help the guy get back on the road.
The pickup driver shoved open his door. Hefty dude with a beer gut descending in three, two—
A tanned beauty hopped out of the cab, raised her hand across her brows, and stared toward him.
Boner in the lunchroom. Christ Jesus, his jeans hadn’t shrunk so damn fast since seventh grade.
The sinking sun cast her in gold, a shining statue gorgeous and false as a heat mirage. No way had that woman emerged from a pickup that’d probably rolled off the assembly line the year she’d been born. He’d gotten hit by tire shrapnel, swerved into a roadside ditch, and lay hallucinating in a busted metal shell. Percentage-wise, the winning explanation.
Arm outstretched, she planted her hand above the wheel well. “Fucking great.”
If she meant her damn fine ass, he silently agreed. Or her long legs, stretching as she covered the twenty feet between them in a no-nonsense stride that nonetheless gave her hips an agreeable sway.
Slamming his eyes shut, he clenched the steering wheel and mumbled a string of names. Amundsen, Scott, Shackleton. Thank Christ, the icy tombs of polar explorers cooled his blood.
Voice low but feminine, the woman called out, “You all right? Tire didn’t clip you, did it?”
Opening his eyes, he faced the ribbed texture of a royal purple tank top disappearing into the worn edge of faded jean shorts clinging to her hips. Denim and cotton pulsed in the slow beats of her breath. The tire hadn’t stunned him, but she sure as hell had.
“Low blood sugar?” She bent sideways and touched his shoulder. Freckles sprinkled her cheeks and spotted her arms. A cheetah, fast and deadly, frowned at him. “Sit tight. I’ve got a granola bar in the cab.” Trotting away, she flashed her rounded ass and muscled calves as her tennis shoes spat gravel.
A phantom straight out of junior high shoved him in the shoulder blade. Get the fuck over there before someone else asks her, fraidy-cat.
He fumbled for the door handle and launched himself into the traffic lane. “Hey, don’t worry about it. I’m fine.” He feinted left and shot right, smooth moves as irresistible to women as the A-okay sign he flashed. “See? All in working condition, except the frog in my throat. Those buggers’ll jump into the damnedest places.”
She eyed him askance and leaned into her truck. “So you’re a frogman?”
“Combat diver? No.” Might’ve gone that route, if he’d taken the spec ops weather tech track, but those choices lay twenty years in the dust. “Air Force data intelligence and analysis for a while. I’m in the private sector now.”
“Huh? I meant because of the frog. In your throat?” She flipped him a granola bar and tore one open herself. “He must’ve hopped outta the way of the tire.” Lips clamped, she threatened a grin. “Sorry for the fright.”
Her smile begged to be kissed free. The breeze caught the sharp points of her hair, an earthy-rich shade of red clay skittering along her forehead and ears. Lizard-brain urged him to slip his fingers through those flyaways, press her back against the truck, and hold her still while he tasted—
Plastic crackled in his grip. Coughing, he ripped the granola wrapper open. The last time he’d fallen so hard and fast, he’d landed in that god-awful mess senior year. “You have some serious road skills. Pick the wrong move, and that shredder would’ve knocked you sideways into a roll.”
“Not my first blowout.” Bar jammed between her teeth, she rolled up the lid on the aluminum toolbox running the length of the bed. Her quick rummage produced a folded tarp, a roped pair of chocks, a cross-socket lug wrench, a small plank, and a red jack shaped like a fire extinguisher. Between peeks down the deserted stretch of road, she piled the gear alongside the shredded back tire. Standing straight, she leveled her gaze at him and retrieved her granola. “Thanks for the overlap parking job and the flashers. Traffic-side changes are a bitch with no lookout.”
“No problem.” He stepped back as she went to circle him. They played backsy-forsy twice more before he snapped to attention and held his ground. “Howsabout I stay still and let you make all the moves?” Preferably before his dick saluted again.
“Fine by me.” She flashed a broad, beautiful smile with a thin gap between her front teeth. “Watch and learn.” Her arm brushed his chest as she squeezed by beside the truck. Crouched at the back, she reached under the bed.
Her boxy truck, its mirrors and dash free of fancy electronics, wore its age well. The side panel bore the same lettering style as the tailgate, bigger on top: Runyon’s Repairs: Rapid, reliable and right the first time. Be a surprise if she rode on shoddy tires. A sharp bit of nothing in the road must’ve jumped up and said hello.
The remains of the tread hung like so much rubber and metal confetti from the rim. Explosive failure. Scrapes decorated the wheel well. No gouges, twisted steel, or axle bits sticking out. With a spare on, the truck would be drivable.
“I’m no expert”—wouldn’t Rob kill to hear him admit that one—“but intel from my preliminary scouting report suggests something large and round ought to be here but isn’t.”
“That’s the best you got, huh? The Air Force pay you for that top-notch analysis?”
A metallic smack and a hollow thump sounded from under the truck. Her shorts hugged her ass as she wiggled back, dragging a full-size spare. A lime green strap escaped the edge of her tank top.
“You giving me a hand or standing around to gawk?” Her gaze dropped, a split-second blink at the lug wrench lying near his feet.
Creeper. Self-defense.
He rushed in, steadied the tire’s bouncy landing, and rolled it around the side. He pegged her for late twenties, wiry and strong but wary. Appreciating a stranded woman’s assets on a deserted roadside fell dead last on the list of brilliant dating strategies for a guy on the wrong side of thirty-five.
“Your truck here is a little before my time.” So old the dash might house a tape deck. “You need to analyze satellite data, I’m your guy. But I’ve got a friend who’s great with machinery.” Married, too, and not about to steal this self-assured woman away before he took his shot. “I could give him a call.”
“Relax, I’m hot shit with machines myself.” Shooing him off the tarp, she held out the chocks. “Think you can put the squeeze on a tire for me, Brainy?”
“Brainy?” He’d earned his merit badges in class clownery. She numbered first-and-only among those defining him by his intelligence. Tempting. The class clown label chafed when the twenty-year high school reunion loomed next summer with at least one likely attendee he’d rather not see again. He snagged the chocks dangling from her palm. “Yeah, I guess I am.”
Tarp spread, she waggled grease-smudged and muddy fingers. “I’m a hands girl.”
Show me. Mouth firmly snapped shut, he scooted around the truck. He didn’t score on every at-bat, but his comedic charm meant he rarely suffered droughts. With this woman, the easy way cramped his chest. His nervous system second-guessed his movements and paralysis overtook his command center.
Her laughter followed him. “Don’t crack your teeth holding back that filthy remark, Brainy.”
“So you run a psychic business at your repair shop, too?” He nestled the sloping wood beneath the curves of the undamaged front passenger tire.
“Men all think alike.” Her casual cynicism floated above the grind of metal on metal. “No special powers needed.”
“Ouch. If I’d known I’d be answering for my entire gender this evening, I’d have called my mom to tell her I love her.” He sauntered around the front and jerked his thumb at the field beyond. “Got a shovel in your toolbox? I’ll get started digging my own grave.”
She spun the lug wrench in two hands, push-pull, her confident execution fucking hotter than a sauna in July. Damn yeah, she deserved her hands-on pride.
“Nah, you can skip the grave-digging. Just fling your body between me and any cars that come along.”
Shit, he’d have done that anyway. Odd, because he’d never been the overprotective-of-women alpha—and sure as hell not for one who so obviously didn’t require protection. A chunk of rubber hurtling past his window had reset his signals. Concussion and hallucination remained the likeliest answer. “Your wish is my command, Ms. Fix-it.”
He stood guard. Cranked the jack once she’d fussed the cylinder into place on a plank. Team-lowered the blown tire, minding his fingers around the exposed metal threads. They worked steadily, her issuing orders and him following. Been a while since he’d maintained strict discipline, and she sure as fuck didn’t resemble any of his commanders, but the rhythm crept over him slick as a second skin.
He planted one knee on the tarp and gripped the tread on the replacement. They lurched upward in sync, heaving the full-size spare onto the bolts. Leaning in, he inhaled sweet pineapple and salty feminine sweat, a pairing as perfect as the prime posting in Hawaii he’d chased and never landed.
She finger-tightened the nuts, spinning in a star pattern, and gave him the okay to release the jack. The final twists she claimed for herself. Little proprietary about her four-way wrench—or determined to bust his jeans with her hand-over-hand work and swaying tits as she locked the sucker down tight.
The wrench slipped off the last nut. She grunted and patted the sidewall. “That’ll do it.” With the metal tucked under her arm, she scooped up a rag that’d been the victim of too many washings.
“Solid job.” He grabbed the road tarp, shook off the dust, and started folding. Work wasn’t done until the tools had been inspected and stowed. “Nothing cements a bond faster than shared terror and a successful mission.”
Stuffing the gear back in the toolbox, she shot him a side-eye. “Yeah, that special connection between nameless strangers changing a tire on a dusty roadside’ll get you every time.”
“Brian Hendricks.” Kneeling side by side for twenty minutes and he hadn’t fucking introduced himself. Every smooth move he owned lay a hundred yards back with the rest of her shredded tire. “Sorry, I should’ve said that first.”
Blame the dark brown rims of her eyes holding in orange fire and her sexy, confident strut.
He handed off the tarp, heaved the mangled tire into the truck bed, and tossed her the chocks. “Let me take you out to make up for my bad manners.”
She dropped the lid on the storage bay. “No can do, Brian. I’m late to dinner.”
“Tomorrow, then.” He dogged her steps toward the cab. Not near enough women had the height to match him on equal footing. This one did. He dug for his phone. “What’s your number?”
Flinging open the driver door, she flat-palmed his chest. Her bicep flexed. “You were sweet to keep me company and play lookout while I changed the tire. I appreciate the help.”
She swung in with the handgrip and scooted her ass in the seat. With a reach through the open window, she dragged the door shut. “You’re a nice guy.”
Solid and warm, she patted his cheek. “But I don’t date.” The engine turned over as she withdrew. “I fuck.”
The big pickup lumbered forward, guided off the shoulder and onto the blacktop by those same sure hands. Her arm rested on the window frame, her freckles fading in the flash of sunlight off the silver toolboxes.
He stood in the road with a grime-streaked button-down and aching knees. She’d knocked him so far off his game he might as well have spun out in the ditch. Trudging back to his car, he spat a curse for his own stupidity.
He hadn’t even gotten her name.
* * * *
Babying the white whale’s substitute tire, Kit held the needle under forty. She dropped to twenty-five when she hit the concrete curves of their neighborhood. Rancher after rancher, copycat products of the seventies, distinguished themselves from one another by siding color and lawn décor.
The streetlights waited to do their duty, but no kids raced across lawns to sneak in extra fun before dusky judgment prompted moms to shout them home. The neighborhood had aged with her parents. With her.
Parked in front of the garage, she silenced the engine. Twenty-eight and yet to move out. She lived in the house with the uneven sidewalk where she’d tripped and chipped a baby tooth loose at four. Puttered in the garage where she’d first learned to rebuild a radio, kneeling on the workbench with Grandpa Jake looking over her shoulder. When the station had emerged from the plastic shell, she’d shrieked her seven-year-old heart out and Grandpa had hoisted her in a victory dance.
She hopped out beside the six-seater minivan they’d gotten used a dozen years back. The old sedan wouldn’t have fit four adults and two car seats. The minivan marked the dull gold legacy of one deadbeat coward. She slammed her door as the garage rattled up.
“Sounded like my girl was home.” Perched on a stool, Dad hunched over their latest garage sale find, a busted espresso machine. Fixed, the basic home brewing setup might bring a decent profit at the shop. Parts lay scattered across the table. “Late night. Trouble?”
“Tire blew.” She jerked her thumb toward the offender.
Dad laid aside a gasket and wiped his hands on his pants. “You all right?”
“Uh-huh. Good Samaritan stopped and gave me a hand.” More he’d stayed out of her way, but he’d lent her muscle and acted the charming gentleman.
Pleasant, sweet, and so not her type. Didn’t explain her goose-bump shivers at the thought of him. Brian. Hugging herself, she rubbed her upper arms.
“Tire’s shredded. Rim’s good. I’ve got the spare on.” They’d have to take the truck in to get checked anyway, replace the—
“We’ll have to take her to Tom.” He ambled past her and squatted by the back tire. “Get him to give her a look-see and pick up a replacement.”
As alike as peas in a pod, Mom always said. Tinkerers and problem-solvers. “I know, Dad.”
He patted the fender with the gentle care most reserved for children and beloved pets. “The old girl brought you home safe, though.” Standing, he cracked his back. Grandpa’s death last year had aged him more than hitting the big six-oh. “Go on inside with you.” He shooed her through the garage. “Your mother’s keeping a plate warm.”
She slipped into the house as he settled back at the workbench. The wall hook accepted her keys. The laundry closet welcomed her purple tank, so grubby that stripping the grime would demand a miracle. The lime one underneath would do for now. She scrubbed her hands at the sink in the half bath, her fingers sore and pinched and her palms red beneath the dirt. Burdened by more than a year’s worth of road salt and mud and nameless gunk, the tire had thoughtfully transferred its collection to her skin and under her nails.
Brian wouldn’t be so rough and dirty. Him in his office-guy dress shirt with his I’m-a-regular-Joe jeans, driving his older but still fancy Audi, asking for a date as if people whose hormones clicked needed to pretend to like each other for a few hours before the clothes came off. He’d be one of those tender nice guys sucking on her fingers and gazing at her with eyes green as new shoots in a flower bed.
As she shut off the water, giggles filtered through from the living room. Better than her nieces fighting. The Squabble Sisters’ screeches demanded high-quality ear protection or escape. So-called nice guys seduced women with their bullshit, and when they walked out they left behind babies who grew into bickering teens. The house had enough of those.
She dried her hands on a shaggy rose-petal towel Dad had picked up for Mom at a garage sale a dozen years ago. Sorry, Brian, but her fingers would stay unsucked. Shoes toed off on the rug, she sock-footed into the kitchen.
Wiping down the cheery Formica floral counters, Mom half-turned. The way the spots darkened her vision, a full-on stare would’ve meant less attention than a sidelong glance. “Hiya, sweetie. Did you lose track of time on one of your projects again?”
“Hey, Mom. Something like that.” She squeezed tight in a come-from-behind hug. Her height hadn’t come from Mom’s side of the family—her mother fit under her chin. Had since she’d hit eighth grade. “Thanks for holding dinner for me.”
Mom patted her hands and swiped at a stray smudge on an upper cabinet. The stenciled yellow flowers on the white cupboards matched the counters, scaled bigger. Hand-cut by Mom, hand-painted by Kit and Erin when they were small. “Mm-hmm. Your plate’s in the oven.”
“Erin working tonight?” Keeping up with her sister’s picker schedule at the warehouse took a color-coded calendar.
“She went in at four.” Mom hung the washrag over the faucet, neat and tidy. Dirty dishes wouldn’t dare linger in her sink. “Second shift this week.”
With an unevenly stitched potholder birthed in a middle-school home ec class, she pulled out her dinner and shut off the warmer. Meatloaf and mashed taters. “Are there any—”
A jar of dilly beans landed in her hand. “Last one until this year’s are ripe. You girls best make them stretch until August.”
“Sure, if Dad doesn’t find them.” She carried her loot to the table and dug in. A glass of iced tea appeared at her elbow, and she mumble-chewed her thanks. The granola bar had helped, but lunch lay eight hours past, and her stomach had started in with reminders three hours ago. She fingered the seam of the table leaf. Thirteen years ago, the extra board’s appearances had been limited to holidays and potlucks. Once Erin moved home and brought the girls with her, the leaf had taken up permanent residence.
If she’d accepted Brian’s invitation, she’d be dining somewhere else instead of her usual chair tonight.
Mom slipped into her seat in front of the sliding door to the backyard, keeping her company at the table because she’d never let one of her girls dine alone. She’d like Brian’s politeness. “Bring that nice boy over,” she’d say. “A hot supper will thank him for stopping to help my baby.”
His blond hair and trim body made judging his age tough. His smooth cheeks and peach-fuzzy arms lent him youth. The crow’s feet embracing his eyes marked him as more than a boy, though. His manners sure as fuck didn’t scream twenties. Older than her, but how much?
Half listening to her mother’s rundown of the day, she nodded and hmmed between bites. Brian intruded with silent persistence, more distracting than a macho jackass throwing attitude. If he’d called her “little lady” or taken the wrench from her and tried to change the tire himself with less skill, she’d have shut him down and sent him on his way. Instead, he’d complimented her mechanical skills and joked to entertain her. And paraded around with his tight ass, trotting to and fro on her orders.
Arms bared by his rolled-up shirtsleeves hinted at a balance of brawn and brains, the peak before sexy fell toward overbearing posturing. His spiky hair ruffled on top as the wind directed, but the front tendrils flowed down his forehead and the tips promised curls if he delayed a haircut. Brian was a real guy, not a badass punk.
Exactly why dating him would be a train wreck. He’d make her life messy. Entangled, connected, and longer than one night. Ditching assholes came easy. They didn’t give a shit why she refused to bring them home or insisted on fucking in the parking lot. They cared about two priorities—when and where they could stick their dicks.
She’d be an unfair bitch to lead on nice-guy Brian when he should be looking for a settle-down girl. He didn’t behave like a fuck-and-run, and she didn’t do long-term investments. And if he was faking like all so-called nice guys, he’d get bored and walk away once she’d gotten hooked.
Mr. Frog-in-His-Throat. A real Prince Charming. The minute she kissed him, the world would drive her toward fairy-tale princess dreams she’d shunned since childhood. Her happily ever after came with a mess of metal and wires under a work light, not a white gown and a gold ring under the eyes of God.
* * * *
Gravel crunching under his tires, Brian pulled up to the farmhouse and parked alongside Rob’s pickup and the SUV they’d gotten to replace Nora’s beater. Fuck takeout. He’d run his ass off cramming best-man duties in the narrow window between Christmas and New Year’s. A bachelor deserved to dine off that apology at least through summer grilling season. After Labor Day would be soon enough to call them square.
He took the porch steps in one leap. Rob understood women. He’d landed Nora despite the awful introduction Lucas would never live down. And Nora, she’d know why his nameless Amazon had rejected him. She’d decipher woman-code, he’d track down said woman, and the date would be on.
The unlatched screen door invited him on inside. He poked his head ’round the corner toward the kitchen as the screen snapped shut. After eight. They might’ve eaten or be out back finishing up.
“Hey, Sherwood, Maid Marian, what’re you serving tonight?” he yelled toward the stairs as he patrolled the empty first floor. The dining room sported actual furniture instead of Rob’s piles of someday projects. Living with a woman changed a man. “I come bearing no gifts.”
“Brian, I swear to—” Rob’s deep bark cut off, and the peal of Nora’s laughter followed. “If you’re staying for dinner, grab a beer and go the fuck outside for at least fifteen minutes.”
He slumped over the banister and howled his laughter. Heading into month six and they still went at it like newlywed rabbits. “You’re only giving her—”
“Make it thirty.” Nora shouted louder than her husband. Bedsprings creaked.
He sucked back the laughs to get words out. “You two trying for a baby up there?”
“Go grill the damn steaks.” Nora wasted no time hollering orders. Helluva shift from the shy blusher he’d met last summer. “Beer, fridge. Steaks, grill. You, outside!”
Shit, these days she scared him more than Sherwood did. “On my way. You folks take your time, now.”
The fridge held the promised beer and a platter of beefy red beauties. He hauled both outside and fired up the grill. Fifteen minutes to kick back before that puppy heated. Bypassing the picnic table smack in the setting sun’s path across the yard, he dragged one of the sloping loungers into a shady spot on the porch and slapped his feet on the rail. Not bad. The balcony on his apartment measured three by six in a generous accounting. Rob’s place, now—room to sprawl, no neighbors setting off smoke alarms—this was the life. Except the huge fucking yard to mow.
He’d put a good sear on the steaks and lowered the temp on the grill by the time Rob trotted out, barefoot and in jeans, wrestling a T-shirt down his back. “Sorry, Surfer Boy. You drop by unannounced, you gotta expect to wait.”
He saluted with his longneck. Condensation splashed his cheek. “Husbandly duties. Far be it from me to stand in the way of a man getting some regular.”
“Regular.” Rob snorted, snatched the tongs, and prodded the meat. “With Nora, every time’s a fresh adventure. You ought to give long-term a try. Find a woman, settle down.”
“Thanks, Mom. I’ll get right on that.” The woman tonight, though. Casual competence and a brilliant smile. “I did, actually. Find one.”
“Are you bullshitting me?” Rob dropped the lid on the grill. “What’s her name?”
He scrubbed his head. Maybe a genie would pop out and deliver the answer. “I don’t know her name. Yet.” Thank God her truck offered a clue. “But I know where she works.”
“Didn’t get her name. Uh-huh.” Standing in the yard, Rob knocked Brian’s feet off the rail and planted crossed arms in their place. “Sounds like the Brian I know. Let me guess—you got distracted by her bouncy bits, deployed your tongue, and forgot to ask after.”
“Shows what you know, married man.” He swigged his beer, the last of the bottle coating his throat. Taking her at her word, mystery woman loved to fuck. Just not him. “She thinks I’m a nice guy. A smart, non-sexy nice guy. Says she doesn’t date—she fucks. I gotta find a way to get her to date me.”
Easy, except she turned him into the flustered seventh-grader clutching his math book over his intractable hard-on and rehearsing his invitation to the dance for Jenny Shlovski. He’d whiffed with his knee-slide and Bon Jovi serenade. The first girl to pick someone else over him, but not the last. At least she’d had the courtesy to tell him to his face.
Nora swished by in a blue sundress. “You sure it’s really this woman you’re interested in?” She deposited a lumpy foil packet beside the grill and plates and silverware on the picnic table. “Not the challenge of chasing her?”
“Hey, I don’t chase women.” His class clown routine roped them in and gave him his pick. Always had. Almost always. “They chase me. I’m good-time Brian, the life of the party. One and done.”
True for twenty years. If she wanted one night and he wanted the same, they could have an explosive experience. But the words tasted sour this time around. Anticipating a single all-night fuckfest ought to make him energized, not weary. At the least, the sex ought to be more enticing than a vision of her guarding his flank next summer when he walked into a gym full of balloons, streamers, and people he hadn’t talked to in those two decades.
Rob hung back and drummed his thumbs on the rail. “You do have a hard time letting a victory flag go, though.” Shading his face, the porch brought his narrowed gaze into focus. The ex-sarge’s inspection attitude signaled a demanding interrogation in the offing. “You mad she’s one-upped your usual move?”
“Whoa, unfair.” He set his empty beside the chair and rolled to his feet. He didn’t leave a string of broken hearts behind or lie to women to get them in his bed. “I’ve always made it clear up front when I wasn’t looking for more.”
“And so is she.” Nora, plates distributed, had claimed a corner of the picnic bench. Frowning, she rubbed her stomach. “What, a woman can’t be looking to skip the date and go straight to the after-party?”
“Not this woman.” The answer punched out without a speck of thought, faster than a Navy fighter catapulting off the boat and twice as cocky.
Mouth clamped tight, Nora stalked past him and into the house. Hawk-alert, Rob stared after her. The screen snapped and bounced twice in the frame before settling.
His unaccustomed defensiveness retreated into a touch of panic. Rob had been closer than his brothers for twenty years, and in the last year Nora had become the closest he’d ever had to a woman friend. “Shit, did I piss off your wife?”
Rob quirked his lips and shook the tension off his shoulders. “She’d let you have it if you did.” Meandering to the grill, he waved him over. “Tell me about this woman.”
Where to start, Christ. He hopped the porch rail and landed in a crouch on the grass. This woman out-toughed the obstacle course at Lackland, and he quailed before the flutter in his chest. “She’s got this no-nonsense tone, but then she’ll throw a deep curve on it and fire a sly laugh in the pocket.” As Rob lifted the silver lid and the last rays of sunlight flashed, he circled the smoke. “She talks like she’s got places to be, and I want to be the place she’s going.”
“Conversation, laughter…” Grill sizzling as fat burst into flame, Rob snatched the steaks clear. He tossed the foil packet in. “What’s she smell like?”
“Sweet and thick.” Mmm, yeah, she did. Her short-cropped hair made her neck a tempting target. “Pineapple, salt, and motor oil.”
Tongs frozen in hand, Rob stared.
“What?” Brian yanked his shirt from his jeans and stretched out the tails. The spare’s tread pattern across his chest would give his dry cleaner fits. “She was fixing a car when I met her.”
Rob took his time tenting the steaks under foil and slotting the tongs over the tool rod. “You know this is the first time you’ve described a woman you wanted to bang and didn’t lead off with the size of her tits?”
They’d landed in the same training squadron as eighteen-year-olds. Longer ago now than the years they’d counted behind them then. The charge couldn’t be true—but Sherwood didn’t lie, and no name came to mind to refute him. “Maybe.”
Feet planted at-ease, Rob crossed his arms. The screen door claimed his full attention. “Conversation. Laughter. Scent. My daddy told me that’s how you know you’ve found the right woman.”
Right meaning Nora. Marriage. A house together. The total commitment to one woman for the rest of his life. Fuck no, not for him. Maturing beyond banging a nameless woman along the side of the road didn’t transform him into a slack-jawed, yes-dear spouter. He tamped down a patch of uneven grass. “My dad advised me to ‘clean up your act, you smart-assed punk, and stay out of jail.’”
The screen crept open, Nora leading with her back and making a slow turn. An oversized salad bowl occupied both hands.
“Flip the veggies in a minute.” Rob shoved his shoulder and hustled to the porch steps. “You all right?” He jammed the bowl in the crook of his elbow. “Let me take that. You need anything?”
Smile growing, Nora gripped his free arm and descended. “I just got a little queasy. We’re fine.”
“Sure?” Rob rubbed her stomach, his broad hand flattening her dress to her body. Her not-quite-flat body.
“Holy shit. You two are growing a baby?” They didn’t waste time. Engaged at Christmas, married at New Year’s, a squaller any flipping minute. Guess the newlywed honeymoon phase— “Goddamn, Rob, you were fucking your wife when I got here. What if you hurt the kid? Shit, should she sit down? Nora, get off your feet.”
“Oh God, now I have two of you to contend with.” Burying her face in Rob’s chest, Nora slapped her husband’s shoulder and laughed. “Rob, you tell him the ground rules, because I’m not putting up with male nonsense for the next six months.”
“I will. Promise.” Salad in one arm, wife in the other, Rob kissed the top of her head. “Are you sure you don’t want to sit down?”
As Nora delivered a proper kiss, Brian turned his back and flipped the foil pack. A baby, hell, that’d be over the top. But the easy trust and friendship with a woman? A dinner companion and bed partner who got beyond, “So, what do you do?” and “Where’s the condom?”
Envy flickered quick as the lightning bugs buzzing around the lawn in a mating dance. The first star winked into existence past the roofline. Pretty as a fucking postcard. Wish you were here.
* * * *
Kit closed the door behind herself and leaned against the wood in the house’s last refuge. The girls’ clutter covered the sink surround, and the extra towel bars created dual-level drapery for the peach walls, but the bathroom came the closest to privacy in a home crowding six.
Washing up for dinner hadn’t cleared the road grime and stray grease streaks from her knees and elbows. A hot shower would soothe tight shoulders, too. Knocking the lug nuts loose had demanded brute strength.
She dropped her clothes in a heap and cranked the shower. Too tall, more giraffe than gazelle in school, her lanky height a deterrent for teen boys whose insecurities ran as deep as the girls’. She owned her skin now, all five-foot-nine of her from pixie cut and freckles to rounded biceps and nick-scarred fingers to padded thighs and arched soles.
Prince Charming had noticed. His roaming gaze had crisscrossed the border between blatant and subtle often enough to unlace a thousand inhibitions, but his move had been a polite request for a date. She intimidated him. Too much for his nice-guy sensibilities.
On a Saturday night at the dirt track, she’d have grabbed him by the front of his white-collar button-down and dragged him out to his car for a hard-and-fast fuck. Sat on the trunk, worked his jeans open, and played with the cock bulging beneath denim.
He’d tried hiding those flashes of interest. As if she hadn’t stolen glances of her own. Crouched beside her, one knee down as he hefted the spare, he’d managed a simultaneous stiff declaration and hair-sniff.
Hot water blasted her tight back. No—a sun-warmed car trunk. She propped her feet on the bumper as he muscled between her legs. Thick and solid, he claimed the space in a wrangle of teasing pressure. Rough and dragging, he popped her fly and unzipped her shorts.
“This what you want, Kit?” Her gruff gentleman asked and assumed in the same motion.
She climbed his sturdy frame, hooking her legs around his waist. Her ass lifted off the car. “What do you think?”
With a sharp yank, he shoved her shorts and panties to her knees. Locking them together, he drove her legs to her chest with his weight. “I think I’m gonna take what you’re offering.”
Dragged to the edge, hot and wet, she flexed into his first plunge.
He sucked the salt from her neck, his hips snapping an unstoppable rhythm. Their sweat steamed the air.
“One time only.” She huffed half-truths through short breaths. One night, but she’d take him as often as he managed to stand up for her before dawn. “Better make this count.”
“You counting?” Perfect and relentless, he pumped. The tendons in his neck strained. “Count for me, Kit. Every thrust.”
“One.” She rose and met him in the squeeze between his body and the hot metal.
“Two.” Rocket fuel raced along her blood vessels.
He clamped his teeth in the curve of shoulder and neck. His breath soaked into her bones. Their bodies rattled the car, challenging the suspension to keep up.
“Three.” His fine hair defied her. She scrabbled for purchase. “Four.”
“You can count faster than that, Katherine.” He drove her hands down and pinned her wrists. Their arms lined up, his blond fuzz atop her freckled tan, same length, same muscled strength. Her world ignited.
“Aunt Kit!”
Her back thudded against the plastic tub-shower combo. Frantic fingers froze. As the door banged the wall, a blast of cool hallway air rustled the shower curtain.
“Have you seen my aqua scoop neck? I need it for tomorrow.” Abby talked a mile a minute while cabinet doors opened and slammed. “Jess swore she didn’t take it, but she’s a liar, and I know…”
Flinging the handle to cool, Kit pounded her fist on her thigh. So damn close.
The teenage diatribe dragged on. “…that time she stole my red top, you know, the one with the white flowers.”
Good God, an opening. “Did you check the hamper? If your mom or grandma found a shirt on the floor, that’s where it’d go.”
“Thanks, Aunt Kit.” The shout faded in retreat as feet scampered down the creaky hall.
The shower curtain still rustled. She launched a desperate plea. “And close the door!”
The creaks returned. Sans apology, but the bathroom door clicked shut.
Too late. Her Brian-gasm had disappeared. Furtive strokes under the bedcovers or a Saturday night hookup might restore the passion, but shower satisfaction soared out of reach.
Didn’t matter. Condomless car sex with her hot-as-fuck bad boy belonged to fantasies. Brian was a nice guy. And he didn’t even know her name.