by RC Boldt
A low rumble of a laugh drifts through the phone, and I close my eyes, relishing in how oddly comforting it is. “Well, I was on my way home, but I think I might have to swing by The Lemon. You know... so maybe I can experience this ocean-dredged drink for myself.”
I snort-laugh, and shit. Maybe the small portion I’ve already managed to imbibe has had an effect. Because I never snort-laugh. “No, don’t do it,” I whisper-hiss dramatically. “I’m pretty sure it doesn’t pair with turmeric muffins or kale smoothies, so I doubt you’d enjoy it.”
This time when he laughs, it’s deeper, heartier, and I find myself smiling at the mere sound of it. Dax has one of the best laughs I’ve heard.
“I’ll see you in a few.” Sobering, he softly commands, “Don’t go anywhere.”
He ends the call, and I stare at the phone in my hand before setting it back down on the bar. Don’t go anywhere? He must have a high opinion of me and my nonexistent social calendar.
Sighing, I prop my elbow on the bar top, rest my chin on my hand, and stare at the murky fluid remaining in my martini glass. With my free hand, I fiddle with the toothpick-speared olives and allow myself to zone out. I must succeed because I jerk with a start when someone slides onto the barstool beside me.
“This seat taken?” His mouth turns up at the edges in a boyish half smile. My startled gaze locks with a slightly concerned and familiar set of golden brown eyes.
“N—” My words draw to a sudden halt because I immediately notice something different about Dax. Or, more specifically, his hair.
“You have… highlights?” My remark comes out sounding more like a question due to my shock. His close-cropped dark hair now has light brown highlights scattered throughout in a careless manner.
I receive that boyish, dimpled smile in response. “Violet said they would totally be awesome.”
My eyebrows rise in disbelief. “You took hair advice from your niece?”
He winks, and I know he’s teasing me. “Well, it’s not like there’s anyone else who cares about my hair.”
“But,” I sputter, still gawking at his hair, “you have an abundance of money and resources. You could hire someone to give you highlights…” I trail off because I can’t bring myself to speak the rest. Ones that don’t look like a blindfolded person did them.
He turns in his seat. With one forearm braced on the bar, he grasps the back of my barstool with the other. Mischief sparkles in his eyes when he leans in and says, “But would they gaze at me as adoringly as Violet?”
I merely stare at him.
“Exactly.” He punctuates this with a nod.
With a roll of my eyes, I return my attention to my drink and mutter, “I can’t believe you did this before the mixer.”
His voice softens. “If you want me to fix it, I’ll fix it.”
I can’t hold back a sigh. He means it, and I know if I asked, he would. I’m just being bitchy and nitpicking. Sure, his hair isn’t exactly perfectly highlighted, but Dax is the kind of guy who can pull it off and make it appear as though he wanted it that way. It doesn’t detract from how handsome he is.
“No.” I wave a hand dismissively. “It’s fine. I’m sorry. I was just…” Taking my stress and poor mood out on you, I finish silently.
The hand still resting on the back of my barstool moves, and he rubs my back affectionately. “No worries.” He lowers his voice and takes on a more soothing tone. “Now, will you tell me what’s going on?”
This is ridiculously awkward. I should have worked harder to stop him from coming here. The last thing I want is another witness—aside from Sam—being privy to my not-so-midlife crisis and pathetic pity party.
I don’t say a word, continuing to sit in silence while Sam serves Dax his requested glass of water. When I finally turn to give him a questioning glance, he shrugs.
“I need to be smart, especially during the season. Alcohol makes me sluggish.”
Silence hangs between us, and I pray that he’ll drink his water and realize he has somewhere to be. Then he’ll go do whatever fun stuff he has planned on a Thursday. Obviously, it doesn’t include needing to shower since he smells fresh and clean, and his short hair still has a faint dampness clinging to it. In fact, it should be illegal for a guy to smell this good. Maybe I should compose an email to Old Spice about their body wash and how dangerous it is on attractive guys like—
“Duchess.” His voice is low, gentle, and husky. “Will you please tell me what’s wrong?” His underlying concern has my defenses slowly receding.
I toy with the stem of my glass, refusing to meet his gaze. “Promise not to judge me too much?” I try to be flippant but fail by a long shot and end up sounding defeated instead. “Because I don’t have enough energy to give you the filtered version.”
His response is immediate. “Of course.”
I draw in a deep breath and let it out slowly, still avoiding his gaze. “The quick rundown is, it’s my birthday, a client I matched is now happily engaged, and I’m sitting here in a bar because I have no family, no one to celebrate with—and I don’t count Leif since he rarely leaves home as it is—and I’ve come to realize that I can be one hell of a matchmaker for everyone… except myself.”
It takes a concentrated effort to swallow past the lump of emotion forming in my throat. I lift a shoulder in a tiny shrug. “I’ve been invited to weddings and thanked publicly by brides and grooms at their receptions. I’ve successfully matched dozens of couples. And these aren’t like those rose ceremony-type things on TV.
“These are real relationships—the lasting kind. They’ve evolved into marriages or strong partnerships for those who”—I shrug casually—“don’t feel like they need a piece of paper to make it official.” I heave out a long sigh. “Yet here I am. I can’t even manage to have a successful relationship, let alone date someone for longer than three months.”
“Maybe it’s not you,” he says easily.
I shoot him a droll look. “Please don’t give me the patronizing it’s not you, it’s them talk.”
He raises his hands in mock defense. “No patronizing here. I’m just saying, you might be barking up the wrong tree.” His gaze penetrates mine, and I realize it’s ripe with affectionate concern and not the least bit judgmental. “Sometimes we look too hard for something, and we realize it’s right in front of us.”
I shake my head and avert my eyes as I absently trace my finger along the lacquered surface of the bar. “Or maybe it’s just something I need to come to terms with.” I struggle for composure against the emotions threatening to break free. “Those who can’t find love for themselves do best at finding it for others, I guess.” God, I hate the way my voice cracks at the end.
Nothing but complete and utterly awkward silence greets my confession. Freaking fantastic. I’ve managed to scare off my newest friend.
20
Dax
For most men, dealing with females and their range of emotions has them rushing in the opposite direction. Luckily, growing up with my sister prepared me for moments like this. Except it feels different from the times I coaxed smiles from Ava when she was reeling from a rough breakup or moments when she’s convinced she’s doing a shitty job with Violet.
This feels all-encompassing. It’s just more because it’s Darcy.
The sight of the beautiful woman beside me—with troubled blue eyes and slumped shoulders, as though the weight of what she sees as shortcomings have plummeted down on her—has an invisible fist clenching the center of my chest in a punishing grip.
It dawns on me. I know exactly what I need to do.
I pull out my wallet and thumb through the bills. “Is that your only drink?”
Her head whips around. “Yes, why?”
I toss down enough money to cover her drink and tip, pocket my wallet, and slide off the stool. With my hand extended, I wait for her to accept it.
“Let’s go.”
She reaches for my hand with obvious hesitance, un
certainty written all over her face as she lets me help her down. “Where are we going?”
I grab her purse from the back of the barstool and usher her toward the exit with a hand at the small of her back. “It’s a surprise.”
“But I don’t like surprises.” Her brow furrows, expression morphing into a slight scowl. I bite back a laugh because slightly tipsy Darcy is pretty damn adorable.
“I promise you’ll like this one.” I get her outside, and she winces at the piercing sunlight, reaching for her purse that’s over my other arm. Diving inside, she withdraws her sunglasses and quickly slides them on.
When she makes no move to reclaim her purse from me, I chuckle softly, knowing if anyone snaps a pic of me right now, it’ll be entertaining as hell.
Once I get her inside my truck and buckled in, I place the purse on her lap before I walk around the vehicle to slide in on my side. I pull out of the parking lot, navigating the side streets to avoid the bulk of traffic normally plaguing the main drag of Highway A1A, and minutes later, I pull into my driveway.
Darcy’s been silent the entire drive, and when I glance over, expecting to find her asleep, I’m surprised she’s still awake and peering out her window. She turns to face me, and her lips form a faint semblance of a smile.
“You brought me back to your house.” Her voice is just shy of a whisper. I wish I could see her blue eyes behind those dark sunglasses. “Even though you probably have other things to do.” There’s a hint of amazed wonder in her tone, as though she’s surprised someone would spend time with her and do something like this for her.
I fucking hate that she has no idea how amazing she is.
Without a word, I exit the vehicle and walk around to help an obviously dazed Darcy climb out. When I open the door, I reach in to release her seat belt. “Come on, beautiful. Let’s get this birthday celebration started.” My hands grasp her waist, and I lift her down. Her hands, with one arm linked through her purse straps, clutch my shoulders in surprise.
I set her on her feet and shut the door. Automatically, I take her hand in mine, absently recognizing how soft and petite it feels against my own, and head to the front door.
“Dax,” she protests. “You don’t have to do this. Honestly.” I enter the house and punch the numbers on the keypad to disarm the security system, and she continues. “I’m sorry about earlier at the bar and my woe-is-me word vomit because you—”
Once the door’s closed, I steer Darcy back against it, catching her by surprise, if her expression is anything to go by. With one hand braced against the door to one side of her head, I reach out to carefully slide her sunglasses up to rest atop her head so I can look her in the eyes.
“You’re my friend.” I speak slowly, my tone firm, brooking no arguments. “And I sure as hell want to celebrate with my friend on her birthday.”
She appears startled, her mouth parting. When her tongue darts out to wet her lips, my eyes track the movements, and my dick hardens before I realize what’s happening.
What the hell? I mentally shake off the inappropriate reaction. I need to get my shit together.
“Now”—I lean in and place a gentle kiss on her forehead—“are you ready to get this party started?”
Darcy searches my features, her mouth slowly stretching into the first real smile I’ve seen from her today. There’s no denying the warmth of pride that unfurls in my chest from it.
Her voice is a bit breathless when she finally answers, but it’s laced with a hint of happiness. “I’m ready.”
“You’re seriously baking me a cake?” Disbelief colors her tone. “From scratch?”
“Yes, ma’am.” I drag out the next word while I work the spatula to assist the mixer in doing its job thoroughly. “And homemade frosting, too.”
Darcy’s seated at the kitchen island on a barstool watching me intently. She hesitates before tentatively asking, “Can I help?”
I press my lips together to restrain a smile at the hesitance in her question. “Sure.”
I turn off the mixer and reach in a drawer for another apron. She winds around the island to where I stand in my own apron. I drape a spare over her head and guide her to turn around so I can tie the back.
Once she turns back to face me, I’m taken aback by how cute she looks. This softer, more domesticated version of Darcy Cole is a striking difference from the sleek, confident businesswoman I normally see. Somehow, though, she pulls it off.
“Okay, you can get started on the frosting.” I lift my chin to gesture at the ingredients I’ve set on the counter with the recipe beside it, then wave a hand toward the batter I’ve just prepared. “I need to pour this into the pans and pop them in the oven.”
“Pans? As in plural?” She laughs softly. “Exactly how many birthday cakes are you making me?”
I concentrate on folding the batter as evenly as possible in each of the round baking pans I’ve already lined with parchment paper. “Only one cake but two layers.” I smooth the top of each to ensure they’re as level as possible. “With a thick layer of frosting between.”
Striding over to my double oven, I quickly slide the pans inside before turning on the timer.
“Now, all you need to do is follow this recipe here.” I smooth down the well-worn paper with curling edges from multiple uses. “And we’ll be all set.”
She nods as if attempting to reassure herself. “Okay.”
I start cleaning up the counter and begin washing my mixing bowl and the mixer’s beaters while she measures the ingredients and adds them to the clean bowl I’ve placed on the mixer stand. Once I’ve stacked the items in the drying rack beside the sink, I turn to find Darcy fiddling with the hem of her apron apprehensively.
“I think I’m ready to start mixing now, but I”—she gestures toward my mixer nervously—“don’t want to mess anything up. I’ve never used anything like that before. Only a cheap hand mixer.”
I use the hell out of my KitchenAid mixer. Same goes for my smoothie maker. But the way she’s tiptoeing around it is endearing as hell.
I dry my hands on the dish towel. “Come on.” I wave her closer and point out the speed best used for whipping up frosting. After installing the paddle attachment instead of the beaters, I point out how to lower it into the bowl before turning it on, then have her do it on her own. Offering her a clean spatula, I instruct her to continue scraping the sides to ensure everything is evenly mixed.
She does a great job; the frosting looks perfectly whipped, light, and fluffy. The pride on her face brings a smile to my own. Just as I do with my niece, I dip my index finger in the bowl to get a good dollop of frosting. With my other hand cupped beneath it, I raise a frosting-covered finger to her lips. “Have a taste.”
The instant her soft lips wrap around my finger, when her tongue grazes my skin to gather the sweet mixture, I realize my innocent gesture is far more intimate than I intended.
A heady surge of lust courses through my veins, and I find myself transfixed by the sight of my finger captured between her light pink lips, riveted by the sensation of the hot wetness of her mouth as she sucks the frosting from it. Her little moan at the sweet taste when her tongue rasps against my skin. My dick hardens when she creates a stronger suction, and my traitorous mind wanders.
A vivid image bombards me. Her sweet lips wrapped around my rigid cock, gliding up and down, from root to tip. Those blue eyes peering up at me while she sucks on me as though her life depends on it. She’d drive me over the edge, and I’d fist my hands in her hair to hold her steady, watching her swollen lips tightening around my hard shaft while I erupt, shooting my release down her throat.
Holy fuck.
The intensity of arousal barreling through me has my muscles going rigid in alarm. I withdraw my finger from her mouth with a sudden pop.
“Wow,” she says in amazement. “That’s delicious.”
Delicious doesn’t cover it, an inner voice taunts. I immediately shut it down. Grateful for the apron t
hat masks my now painful hard-on, I turn away from her with a clearing of my throat.
Fuck. Whatever’s happening with me needs to stop. This is Darcy, for God’s sake. Getting aroused by my friend is uncalled for. That reaction makes me feel like the biggest scumbag.
“Once the cakes are done, we’ll put them on these.” I gesture to the cooling racks, and fuck if I’m not slightly out of breath. Get your shit together, I scold myself. “After they’ve cooled off, we can spread the frosting.”
“Awesome.”
I finally brave a glance her way, and the pure, unadulterated excitement on her face makes me smile. The shadows of self-doubt and recrimination in her features have subsided, thankfully.
I busy myself with putting away the ingredients we used for the frosting. By the time I’m finished, I’ve managed to get my dick under control.
Must’ve been a random occurrence, but there’s no excuse. I never want to do anything to Darcy that would make her uncomfortable and ruin our friendship.
Never.
21
Darcy
Hitched® Tip #6:
How does the other person handle disagreements? Are they a hothead while you’re calm and collected? Learn to pick your battles and handle arguments with care.
♥
“I need to do some serious hot yoga to make up for all this.” I slide my now empty cake plate away and pat my stomach. I’m honestly shocked it’s not bloated and burgeoning with a massive food baby right now.
Dax whipped up a fresh pizza for us—from gluten-free dough he’d “tossed together earlier this week”—and we ate that while waiting for the cakes to cool enough to frost. The guy even has a spinning cake platter and showed me how he coats the entire outside with frosting. It was like being in the kitchen with freaking Martha Stewart, for God’s sake.