Flirting with the Frenemy

by Grant, Pippa

  My eyes bulge.

  At least, until he ducks his head and laughs. “God, Ellie, it’s so easy.”

  “You—you—” I sputter, but then I’m laughing with him.

  Laughing and cradling his head as he laughs right there in my lap, over the crazy colonist dress I wore for Monica because I would’ve gone to her wedding dressed as a half-naked mermaid if she’d asked me to.

  “How’s your leg?” Wyatt asks as we both regain control.

  “Oh, it aches like a mother,” I reply cheerfully.

  “Overdid it?”

  “Times ten.”

  He rubs his hand softly over my thigh through the fabric. “What do you need?”

  “Warm bath, Motrin, and rum.” My fingers rest on his shoulders, just enough contact to make me feel grounded. “And maybe more of that.”

  “This?” He tests the pressure on my muscle, and I sigh and nod.

  “Is it supposed to still ache?”

  “Muscle and nerve damage on top of newly healed bone. Eventually it’ll probably only be bad with weather changes, but apparently broken hips and femurs like to take their sweet time to heal.”

  “No crutches?”

  “I graduated crutches early, thank you.”

  His lips twitch while he watches me with those intense gray eyes. “You’re a fighter.”

  “I’m tired of fighting,” I whisper.

  His gaze searches mine like he’s asking if I’m tired of fighting the pain, or tired of fighting him. “That’s just because you know you’ll never have a cooler wedding,” he whispers back.

  My jaw drops a split second before the laughter overtakes me. “You are such a—such a—” I gasp out, searching for the right name to call him.

  “Stud,” he supplies with an eyebrow wiggle, and it’s so un-Wyatt-like that I double over in laughter.

  Except doubling over puts my face right next to his, and he’s smiling, his eyes alive and happy and twinkling with utter mischief, and this is everything.

  He’s everything.

  Everything I never knew I wanted, wrapped up in one Wyatt-shaped package.

  I don’t know who starts the kiss, but once his lips are on mine, I know I won’t be the one to break it. He’s still massaging my leg while he loops his free hand behind my neck. I cling to his polo shirt, and almost laugh into the kiss thinking how crazy the two of us must look.

  Him dressed like he’s a tourist from this century, me decked out like some kind of island colonist from the 1700s, a baby goat bleating beside us…

  It’s the goat that breaks us apart.

  Mostly because I can’t laugh and kiss him at the same time.

  I need more practice.

  More time.

  “Ellie?” he says softly through a chuckle.

  “Hmm?”

  “I’m going to make love to you, and the world’s not going to end.”

  “That’s a terrible idea,” I choke out.

  “Challenge accepted.”

  Twenty-Three

  Wyatt

  The list of reasons I shouldn’t be playing with the hem of Ellie’s skirt is longer than my arm. Tucker could catch us here. Ellie’s parents. The baby goat that got through the gate could try to help. Someone else could walk into the gardens.

  I could get in serious trouble and lose my job for indecent exposure.

  But when Ellie’s only objection to me snaking my hands up under her skirt is that we’re tempting fate, I run my hands over her knees and up her thighs.

  She shudders and widens her legs as her lids get heavy. “We’re not supposed to do this,” she whispers.

  “I like you,” I whisper back, “and I want to make you feel good.”

  “I take no responsibility for your son becoming an orphan,” she informs me.

  I have zero fear that her belief that we’re physically dangerous is accurate. It’s superstitious nonsense, and it’s not like Ellie to believe in it. “What are you really afraid of?”

  I don’t expect her to answer me, so I dip my thumbs low on her inner thighs. She’s not flinching away from letting me touch her scars, and I wish I could kiss her where she hurts and make it go away.

  Her eyes squeeze closed as her legs fall open wider. “I’m afraid I’m not lovable.”

  My heart cracks in two.

  I didn’t know I had it in me for my heart to crack for another person, but it did. Split. Right in half like someone attacked it with a rusty butter knife.

  “Why?”

  “I’m stubborn.”

  “Determined,” I correct.

  “Annoying.”

  “Says who?”

  “You.”

  “Only to get your goat.”

  The baby goat bleats again, and her lips wobble upward. But her eyes—Christ.

  Her eyes are breaking my heart. “I’m too career-minded.”

  “You have a calling.”

  “I didn’t pick it.”

  “Didn’t have to.”

  Her skin is so soft, and I can smell her arousal through the layers of her dress.

  “I don’t know what’s important,” she insists. “I can’t prioritize people over things. I don’t know how to let go and trust someone else. I can’t—”

  “You’re Ellie Fucking Ryder. Yes, you can.”

  “Why do you believe in me?”

  “Mostly to piss you off.” I wink at her and stroke the edge of her panties, and she huffs out a smile and a groan.

  “Wyatt.”

  “Come see me in Georgia.”

  “What?”

  “Come see me. Me and Tucker. Spend the weekend with us. In two weeks. Three weeks. Whenever you have a free weekend. Come see us.”

  She blinks quickly, but not fast enough to erase the sheen in her eyes. “Why?”

  “Because I’m going to fucking miss you.” Honesty makes my voice raw. I never thought I’d get married. Never trusted that I could fall in love and know how to do it right.

  But Ellie?

  She won’t let me do it wrong.

  Because she’s Ellie. She’ll push me. She’ll teach me. And if she’ll love me, she’ll love me.

  “Wyatt,” she whispers, and then her hands clasp around my ears and she’s kissing me.

  Softly.

  So softly.

  Like she’s learning me. Memorizing me.

  Savoring me.

  I stroke the center of her panties, and her groan vibrates against my lips. I stroke her again, and she arches into my touch while she nips my lower lip. “More,” she says into our kiss.

  So I give her more, stroking and teasing and touching her while we kiss, slow and easy, then slow and deep, then hard and desperate while she jerks against my fingers. I slip two under her panties, find her entrance, and thrust into her slick heat.

  But it’s not enough.

  I don’t want to just feel her.

  I want to taste her.

  “Wyatt,” she gasps when I duck under her skirts. “We’re—someone could—ohmygod do it again.”

  I push her panties aside, put my mouth to her pussy, and I devour her sweet center. Her hips buck into my mouth, and fuck, I could stay here all day.

  I don’t care that I can’t see a fucking thing. I don’t care that it’s hot as hell.

  I don’t even care that we could get caught at any minute.

  I just know I’m finally right where I’m supposed to be.

  Loving Ellie.

  Pleasuring her.

  Her gasps are muffled, but she’s holding my head steady through her skirt, urging me higher, left, right there oh my god more right there suck me harder Wyatt yes harder YES.

  I slide two fingers deep inside her hot, wet channel, and when my lips find her sweet little nub, I nip gently, then suck it, and she’s suddenly clamping around my fingers, her thighs squeezing my head while she comes for me.

  “Yes,” she gasps. “Wy-aa-aah-”

  I tense, and sure enough—

&
nbsp; “Ah-choo!”

  Her walls clench tight around my fingers again, spasming harder and coating me, and fuck if her coming doesn’t make me about to blow my own load in my pants.

  “Fuck,” she mutters, but it comes out on a half-groan while her pussy’s still coming for me.

  She sneezes once more, and I pull my fingers out, gently replace her panties, and peek out from under her dress.

  “Baaah!’ the baby goat bleats.

  Ellie’s wiping her nose with her arm. Her cheeks are rosy, her body slumping on the bench.

  “It was messy,” she grumbles, pointing to her nose. “And we’re probably going to get eaten by baby goats in our sleep. But thank you. That was the best orgasm I’ve had in years.”

  I frown. “So I have work to do to be the best ever.”

  She sniffles. “You really want to do this again?” she asks, gesturing to her snotty face with the healing black eye.

  God, she’s gorgeous. And so very Ellie.

  “Yes,” I tell her. “Preferably soon. And often.”

  The hesitation in her bright blue eyes wavers, and then she’s laughing again, leaning in to kiss me. “You know something worse than goats will happen now, right?”

  I grip her chin. “Nothing. Bad. Is. Going. To. Happen.”

  One eye wrinkles.

  “I like you, Ellie Ryder.” I love you, but I don’t want to scare you.

  “I like you too, Wyatt Morgan.”

  “Then don’t be afraid.” I lean in to kiss her again when we hear the gate rattle.

  She jerks back, and I straighten too when I recognize that voice.

  “But I want to show you the fountain!” Tucker says.

  “Leg better?” I ask her.

  She smiles softly. “Nature’s miracle cure worked.”

  “See? That’s not bad.”

  “Hmm.”

  I can still taste her on my lips, and I’m more than a little sore and eager in other parts of my very unsatisfied anatomy, but I take a seat next to her, cross my ankle over my knee, and fling an arm around her shoulder while the gate creaks open.

  She glances at my crotch, then back up to my face. “Not going to complain?”

  “About getting to eat you? No. Are you going to complain about it?”

  “No,” she replies with a smile.

  “Good. But I’m sneaking into your bed tonight after your parents are asleep.”

  “Are you?” she murmurs as Tucker races into the garden and spots us.

  “Yep. And I can’t wait.”

  She lays her head on my shoulder as her parents follow Tucker, who’s talking a mile a minute about the goats and the pirates and the wedding and acting out a sword fight.

  “This isn’t fake anymore, is it?” she whispers.

  “No, ma’am,” I whisper back into her wig.

  And I’m not sure it ever was.

  Twenty-Four

  Ellie

  Monica and Jason’s party at The Grog is more fun than I’ve had in months. Possibly years. There are pirate jokes and impromptu sword fights and a limerick contest with a bunch of implied words to protect the innocent ears in the room. Tucker makes friends with Monica’s cousin’s daughter, who’s a year younger than he is, and the two of them spend the evening playing pirate and talking about Pokémon cards and video games.

  Nobody talks about work or where we’ll be next week, except Monica and Jason, who will be on a cruise in the Bahamas.

  My parents want to know about when Wyatt and I hooked up though.

  “A psychic set us up,” he says, which makes my mom spit her ale.

  “I watched him lift a burning car off a baby and decided he was okay,” I say, which is lame after his answer, but Mom stops the third degree, and I find I can breathe again.

  I don’t mean to rub my leg, but it’s aching after coming down off my post-orgasm high, and suddenly Monica’s next to us. “If you don’t take her home and get her a hot bubble bath and a glass of wine right now, I’m going to ask the Rocks to blacklist you from Crow’s Nest and Anchovies,” she informs Wyatt.

  “It’s your wed—” I start, but she clamps her arm around my head and her hand across my mouth and gives Wyatt the I’m watching you hand gesture, then points to the door.

  “We both have cars here,” I say, but it comes out as “ee owe aah rrr rr” with Monica’s hand still over my mouth.

  If it weren’t her wedding day, I’d lick her hand, but honestly, I don’t know where it’s been, and I like Jason, but I don’t want to accidentally lick his penis sweat.

  “We’ll drive your car back, sweetie,” Mom says.

  “It’s like she doesn’t know you at all,” Wyatt whispers. “Sweetie?”

  Monica snorts with laughter.

  So does my father.

  “I’ll go get Tucker,” Wyatt says to Monica.

  “Oh, we’ll bring him home,” my mom says quickly. “He’s having so much fun.”

  He’s drinking root beer and completely missing all of his dart throws, which is about the cutest thing I’ve seen all day.

  “Out! Out!” somebody suddenly crows. One of the wandering goats has wandered into the bar.

  “Goats a normal part of the festival?” Wyatt asks.

  Grady Rock pauses on his way to the animal and shakes his head. “Never. Don’t know where the damn—darn things came from.”

  “They’re homeless goats?” Dad asks.

  Grady leans down and gets it by its horns. “Or somebody over in Sarcasm sent them,” he mutters.

  “Wouldn’t they have unicorn horns if Sarcasm sent them?” I ask.

  He glares at me. “You’re lucky you’re cute, or you’d be really annoying.”

  “They could be wild goats,” Wyatt points out. “Nomadic mountain goats. Psychic nomadic mountain goats come down to make sure you don’t call very nice women annoying.”

  Mom coughs to cover a laugh when Grady pins him with a look. “So let’s move the goats to your bedroom and see how you feel.”

  “Aren’t they the cutest, Chris? We should take one home,” Mom says to Dad.

  “Nomadic mountain goats wouldn’t take well to domestication,” he replies.

  “Dad! Dad! Can we keep a goat?” Tucker barrels over, wedding cake frosting on his cheek. I wipe it off while Wyatt shakes his head.

  “Your mother would kill me. You ready to go, or do you want to stay a while? I have to take Miss Ellie home.”

  Tucker frowns at me. “Does your leg hurt, Miss Captain Ellie?”

  “Just a little,” I tell him.

  “I got a cut on my finger.” He shoves the digit an inch from my nose, and I draw back to peer at the pinprick-size dot of red on his middle finger.

  “Did you get in a sword fight with toothpicks?” I ask.

  His eyes go wide. “How did you know?”

  “That’s how I get all my best cuts.”

  “Tucker?” Wyatt asks.

  “I wanna stay. Me and Sophia’s gonna play darts some more and pet the goats.”

  Grady groans as he wrestles one goat out, but two more come in.

  “You be good for Mr. and Mrs. Ryder, understand?”

  “Yeah, Dad!”

  He catches the little boy by the hips before he can dart away. “And when they say it’s time to go, it’s time to go. Yes, sir?”

  “Yes, sir. Can I go play darts now?”

  “Hug first.”

  Tucker launches himself at Wyatt and squeezes. “Love you, Dad.”

  “Love you too, bud.”

  He scampers off, and Wyatt shoots a look at my parents. “He’s a little sugared up.”

  “Psh. I raised Beck. I can handle Tucker on a little sugar.” She and Wyatt trade keys so we don’t have to swap Tucker’s booster seat.

  “I’m becoming displeased,” Monica says.

  “Want me to toss them, babe?” Jason asks.

  “Yes.”

  “We’re going,” Wyatt tells them, pulling me to my feet
. He frowns, and shakes his head as he looks at me. “Nope. Not that way.”

  “What—” I start, but before I can finish, he’s hefted me over his shoulder again like a sack of potatoes.

  “Leg okay?” he asks.

  “This is really annoying.”

  “I’m so tempted to slap your ass, but that would be a bad example for my kid.”

  “And my parents are watching.”

  “I know. Your dad’s glaring at me.”

  I manage to shuffle around until I can see my dad’s upside-down face.

  And Dad’s not glaring.

  Nope.

  If anything, he’s watching me like he’s realized his baby girl is all grown up. “Drive careful,” he says gruffly to Wyatt.

  “Always,” Wyatt replies.

  And despite that lingering fear that something terrible is waiting around the corner, because holy hell, that was quite the orgasm Wyatt gave me before the reception, I’m not the least bit concerned about making it back up to the house safe and sound.

  It’s Wyatt.

  Dependable, reliable, smokin’ hot, likes me Wyatt.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t call you back,” I tell him as we leave The Grog.

  He doesn’t ask when.

  Nope.

  “You needed your energy to kick recovery’s ass,” he replies.

  I could argue that I owed him an hour of my time. That it wasn’t nice of me to let him worry. Or any other argument in the world.

  Instead, I murmur, “Speaking of asses….” and take advantage of being carried over his shoulder, which puts me in a great spot to not only ogle his, but also squeeze it.

  His pace speeds up, and there I go again, laughing.

  I haven’t laughed this much in ages.

  And all it took was learning not to hate Wyatt.

  Who knew?

  Twenty-Five

  Ellie

  We ride in companionable silence up to the house.

  Holding hands.

  While my heart pounds in my throat.

  Everything’s different, but it’s also right.

  Wyatt knows my cranky sides. My stubborn sides. My ugly sides. He knows what he’s in for.

  And he wants it anyway.

  Despite who I am at my worst.