With a few inches between them, Gemma could breathe easier and her brain began to function again. He didn’t understand what she’d said? Baloney. She felt it; he felt it. Not for a second, not now, could she believe that this attraction was purely one-sided.
Biology didn’t work that way. Physics. Whatever.
She’d been a mediocre science student at best, and she’d been the object of a guy’s affection a time or two when she wasn’t the least bit interested in return—the fifty-year-old UPS man who stopped at the store almost daily was a case in point—but this thing with Boone just seemed too…intense to be a yang-less ying.
Right?
Uncertainty crept in as he stared at her like…
“I won’t bite,” she said, starting to feel a little cross as well.
Slowly he lowered his raised hands, his posture still wary.
Gemma rolled her eyes. “This can’t be such a shock to you. C’mon. Admit you feel something…uh, physical between us.”
His gaze cut away from her. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Boone—”
“Look.” He crossed his arms over his massive chest and his face set in stubborn lines. “There’s no chemistry between us. No chemistry at all.”
Oh, really? Though now he looked Gemma squarely in the eye, the small of his back was plastered to the edge of the countertop and his hands were securely tucked as if he didn’t trust himself not to snatch her close.
It was sort of sweet in its own, annoying way.
And it caused her to respond to impulse. “I think you’re full of it,” she said, letting the truth fly. Her other tactics to shut down this inconvenient lust hadn’t proved effective, so maybe a little honesty would defuse a situation they both clearly didn’t want to blow up in their faces.
He drew in a long breath, that did nothing to relax the tension she could easily discern in his stiff posture. “Baby,” he finally said. “I’m sorry if you’ve misread my signals. The truth is, you…you just don’t do anything for me.”
Because you just blurt out a “baby” when you’re indifferent to the woman standing five inches away from you.
Boone was either delusional or he thought she was. Frustrated, Gemma realized the kitchen had heated as hot as the oven, and she flicked open the top button of her shirt.
Boone’s gaze dropped there and his arms fell, his fingers curling into fists. “What the hell are you doing?”
She had no concrete idea, but she unfastened the next button anyway, despite the fact it might reveal some cleavage. “Making you sweat?”
“Of course not,” he snapped, swiping at his upper lip with one hand. “Nothing about you affects me.”
Uh-huh. Right. As giddy as a kid playing with fire, her fingers drifted lower. “You’re cute when you doth protest too much.”
“Cute?” Outrage infused his handsome features and he stepped closer, the tips of his shoes kissing hers.
“Yeah,” she said, staring up into his fathomless eyes, completely aware she was poking a bear with a sharp stick as she unfastened yet another button. Her heart pounded hard enough to bruise her ribs, but she didn’t heed its warning knell. “Cute.”
“That’s it,” he bit out, and then he shoved his hand beneath her hair to grip the nape of her neck. His stance widened as he yanked her close, her chest slamming against his.
She sucked in a quick breath and then his mouth was on her, an angry, frustrated kiss that bruised her lips before she opened them to his demand and his tongue slid inside—hot, strong, insistent.
Moaning, she gave herself up to the sensation of it all, the heated hardness of him where her breasts flattened against male muscles, the thick length of his erection that rose against her belly, the strong press of his fingers as he held her in place. His grip changed and he twisted his fingers in her hair then pulled her head back, exposing her throat to the glide of his lips, their sandpaper edge of whiskers a delicious scrape against her tender skin.
Her arms crept around his back and his free hand wandered down to her butt, tilting her hips tighter to his. Then it was on the move again. He wrenched her shirt from her jeans and his fingers drifted against the naked small of her back and then the tickly sides of her torso. Her breath stuttered and her skin prickled, her pulse scrambling when his hand closed over the cup of her bra.
His mouth found hers again, his tongue sliding home as his sure thumb stroked over her nipple. It rose higher beneath the lace and she went on tiptoe, wanting more. Wanting everything.
Then it was gone, his hand, his mouth, the promise of that everything.
He stepped away, breathing hard, staring at her with eyes that burned.
“What the hell?” He shoved his hands through his hair, the black layers going even more disordered. “What was that?”
Momentarily speechless, Gemma shook her head and tried to control her rioting pulse. All her good intentions, logical rationales, and self-protective walls had gone up in smoke.
“That was not in the play book,” Boone said, pointing at her, his forefinger bouncing around. “What do we do now?”
She swallowed, her thoughts confused, her body both empty and aching. The words, unplanned, tumbled out. “We…we have a fling, of course.”
Chapter 6
Boone avoided going home Friday night. He and his crew had knocked off early and he’d stopped with them for a beer at a local dive that had a view of the ocean and a couple of pool tables in the rear. But the guys had later plans, so after a couple of pitchers they all took off, leaving him at loose ends.
Instead of returning to Sawyer Shores, he opted for dropping in on his dad.
Jeremy Boone lived in a modest trailer among fifty others situated on a bluff above the ocean. The park, which included a clubhouse and pool, had been developed in the 1960s and though the residences themselves weren’t luxurious, they boasted beach access and ocean views that went for top dollar today.
Boone’s dad had bought the place before the Central Coast surged in popularity, as had most of the now-retired inhabitants. Consequently, the two-bedroom, tiny-bath domiciles showed little in the way of improvements. As he trudged up the steps to the front door, he ran his hand over the weathered wooden banister and made note to come over with a fine grit sandpaper and a new brush to apply a fresh coat of the white paint stored at the rear of the attached carport.
The old aluminum screen door, chalky with oxidation, rattled as he knocked on its frame, and Boone let himself in upon hearing his father’s voice. As expected, the older man sat in the living area, taking up one corner of his sagging couch. The plaid piece of furniture was parked directly in front of the huge, up-to-date flat-screen TV Boone had wrestled inside a couple months back.
His dad’s protests had died once Boone had shown him its features and he only fielded calls a couple of times a month when Boone the elder sat on the controls or otherwise reconfigured the settings.
The man looked over now, and smiled, his craggy face lighting up. “Son, I didn’t expect to see you.”
Since his dad didn’t have a landline and rarely turned on his cell phone—except to report on the misbehaving television—he hadn’t bothered calling ahead. “I wanted to see how you’re getting on.”
“On a Friday night?” His dad frowned. “You should have a date.”
Gemma. An image of her popped into his consciousness, clothes disheveled, mouth swollen from his kisses, face flushed in a way that made the rain-washed blue of her eyes shine like jewels.
What do we do now?
We…we have a fling, of course.
She’d been joking. Certainly she’d been joking, as evidenced by that little hesitation in her answer and the way she’d practically run from his house, exiting through the garage so she could collect her bicycle along the way.
“You know I’m not a big fan of dating, Dad,” he said. Nor did he throw women of his neighbor’s type over his shoulder and haul them off to his bed,
no matter how explosive the combustion brought on by a simple kiss.
Except it hadn’t been so simple. His memory unspooled, returning him to that hot kitchen, her sweet, wet mouth, the buoyant weight of her breast in the cup of his hand. Before his tongue had even touched hers he’d gone hard, his dick eager to turn foreplay into an all-night-long adventure.
Christ, all of him had been enthusiastic about the idea.
But his good sense had finally managed to make itself heard over the thick chug of his blood through his veins.
“…Boone?”
He started, aware he’d zoned out of the conversation—and his very surroundings. “I’m sorry.” He glanced around, reorienting himself by running his gaze over the fake wood-grained paneling and the floor lamp that had to be nearly as old as his old man. The only personal item in the space hung on the wall beside the front door, a framed photo of his parents on their wedding day, his dad in bell bottom jeans and his mom with flowers in her hair. The faded print had made its way from their old house closer to town when his father moved ten years before.
He turned his gaze to the older man. “What did you say, Dad?”
Boone the elder gestured with one hand. “Help yourself to a beer. And anything else you find in the refrigerator.”
Taking the few steps across the worn carpet to the linoleum kitchen floor, Boone obeyed, then pulled open the ancient Whirlpool’s door. The shelves held little.
Not that his were any better, he thought ruefully, grabbing a beer. A quick inspection of the cupboards proved they were nearly as empty. Frowning, he decided to hit the grocery store the next day and stock up for them both. The no-kill cat shelter he favored could probably use some supplies as well.
Cold bottle in hand, he found a seat in the opposite corner of the sofa from his father. Judging by the low-def picture on the TV, it rebroadcast some decades-old football game. A championship match era Who-Cares.
Without looking away from the screen, his dad cleared his throat. “I’m serious about you dating, son.”
“Huh?” Boone said, turning to stare. Serious about him dating?
Where was this coming from? Projection? “Are you interested in companionship, Dad?” The man had celebrated his seventieth birthday the month before, but he was in good health and kept himself in decent shape. There was no good reason, he supposed, that his father couldn’t go out for coffee or a drink with a lady.
Uneasy, Boone cleared his throat. “The widow two doors down is always asking after you.” And there had to be a matchmaking app for the Social Security set, right?
“That won’t get me grandbabies,” his father muttered.
Boone’s eyes nearly bugged out of his head. What the hell? Grandbabies? Where was this coming from? Boone had no more daddy in him than he had husband. What did he know about raising kids?
Though the old man had done it just fine without any special training, he knew. Raised his son, since before Boone hit school-age, doing the work of two parents without complaint. All alone.
Still alone after all these years.
Boone took another glance around the trailer’s lackluster interior, for the first time seeing it as…what? Lifeless. Dull.
Shit.
Sad.
How could he not have realized his father might be unsatisfied with his solitary existence?
“Really, Dad, you could, uh, find someone,” Boone said. No matter how awkward he felt about the subject matter—because when had he and his father discussed anything beyond sports, weather, and…okay, just sports and weather?—he was determined to plow on. “You’re a catch. You could find a woman to share your life with.”
For a moment his dad’s focus didn’t shift from the TV, then it switched to that frame by the door. To the woman with the flowers in her hair.
His long silence communicated several things at once.
He wasn’t engaging with the topic. He wasn’t interested in change for himself. He was a man still mourning the one who got away twenty-six years before.
Another brand-new thought burst in Boone’s brain. Would that be him in another four decades? Suddenly they yawned ahead of him, a void as hollow as his father’s empty fridge. As lonely as those barren cupboard shelves.
Christ.
All at once uneasy, he made his excuses and left, guessing both Boone men were grateful for his hasty exit. Next time, he silently promised them both, the conversation wouldn’t go any deeper than rainfall totals and the latest prospects of their favorite pro sports teams.
Halfway home, he thought better of his destination and drove to Hart’s instead, eager for a distraction. His best friend answered the door, phone to his ear. Gesturing Boone in with his free hand, he concluded his call. “Babe, I’ll call you later to say good night.”
He listened to the response, a little smile playing over his face. “Yeah,” he said softly. “Love you too.”
Boone pretended to retch as Hart slipped his phone into his back pocket. The other man sighed. “Grow up, loser.”
Laughing, Boone regarded his friend, his mood improving by the second. Since the single-digits, they’d shared packed lunches, homework answers, and the details they’d gleaned about girls and sex. At fifteen, in Auto Shop class, they’d added a couple more guys to their tight circle while learning to dead-time an engine, play poker, and curse like the members of a motorcycle gang.
“What’s up?” Hart asked now, leading the way to his family room, where a better couch sat on a better rug and another big-screen TV played yet another sporting event. “Need something?”
“Nah,” Boone said. “I thought I’d…” What? He didn’t want to admit, even to himself, he was here in an effort to avoid his neighbor, to avoid even thinking about his neighbor. “How’s Kim?” he asked, knowing it was a sure-to-work diversion.
Hart didn’t smile again, but he’d say the other man glowed if his old buddy wouldn’t deck him for such a flowery phrase. “Great. Getting pretty excited. Not long to go.”
“You look pretty excited yourself,” Boone observed, and he was fucking thrilled for Hart, who was good-natured, generous, and loyal, making him deserving of all that happy and ever after that pop songs promised.
That he’d found the love of his life proved the world could get it right at least some of the time.
“What’s with the stupid grin?” Hart asked. And before Boone could answer, his friend’s expression turned sly. “Something to do with your new neighbor?”
Boone’s poker face was fifteen years in the making. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Who,” Hart said, smiling now.
“I don’t know who you’re talking about.”
His friend shook his head. “Won’t work, buddy. You left poker first last night and Eli spilled the beans the minute the door shut behind your taciturn ass. He says you staked a claim.”
It wasn’t even a question, damn it.
“A mistake,” Boone said, terse.
“Begs the question…why?”
Shit. He thought of her then, as he wasn’t supposed to, her kiss-swollen mouth, her dark-lashed eyes, the combination of feminine features and limbs that had ignited his libido.
“Hart, she’s wrong for me,” he told them both. “Not my type.”
“You like all kinds of women,” his friend pointed out in a reasonable tone. “Blondes, redheads, brunettes…”
“Yeah, but—”
“…teachers, waitresses, school bus drivers…”
“Shut up.”
“…flight attendants, postal carriers, circus performers…”
“Fuck you.” He’d never been with a circus performer. “Look, not my type, you hear me? She’s not some happy-to-hook-up girl. She’s…she’s…a forever girl. I wouldn’t know what to do with her.”
“Why not attempt something novel, buddy?” His best friend smirked. “Take her out before you lay her down.”
There were only two answers to that. They c
ame from the middle fingers of both his hands. Then he stalked out of Hart’s house, the other man’s laughter ringing in his ears.
He drove home on a wave of indignation, his brain occupied with recalling the perfect embarrassing stories to incorporate in his best man’s wedding speech. It was only when he reached his block and his gaze zeroed in on the house next door to his that his thoughts were hijacked in the direction he’d been resisting—with varied success—for the last few hours.
Okay, days.
Her front windows glowed, but her landscape and porch lights were off, indicating she was home for the evening.
He thought what it would be like to join her there, no longer alone like his dad, and not like Hart either, who was forced to delay satisfaction for a few more weeks. Boone would walk past those ridiculous stuffed animals and sweep past a sign that said some candy-ass phrase like “Enjoy your bliss” to find his way to Gemma’s bedroom.
Now his imagination went full-color and all-access. Her bare body, her flushed skin, her thighs spreading for him as he made a place between them. She was wet for him, her pussy already blossoming like a sweet, hot flower. His chest brushed the rigid tips of her nipples and she moaned, biting her full bottom lip.
Just as her tight flesh began to close around his cock, the fantasy morphed.
Gemma, fully clothed, sitting on the couch and within the crook of Boone’s arm. Her fragrant hair available for casual nuzzling, and just her mere proximity filling that hole he’d never been aware of before today.
Fuck.
What do we do now?
We…we have a fling, of course.
Whether Gemma had been joking that night or not, Boone’s inability to stop thinking about the possibility was no laughing matter. No laughing matter indeed.
* * *
Saturday afternoon, Gemma pushed a cart into Duffy Farms, a grocery that featured local foodstuffs—produce, meats, cheese, bread, and wine. She set the alarm app on her phone to remind herself not to go beyond the minutes she’d budgeted for this errand. The demanding agenda of her weekend days didn’t allow for any distraction.
ALL IN (7-Stud Club Book 1) Page 6