It didn’t escape Gemma that her ending things with a guy who on the outside looked so perfect had perplexed her mother. A comprehensive explanation had eluded Gemma herself, however, so she’d opted for mumbles and shrugs, aware she’d even further confounded the older woman.
“Who’s the lucky man?” her mother pressed now.
“You don’t know him.” Gemma didn’t know him either, not really, and now she was having dinner with him. But she paid her debts, damn it, and he’d gotten her out of a tight spot with Candice. So it was only because she owed him.
That was her story, anyway, and she was sticking to it.
“Is it Sunday?” asked Rita to the room at large. “Vivien, is it Sunday?”
“I believe it is,” Gemma’s mother answered. Both women frowned at each other.
“What?” Gemma said, clasping her hands together and interlacing her fingers. “Is there some conflicting family event I’ve forgotten about? I…I can renege. I’ll tell him I’m not available.” That could be good, she thought, relief coursing through her. She’d text Boone and explain her unfortunate mistake in double-booking the evening and then promptly block his number.
Okay, that might not entirely work since he lived next door, but surely she could avoid him somehow for the next weeks until her apartment above the shop was ready for occupation.
“As if we’d let you cancel on a date for that,” her mom said, shaking her head.
“It’s the Sunday night situation.” Rita recrossed her legs, automatically adjusting the center crease on her slacks. “There’s conflicting wisdom about going out with a man on that day of the week.”
“Yes,” her sister agreed. “On the one hand, a morning in church can turn a man’s thoughts to the appeal of a sacred union between a man and a woman.”
“On the other hand,” Auntie said, with a rueful twist to her lips. “It can do the exact opposite.”
Instead of pointing out that between them several “sacred unions” hadn’t stuck, Gemma slipped her phone from her back pocket and checked the hour. “I don’t think Boone spends his Sunday mornings in a pew, so I’m covered there. But I don’t have much time to select an outfit.”
“Boone!” Auntie said, rising. “That’s a promising name. So masculine. Confident. Sexy.”
Of course, he was all of the above, but Gemma didn’t share. Instead, she headed for the rear spare room and the closet where she’d stored a lot of her things, her two relatives on her heels.
Unsurprised by her unasked-for entourage, she couldn’t help but notice how her mother’s latest husband’s presence had so quickly been wiped clean from the house. But she supposed there’d not been much to begin with—though she remembered the front spare room had been fitted out as a masculine office/study. Passing it by, she noted now it held a graceful desk in one corner and center stage sat her mother’s sewing machine and sewing table.
Gemma, attracted by the folded fabric stacked there, as well as a pile of tiny buttons, paused in the doorway. “What are you up to, Mom?”
Vivien brushed past to reach inside a pale pink gift box opened on the desk. From it, she withdrew a christening gown, tiny and delicate, as sweet as anything an angel might wear. “I made this for my friend Susan’s first grandbaby, and she’s asked for a few other items too.”
“Wow.” Gemma admired the design and then was drawn inside the room where she glanced over pattern pieces of a little yellow dress, a shorts and top outfit, and a small pink coat laid out on the tabletop.
“I did the embroidery,” her aunt said, indicating the white flowers and hearts along the ruffled hem of the christening ensemble, which included a cap embellished with more hand-stitching.
“We’re going to monogram everything,” her mother added. “Susan can’t wait for the baby shower.”
“Wow,” Gemma said again. Her mother had made clothes for her years ago, and the two women regularly tailored their own store-bought items for each other, but she hadn’t guessed the extent of their talents. With free time on their hands, they’d been keeping busy, she supposed. “You two should do this professionally,” she said.
They glanced at each other. “What do you mean?” Auntie said.
“Make baby items, like these. I could sell them in my shop. ‘Hand-sewn from the Central Coast.’ Something like that.”
Her mother frowned. “We’d…work?”
Gemma suppressed an eye roll, realizing the only work the pair had done all their grown lives was the work of finding their next husband.
“It wouldn’t feel like work, though,” her aunt said, seeming to warm to it. “It could be fun.”
“Yes,” Vivien said, apparently mulling over the idea as well. “And it might keep us occupied until…”
The next marriage. In order to avoid either of the women voicing that out loud, Gemma turned away. “Well, you think about it. In the meantime, I need to find something to wear.”
That got her relatives moving. “You jump in the shower, then,” her mother said briskly. “Rita and I will gather a few options. Did you bring your makeup bag?”
Reading the answer on Gemma’s face—she didn’t have a makeup bag, she had a makeup handful in the top drawer of the bathroom vanity and a lip gloss in her purse, next to a much-more-often-used untinted lip balm—her aunt waved a hand. “No matter. Your mom and I have that covered too.”
Not doubting for a second, Gemma ducked into the hall bathroom, tucked her hair into a shower cap she found under the sink, and indulged for a few minutes beneath a hot spray, enjoying the freesia scent of the supplied soap. With a towel wrapped around her, she hurried into the spare room and ran her gaze over the three outfits displayed on the bed.
A very, very short knit dress with three-quarter sleeves and a turtleneck.
“I think that one fit when I was in seventh grade,” Gemma said.
Her aunt whisked it away.
Next she looked at a blue dress that she recalled had a pleasing drape, but… “The buttonholes are too loose.” They marched from throat to also-short hemline. “I’d spend the entire time fussing with it.”
“Into the mending pile,” her mom declared, then threw out her hand toward the sole item left. “I think this dress will be perfect.”
Cream colored and splashed with poppies of scarlet, pink, and tangerine. Long sleeved, fitted at the waist, and with a hem that hit between her knees and ankles. The neckline plunged severely.
She clutched at the towel around her with one hand, where it was tightly tucked between her breasts. “I don’t know if you realize—”
“It’s either a very short skirt with a high neckline or a longish one with a deep vee,” her aunt declared. “That’s a date rule.”
“Um…but…”
Her mother held up a pair of nude-colored pumps. “You can borrow these from me.”
Gemma eyed the sky-high heels. “I won’t be able to walk in those.”
“You will if you hold onto his elbow,” Rita said, then leaned forward conspiratorially. “The entire point.”
“Oh, God.” Gemma closed her eyes. Was she really doing this? Going out on a date with Boone, in a dress that said, that said… Well, at the bare minimum, it said she’d made an effort.
And she wanted to, she had to admit. He’d not lost a shred of attractiveness during the days she hadn’t seen him, his physical virility as imposing in a grocery aisle as it had been in his kitchen. Candice had testified to his character too, making him out to be nearly a Boy Scout. Honest, she’d said, and budget conscious.
Yes, a Boy Scout.
Wait.
Was that why he’d followed her to her car and insisted on them going out? Because he was honest to a fault, and since he’d implied to Candice the two of them were dating he was obliged to make it true?
Then she thought of that look in his eyes, the scrape of his callused thumb on her face, the possibility of him kissing her again. Oh, yes. No matter exactly why, she was going to do this
. For once she wasn’t going to overthink a situation. She’d just feel her way through it.
And enjoy their evening together. Why not?
“The cream dress it is,” she said, and moved to the dresser where she’d stashed extra underwear. The bras there were no good for the cut of the garment, but Vivien found the perfect one, of course, scented with the lavender sachet that she kept tucked in her lingerie envelope.
Distracted for a moment, Gemma stared at the pale satin packet in her mother’s hand, edged in lace and embroidered with her initials. “You could make those for my shop too,” she said, drawing one fingertip over the smooth fabric. “With catchy phrases embroidered on them instead of a monogram.”
Her aunt looked intrigued. “‘Every day is another day to be beautiful’ or ‘Confidence is sexy.’”
“Exactly,” Gemma said. Or maybe a pair of lingerie holders appropriate for a bridal shower gift, she mused. One could read “Nice” for everyday items and the other “Naughty” for risqué boudoir wear. If the ladies followed through, she’d mention it.
“But right now we have to focus on the task at hand,” her mother said, reaching for the dress. “There’s a man who needs to be impressed by a Marquette woman.”
And because Gemma remembered that Boone was also “famously punctual,” she allowed her self-appointed fairy godmothers to help her get ready. They dressed her, fussed with her makeup, then each held an arm as she slipped into the ankle-threatening shoes.
“I don’t know,” she said, focusing on the reflection of the high heels in the full-length mirror while trying not to wobble.
“Stop worrying about getting from place to place and think about how beautifully they lengthen your legs,” her aunt advised. Over Gemma’s shoulder, she did her own study of her niece’s reflection. “Vivien?”
“The raspberry pink,” her mother said, two fingers holding out the skirt of the dress as she examined the flowers there with narrowed eyes. “There’s the perfect sample in the extras box in the middle drawer of my vanity.”
Gemma’s aunt hurried off. Her mother cast her a concerned look. “Are you all right, sweetheart? You seem a little rattled.”
“Sure, I’m terrific.” There was no way she would confess she was half-afraid and half-gleeful about going out with a man who did things to her insides that she’d never known before.
And she’d given herself permission to enjoy it.
Suppressing a shiver, she thought again of his thumb stroking her face. “I’m more than great.”
“You are.” Her mother tweaked her hair, coaxing a waving lock forward. “He’s going to swallow his tongue.”
Then Rita was back and she insisted Gemma close her eyes while she applied the lipstick herself, using a tiny brush. “I don’t know if we’ve forgotten to share this secret with you or not, my Gem,” she said. “But when you want a man’s full attention, you make sure you match your lipstick color with something you’re wearing—your blouse, say, or in this case one of the poppies on your dress.”
With a sigh, Rita stepped back. “You can open your eyes now.”
Gemma obeyed, then stared at the mirror. Elegance provided by the shoes and dress. Sex appeal thanks to the low décolletage. A little mystery was added by the smoky eye makeup.
And her raspberry-colored, pouting mouth…
That was pure promise.
She swallowed, noting the way the pulse in her throat visibly thrummed. Was she truly ready for this?
Her aunt sighed again, her hands clasped at her heart. “Oh, Vivien. She looks just like you.”
“And a lot like you,” her mother added. “The Marquette power in all its feminine glory.”
We’re the marrying kind, echoed in Gemma’s head, but she shoved the thought away, because tonight wasn’t about permanency.
Enjoy the moment. Enjoy the man.
“Now, Gemma.” Rita laughed a little. “Remember that with such power comes great responsibility.”
“Yes, sweetheart,” her mother said, patting her on the shoulder and smiling. “Promise to use it only for good.”
Or bad, Gemma considered, still fascinated with the reflection in the mirror, feeling as if she could topple a mountain of a man with a single push of her fingertip when she looked like this.
Enjoy the moment. Enjoy the man.
And definitely no overthinking!
Her breath quickened with anticipation as the perfect plan formed in her mind.
Tonight she’d exercise her Marquette power all right. She’d exercise it to leave good behind for once and instead be a very bad girl.
* * *
Boone strode up Gemma’s walkway, feeling doomed. Asking her on a date tonight had been a dumbass idea that he laid entirely at Hart’s door—Take her out before you lay her down.
Of course, then there’d been Candice who’d looked to him to endorse her effin’ nephew as a Valentine’s date. Shit, every man with a brain avoided the 14th of February like the plague because it cast some sort of spell on people.
He knew a guy, with a special evening on the fourteenth in mind, who’d joined the Zumba class taught by the object of his unspoken affection, hoping she’d notice him. She had, all right, when he tripped over his own feet and broken his ankle attempting a complicated maneuver. While she was sympathetic, turns out she was also gay and in a committed relationship.
In another instance, a friend of a friend had sent herself elaborate gifts leading up to Valentine’s Day to make her lazy boyfriend jealous. Certain she must be cheating on him to receive so many luxury presents, he’d been inspired to break up with her instead of pledging undying love.
So the end of that scene in Duffy’s meant Boone had actually saved Candice’s effin’ nephew from a future Cupid-related disaster, he thought, scowling.
But really, the truth was, he’d not been thinking of anything but his own declaration from days before when the subject of dating had entered the conversation. Claim staked, he’d said to Eli. In the grocery aisle, he’d been no less certain.
Now, though, the rubber was actually hitting the road and he was minutes away from taking Gemma Marquette out for the evening.
Of course it was going to be a disaster. Any date that all parties understood wasn’t leading directly to bed was the kind of date Boone hadn’t bothered with in years. He’d have nothing to say; she’d be miserable.
Without the carrot of fully exploring their potent sexual connection at the end of the evening, the hours before returning her home would only be awkward and frustrating for them both.
But—since rubber was meeting road—he was going to be the consummate gentleman during them, even if it killed him.
On a resigned sigh, he knocked on her door, reminding himself to watch his p’s and mind his q’s—whatever the hell they were—because, as he’d told Hart, Gemma was not some happy-to-hook-up girl.
Yeah, disaster, he thought, letting out a low groan. Awkward, frustrating, disaster.
Then the door swung open. One look, and his brooding mood…evaporated.
No, it hadn’t disappeared, it was just sucked into the whirling vortex that had been his thought processes a second before.
Nothing registered but Gemma, dressed in flowers, her mouth a pouting berry, her blue eyes bright and fixed on him.
She smiled, another body blow. “Ready?” she asked.
Speechless, he nodded. Then she stepped forward, crowding him because his big feet had bonded to her doorstep. Shit.
She smiled again, a little uncertain this time, and she wobbled on a pair of high heels designed to make a guy go caveman and heave her over his shoulder. When she swayed again, his hand automatically shot to her waist to steady her and they both sucked in air at the physical contact.
Her delicate scent invaded his lungs, dizzying him, and he tightened his fingers on her to keep his own balance. Hers found purchase at the side of his shirt, curling to fist the fabric. They stared at each other, both panting a little.
Because he couldn’t stop himself, he bent to press a kiss on the side of throat—her mouth was much too dangerous. She twitched under the slight press of his lips, but he lingered there, breathing her in, then touched the tip of his tongue to the heated skin. She made a low noise, that fist on his shirt tightening.
Boone lifted his head, taking in the new flush that painted her cheekbones and ran down her neck to that heart-attack amount of skin below. The cut of the dress revealed her fragile collarbones and then the inside rise of her small, firm breasts. She wasn’t ample enough to produce centerfold-caliber cleavage, but that didn’t matter to Boone.
He loved the modest swells. Between them, there was plenty of space for a man to lay his head for a short, post-sex nap. And on a second round, when he pressed the pretty mounds together, the thick girth of his cock would appreciate the room as well.
She made another little sound and his gaze flew up to her wide eyes. Damn. Hell. Stupid.
He’d promised himself to treat this woman with the utmost restraint and care, and here he was giving her a starring role in his raunchy daydreams. Gritting his teeth, he shifted and waved his hand to indicate she should precede him down the steps. So what he watched the shift of her ass beneath the skirts of that dress, he wasn’t grabbing it, for God’s sake.
Wasn’t that a point in his favor?
As predicted, he couldn’t think of a thing to say on the way to the trattoria he’d chosen for their meal. Well, that wasn’t strictly true. He managed to compliment her on what she was wearing, then tightened his jaw before he admitted all he wanted to do was strip it off.
Asking if she enjoyed Italian food came next, and she did, thank God. The menu at Giovanni’s was extensive and they’d have ample choices. At least one of his appetites would be satisfied that night.
The hostess knew him so they were led to a cozy booth in one corner of the restaurant, the table lit by a flickering candle that cast a golden glow over Gemma’s pretty skin—as if she needed to look any more enticing. He kept his gaze away from her by focusing on one of the large menus that was as good as a wall between them. From behind its relative safety, he scrubbed a hand over his face, trying to get his head back in the game.
ALL IN (7-Stud Club Book 1) Page 8