by Susan Gable
“Nice to see you, too,” Jenna greeted the spaniel.
“Hey, pup.” Sloan crouched down to scratch the dog’s ears.
“Can I get you something to drink?”
“Sure. What are my choices?”
He settled on a bottled beer. Jenna poured a chilled raspberry wine cooler into a long-stemmed glass for herself while he explored her stereo and CD collection. “Give us some music, Tex.”
“You’ve got a very eclectic collection here.”
“That surprises you? I’m a woman of many moods.”
“Now that doesn’t surprise me. Seems to me most women have many moods. And you…”
She crossed the living area, drinks in hand. “I what?”
He lifted one shoulder as he placed several discs into the player. His fingers flashed over buttons whose functions had always eluded her. “You strike me… I don’t know, as a very complex woman.”
“Me? Complex?” She shook her head. “I’m as simple as they come. There’s my philosophy.” She pointed to a carved sign that hung over the sliding doors to the deck.
“‘Live Well, Love Much, Laugh Often,’ huh?”
“Yep.”
“What about dance in the rain and make snow angels?”
“Oh, yeah.”
“And eat dessert first?” His eyes darkened, and he took both drinks from her, setting them on the coffee table.
“Definitely.”
“I dance,” he said, taking her hand. “But I’m probably a little rusty at that, too. May I?”
With very little awkwardness, she found herself ensconced in his arms. After a few false starts where she nearly trampled his toes, he two-stepped her around the edges of the living-room rug.
“Well, what do you know? You do dance, Tex. We’re going to have to go bowling again.”
He grinned. “Two-stepping is not the same as wiggling your butt on a bowling alley in front of a group of strangers.”
“One step at a time. One step at a time.”
“You think?”
“If you give me a chance, I think I can show you that life is never more complicated than wiggling your butt on a bowling lane.”
“If you say so.”
The music slowed to a romantic ballad. Jenna dropped her head to his shoulder, snuggled into him. The warm scent of spicy cologne mixed with Sloan’s own musky smell. Her fingers caressed the nape of his neck. He tightened his arm around her waist, nuzzled her hair.
“Mmm.” She sighed. “Nice.”
“Mmm-hmm.” His agreement rumbled through his chest beneath her cheek. “Very nice.”
The music eventually changed again, but they continued to shift back and forth. Jenna lifted her head. As though he knew just what she wanted, he bent his neck, taking her mouth with his.
Tentative at first, brushing her lips with feathery kisses, he grew bolder, taking her bottom lip between his. Impatient when he went back to surface exploration, she cupped the back of his neck and flirted with his mouth with the tip of her tongue.
“Easy,” he breathed. “No rush. One step at a time.”
He resumed his leisurely kisses, stroking her face, her jawline, the curve of her ear with his fingertips. By the time he deepened things, letting his tongue coax and caress, her knees trembled, desire curled in the pit of her belly—and lower—and she’d decided she definitely wanted his boots under her bed.
Wow-eee, the man could kiss!
“Whew,” he whispered, easing back. “Maybe I’m rustier than I thought.”
“Rusty? You call that rusty? Then I’m in big trouble once you’ve had some practice.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really.”
His blue eyes twinkled at her reassurance. “I— I should go.”
“Go? Now? You’ve got to be kidding me. You haven’t had your drink. We haven’t…had dessert.” Oh, God. Maybe he didn’t really feel the same attraction. But after that kiss-fest, she’d thought…
Sloan watched the flush of desire fade from her face. Bewilderment, mingled with embarrassment, replaced it.
“Oh, hey, it’s not that I don’t want dessert.” He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her against him, making sure she could feel just how their slow-dance kissing had aroused him. “I definitely want dessert. Want you.” He bent down and gave her another lingering lip lock to erase any further doubts she might have. Then he rested his forehead against hers.
“So why were you leaving?”
“Two reasons. First of all, I have to face a teenager when I get home. I know it’s probably hard to understand—because, after all, I’m the grown-up so I can sort of do what I want—but that’s the point. I’m the grown-up. I need to set a good example. I’ve always told Brook to do the right thing…not to have sex, to wait, take things slow. I can’t very well jump into your bed on our first date, can I?”
“I wouldn’t complain. Or tell.”
He laughed. “Then there’s reason number two.”
“Which is?”
“There’s really something to be said for anticipation. Heightens the experience.”
“OHMIGOD, he actually said that?” Margo leaned on the kitchen island.
Jenna nodded as she slid the dish of chicken cordon bleu—the one edible thing she could cook—from the oven. “He did. Then he kissed me once more, turning me into a total puddle of frustrated mush, and then went home. I cannot tell you the amount of self-control it took for me not to head into the bedroom the second the door shut, grab my trusty battery-operated companion and finish what he’d started.”
“You mean you didn’t?”
“No. I figured that defeated the whole purpose.” Jenna spooned the entrée onto teal-edged plates, then added several spears of asparagus and portions of wild rice. “Make yourself useful and pour the wine.”
“I can’t. I’m in shock. Since when does a carefully selected man, when granted access, turn down a trip to your bed?”
“Apparently, since yesterday.” Jenna uncorked the bottle. “Aren’t you supposed to be making me feel better about this? Isn’t that in the best-friend handbook somewhere?”
“Um…he didn’t say no, only not now. Does that help?”
“Tons.” Pouring the wine, Jenna grimaced. “One really sad thing is that I think he might be right. After what he did to me last night with a few kisses, the other sad thing is that I’d wait forever for him to decide he’s ready. I am so pa-the-tic!”
“No, I’m pathetic for wanting every last detail.” Margo took the plates over to the table. “Sex by proxy. Now that gives a whole new meaning to pathetic. Although…” She let the word dangle while she sat down and Jenna joined her.
“Although what?”
“I did meet a guy at the conference last weekend.”
“What? And you didn’t tell me?”
“All we did was talk. He lives in Morgantown.”
“West Virginia?”
“Yeah, about three hours from here. He called me today. I don’t know if anything will happen.”
Jenna stared out the window as Margo continued to talk. Over in Sloan’s house, lights shone in the upstairs bedrooms. He hadn’t called. And she’d resisted the temptation to pump Brook for information today while they’d worked at Element-ry.
“Jenna? Are you listening?”
“Huh? Of course.” She stroked the stem of her wineglass, toying with a bead of condensation. “We’re talking about men. I wonder what Sloan’s doing?”
“Hellooo? I know it’s generally about you, Princess Jenna, but can we focus on me and my man situation for just a few minutes?”
Jenna’s face warmed. “I’m sorry, Margo. Sure. Tell me more about him.” She struggled to keep her attention on her best friend’s face and story, and ignore the pull of the lights next door.
SLOAN GRUNTED, shoving himself off the living-room floor, then eased back down again. His arms trembled, but he continued with the push-ups. He should have called her. Or sent fl
owers. Something. But he didn’t want to appear overeager. Or give her the wrong idea.
Although he wasn’t quite sure which idea was the wrong one. He’d enjoyed their dinner and conversation, her company. But that kind of thing smacked of friendship. Companions. A relationship—something he wasn’t ready for.
On the other hand, there was the idea of…dessert…with her. Mind-blowing. He forced his thoughts from her smooth skin, her tempting lips, her sensual, fun-loving nature. The last thing he needed tonight was to greet Brook’s date with a tent in his shorts. Totally wrong message to send a hormonal teenager.
With renewed vigor, he fired off a few more push-ups, then flopped onto his back, working crunches. By the time the doorbell rang, he answered it in perfect intimidation form: dripping with sweat, muscle T glued to his torso, biceps twitching. He gave the kid on the porch a long, slow appraisal. The varsity jacket didn’t bode well. He knew jocks and their mindset.
The boy’s face went a shade paler under the intense scrutiny and his eyes darted over Sloan, seeming to take in the dripping sweat, the muscles. He cleared his throat, then stuck out his hand. “Mr. Thompson? I’m Dylan Burch. I’m here to pick up Brook.”
Sloan had to give him credit. At least he had some manners and guts. With a firm grip—not too hard, but enough to let Junior know who he was dealing with— Sloan pumped his hand a few times, then gestured into the house. “Come on in. Brook should be down in a few minutes, and that gives us a little time to get to know one another.”
“Uh, sure.” Dylan glanced around the living room.
“Have a seat.”
The interrogation got off to an easy start, with the usual questions: what grade he was in—senior, another point lost—how long he’d been driving, stuff like that. When Sloan heard footsteps overhead, he flexed his biceps and rubbed his knuckles in what he hoped was an apparent absentminded fashion. “You have her home by eleven-thirty, not a second later. Don’t even think about taking a drink while you have my daughter with you, and you keep your hands to yourself, or I break them. Clear?”
Dylan shot off the couch as Brook descended the stairs. “Y-yes sir, Mr. Thompson.”
Brook wore a clingy light blue dress that showed several more inches of thigh than necessary. The instinct to send her back upstairs to change only grew stronger when he noticed Dylan’s stare. “You remember what I just told you, boy,” Sloan growled. “And you—curfew is eleven-thirty, not one minute after unless you want to be grounded for the rest of the month.”
“Okay, Dad, chill.” Brook slipped into a white sweater, then picked up her purse. “You ready, Dylan?”
The boy nodded.
“Hold up one second.” Sloan retrieved his cell phone from the end table. He held it out to his daughter. “Take this. You call me if you need a ride for any reason.” He narrowed his eyes and glared at the kid, who looked down at his feet.
“Okay, Dad, if aliens abduct us, you’ll be the first to know.”
Sloan held the door for them. “Have fun.” Once it had closed behind them, he exhaled. “But not too much.”
The house phone rang before he could resume his calisthenics. Of course, the portable wasn’t on the base—probably buried in Brook’s room somewhere—forcing him to race into the kitchen and grab the wall-mounted unit. “Hello?”
“Hey,” his sister said, “what’s up?”
“Oh, not much. I just sent Brook off on a first date with a new guy.”
Rachel groaned. “Please tell me you weren’t cleaning your gun when he picked her up.”
Sloan laughed. “Who do you take me for— Dad? Nah, I’m not like that.” Hell, no, he was much subtler than the old man.
“Speaking of dates, I hear through the grapevine that my big brother had a first date of his own last night.”
Sloan spluttered for a moment. “How the hell did you hear that?” Then he remembered his younger daughter’s rush to phone her cousin. “Ashley?”
Rae laughed. “Seems your daughter and Molly have become buddies of a sort. Don’t worry, I’ve already told Molly she is not to instruct Ashley on matchmaking the way Cherish egged Molly on when James and I were dating. These older girls can be such an influence on the younger ones.”
“Sounds like my daughter and I need to have a little chat.”
“So, tell me about your date.”
“You’re nosy, you know that?”
“Absolutely. Now tell me.”
“Don’t go making something out of nothing. We went out to dinner…end of story.”
“Hmm…sounds like there’s more to it than that. More than you want me to know.”
“Go with that instinct and butt out, huh?”
“Ooo, Sloan’s got a girlfriend.”
Despite himself, Sloan laughed. “Twerp. Man, you always were a pain in the neck when it came to my love life. I was glad to enlist and ship out just so I could have some peace about it.”
“So, you’re actually admitting you have a love life again?”
“Bye, Rae. I’ll see you next weekend for Ashley’s birthday party. Nice talking to you.” With a broad grin, he replaced the phone in the cradle. Damn, it felt good knowing his sister was close again. And happy again.
He headed up the stairs, calling, “Ashley? We need to talk, Peach.” After striding down the hallway, he paused in the doorway of her room. She sat on the floor in front of the pink dollhouse he’d gotten her for last year’s birthday. She had a girl doll in one hand, a male in the other, and as he watched, she pressed the two together, making a sharp smooching sound. “I love you,” she said in a high quivery voice. “Now we can get married and live happily ever after.”
No more fairy tales for her. He cleared his throat.
She tossed the dolls into the house so their heads crashed into the wall, then looked up at him. “Daddy. I didn’t hear you come in.”
“That’s ’cause I’m not in yet.” He crossed her room and sat on the edge of her twin bed. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing.”
“I hear you talked to Molly.”
Her face pinkened. “It’s okay now, right? It’s not long distance anymore ’cause we live in the same state, right?”
The intricacies of long-distance phone plans eluded even him. “Peach, you can call Aunt Rachel’s house whenever you want. I’m glad you get along with your cousin. I just want to know why you needed to talk to her.”
Ashley smoothed back her hair, then tossed her head in a startling imitation of Brook. “Oh, you know, girl stuff.”
Sloan struggled to keep a straight face. “Girl stuff, huh?”
“Uh-huh. Sorry, Daddy, but you wouldn’t get it.”
For a moment, Sloan reflected on all the “girl stuff” he’d managed to survive as the single father to two daughters—dolls and tea parties, nail polish and dress up, Brook’s first bra and period. Damnation, those last two had shaved a few years off his lifespan and added a couple of gray hairs to his chest, of all places. Their sex talks—make that their abstinence talks—had added more gray. And to think, he could look forward to doing all that again with Ashley. He stifled a sigh.
“Peach, if there’s ever anything you need to talk about, you know you can ask me, right? For a dad, I know a lot about girl stuff.”
She nodded. “And I have Aunt Rae. And Jenna.”
“Jenna? Sweetheart, I think you’re getting the wrong idea about Jenna.”
“I heard Brook on the phone with Kelly last night while you were gone and she said Jenna was so cool because she knew all about girl stuff that you don’t get, like guys and kissing and clothes.”
“Oh, really? Hey, I’m a guy and I wear clothes.”
Ashley giggled.
Kissing didn’t need to be discussed. Although based on Jenna’s reaction last night, he thought he knew a good bit about kissing. Not that either of his daughters needed to know that. “What else did your sister have to say?”
“That she hoped you didn�
�t blow it with Jenna and make her hate Brook or fire her. Then Kelly said something, and Brook started making gagging noises and said, ‘Oh, that’s just too gross to even think about!’”
While Sloan contemplated what that might mean, Ashley jumped up and came over to him, settling on his knee. “Daddy, what’s knocking boots?”
BROOK SHIVERED, then pulled her knit sweater tighter around her as they left the school. Dylan’s hand moved from the small of her back.
He unzipped his varsity jacket. “Here, put this on. I could have told you that little sweater wouldn’t be enough tonight, but you looked so hot in it, I didn’t want you bundling up in a heavy coat.”
Warmth surged through her that had nothing to do with his jacket, now wrapped around her shoulders. His aftershave drifted around her, and she inhaled deeply. “Thanks. It wasn’t this cold last night.”
“Erie weather. The only predictable thing about it is it’s unpredictable.” Dylan guided her through the parking lot to his car. She waited for him to open the door for her, but he went right to the driver’s side and climbed in. With a mental shake—this wasn’t Texas, after all, and manners were different here—she eased herself into the bucket seat, straightening her skirt along her thighs. She caught Dylan watching, and offered him a smile. “I had a good time tonight.”
“Me, too.”
“You know, if you’re fixin’ to kiss me good-night, you should probably do it now. My dad will be watching when we get to my house.”
Dylan let the keys swing in the ignition, and he turned to face her. “Do you want me to kiss you good-night?”
“Well, yes. But, um, only if you want to.”
He grinned. “I want to. But you know, your father threatened to break my hands if I touched you.”
“Then I guess you’ll have to keep your hands to yourself.” Brook shifted closer to him. In the glow of the parking-lot light, she couldn’t make out the emotion on his face. Had she freaked him out? She wanted him to like her.
He closed his fingers on the collar of his jacket and drew her closer still. “Okay, I’m not touching you. I’m touching my jacket.” Then he lowered his head toward her.
Brook closed her eyes, her heart pounding.