“Did he protest or thank you?” she asked. She looked good enough to eat, her silken hair falling in a haphazard braid over her shoulder—a shoulder bared by a lacy pink tank top. Short shorts revealed the long length of her legs while cowgirl boots adorned her feet, stretching up her calves.
Made of sugar, spice and vodka poured on ice.
“Well?” Lyndie prompted.
“He protested...and thanked me,” Dorothea replied with a proud grin.
Ryanne gave her a thumbs-up. “Good girl. Always up the ante.”
Jude bit his tongue to stop a rush of protests.
Ryanne had once claimed she liked to make him squirm, and she’d proven it every day since. Her hips swayed enthusiastically any time she walked past him, creating a sultry, powerful rhythm. Often she cast him coquettish glances and blew him kisses. And she touched him constantly, a brush of her fingers here, a squeeze of his hand there. She cracked jokes, and made lewd innuendos—and he wasn’t sure how to handle her.
Right now, he was sure of only one thing. A relationship with Ryanne wasn’t possible. If his body had finally woken from hibernation, he would maybe think about considering being with a woman, scratching an itch. But he wouldn’t pick her. He would pick someone easily forgettable, someone as uninterested in a relationship as he was.
The moment he did, Constance would no longer be the last woman he’d slept with.
He rubbed the almost debilitating ache in his chest.
He’d never cheated on Constance, even when offers had been made. His teammates, the other members of the Ten—everyone except Daniel and Brock—had mercilessly teased him about it, and had ultimately given him the nickname of Priest.
Ryanne’s gaze landed on him, and her smile fell, confusing him. His mood affected hers?
In a flash, her smile returned and widened. “Jude.” Only she could say his name and sound as if she were moaning in pleasure, delivering another punch of lust to his gut.
He wanted to hate her, but more and more he actually...liked her.
Not only did she have a drink limit for the ultra-potent moonshine, but she cut off anyone who appeared drunk. A legal requirement, yes, but she also kept a cab company on standby.
She made zero exceptions to the rules, even when customers protested, loudly. No one could charm her from her refusal, though some people did—cough Brock cough—manage to get wasted regardless, fooling the seasoned Ryanne into believing he was sober. When that failed, he convinced others to buy drinks for him.
Something else Jude had discovered. Ryanne truly cared about her customers. Her kindness wasn’t for show. She treated everyone with respect and affection, whether they ordered drinks or not. When someone told a story, she listened. When someone flirted with her, she flirted right back. If anyone had a craving for something that wasn’t listed on the menu, she headed to the kitchen to see what she could do.
Smiling again, Ryanne waved him over.
He settled in a chair on the other side of the bar, avoiding her friends.
“I owe you a huge thank you for the list you left me this morning,” she said.
He nodded, his version of you’re welcome. He’d written up a To Do list in case Belle went into labor and he wasn’t nearby.
“Are you hungry? You look hungry.” She leaned toward him and whispered, “Come upstairs later, and I’ll heat something up for you.”
His stomach twisted. “Excuse me?”
“Why?”
Not this again. “What are you planning to heat up?” Do not say you.
“A pie, of course.”
Disappointment hit him. No, no. Relief. Only relief.
“I owe you a thank-you, remember?” Her gaze raked over him. “Or did you want me to heat something else up?”
Fire in his blood, a tightening in his jeans. Too late. He was already burning. “Stop flirting with me,” he grated.
“Hey, what are you guys whispering about? And did I hear you thank him for leaving a list this morning? You don’t usually rise before noon.” Dorothea wiggled her brows. “Or was Jude the one who did the rising?”
Ryanne chuckled behind her hand.
Lyndie snickered. “You don’t have to answer her, Jude.” Even amused, the petite beauty looked like she’d break with the next gust of wind. “We’ll just let our imaginations run wild.”
Knowing anything he said could be misconstrued as an innuendo, he pressed his lips together and sat a few seats away. His patella momentarily rolled out of place, and he had to hide a wince.
“Ignore them.” Ryanne leaned over the bar, and her magnificent cleavage beckoned his gaze... Look at me, look how pretty I am...
He gulped. The scent of strawberries and cream wafted from her and, this time, lust didn’t punch him in the gut; it washed through him like a gentle rain. A far more dangerous occurrence. The punch had mixed pain with pleasure. The rain promised something he wasn’t sure he’d ever feel again: peace.
“Are you parched? Let me satisfy you,” she said, and he knew she’d used those particular words on purpose.
He gripped the bar to stop himself from adjusting the growing problem behind his fly. He wished Ryanne would act like the girl he’d first met. The one who’d enjoyed sniping at him.
“I am parched,” he finally said. “I’d like to drink the tears of my enemies.”
A laugh burst from her, her features glowing with amusement. “I’m out of tears. How about sweet tea?”
He gave a brusque nod. “Thanks.”
Motions fluid, she filled his glass then lifted a small plastic tub from behind the bar. A tub she opened and sat in front of him, revealing a club sandwich and hand-cut fries.
Had she reserved both for him?
“Eat now, and later,” she said, and he realized yes, yes she had.
The ache returned to his chest. “I’m not hungry.” Not for food. Not for anything, he told himself.
“Eat anyway,” she insisted. “Boss’s orders. You worked through lunch.”
She’d noticed?
The ache worsened. “Fine.” Determined to end the conversation, he bit into the sandwich—and groaned. The flavors were incredible. She’d used strawberry jam instead of mayo and the combination of salty and sweet blew his ever-loving mind. “This is good. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” She flattened her hand over his in what should be a simple, friendly gesture. With her, it was a sensual assault, more than his long neglected body could tolerate. “If you ever want another sandwich, it’s called the Do Me Baby One More Time.”
Yes. I’ll do her so—
Wrong.
Inhaling sharply, he yanked his hand from hers and flattened his palm on his thigh.
This was Ryanne. A flirt. Born seducer. Good time girl. But...if ever she’d followed through on her come-hither glances, he didn’t know it. What he did know? He’d escorted a Blueberry Hill resident from the building for calling her a “slut.” Afterward he’d ejected three guys for trying to pick her up. She had no idea he’d done it, and he refused to think about his reasons. Although his mind was more than happy to provide a suggestion: falling for her...
Sometimes his mind was a dumb-ass.
Jude would resist Ryanne. If he had to pick another woman to do so, he would. Anyone but Ryanne Wade.
Thousands of curses suddenly bellowed inside his head. He wasn’t interested in a one-night stand, or a long-term relationship, and he damn sure wasn’t willing to risk an unplanned pregnancy. Children would never be part of his life. No children, no possibility of loss.
In fact, he should make an appointment with a urologic surgeon and have a vasectomy. Then, if ever he had a moment of weakness, he wouldn’t have to worry.
The food in his stomach seemed to turn to lead. He pus
hed the Tupperware away, saying, “I’ve had enough.”
Ryanne sighed, the enchantress persona evaporating like smoke, leaving a concerned...friend? “You’ve been working so hard but eating so little.”
“Don’t worry. I won’t fall down on the job.” He’d lost his appetite years ago and now fueled himself with protein shakes.
“That’s not—Never mind. Why don’t you take the night off? You can nap upstairs with Belle.”
“I don’t nap.”
“Ever?”
“Ever.” He rarely slept at all. When he did, he dreamed of the car wreck he hadn’t witnessed, watching, helpless, as Constance’s SUV rolled over at least a dozen times, glass and metal shards cutting at his girls.
“I’m sorry.” Ryanne’s nails lightly scraped the pulse in his wrist, jolting him from his heartbreak.
Damn it! When had he placed his hands back on the bar? “Don’t be.”
“If you don’t want to eat, how about you give me a compliment instead?”
“I’m not in the mood to be nice.”
Rather than leaving him alone, as he’d hoped, she studied him with compassion in her beautiful dark eyes. “Is your leg paining you?”
He scowled. Was she making excuses for his waspishness, or had she watched him so intently, she’d recognized the signs of his distress? “Be honest. You’re trying to make me squirm again, aren’t you, Wade?”
“Wade?” She snorted. “Let me guess. By using my last name, you put a little emotional distance between us.”
Yes. Exactly. Nicknames mattered, created a bond. He’d rather die than create a bond with Ryanne.
He’d called Constance “sweetheart” and his girls “Daddy’s little sweets.” He’d settled arguments about who could ride an imaginary pony first. He’d fielded questions about where babies came from when the girls were far too young to ask about such things, and battled monsters in the closet.
When I grow up, I’m gonna be a mom. Bailey had grinned a mischievous grin. Moms are the boss of everyone.
Well, I’m gonna be a dad. Hailey had hugged him. Dads are nice to everyone.
Even when I’m a big girl, I’m gonna love you best, Daddy.
My friend Sally doesn’t have a dad. Will you be her dad, Daddy? I told her you build the biggest fort-castles in the world.
He remembered the day the girls threw pennies in the wishing well.
“What did you wish for?” he’d asked.
Bailey had gazed at him adoringly. “I wished for you to be handsome, Daddy.”
He’d tried not to laugh. “Thanks, little sweet. I appreciate your thoughtfulness.”
“I wished for you to stay home forever, Daddy, and never leave again,” Hailey had said.
He rubbed the sudden burn from his eyes, then pinched the bridge of his nose.
He didn’t like that Ryanne had guessed his intent. But then, he shouldn’t be surprised that she’d done so. The woman had a knack for reading people.
“Well.” She fluffed her fall of ebony hair. “Aren’t you precioso.” Her sassy tone somehow contained both a Spanish and Southern accent. “By the way, I’m calling you cowboy because you always look like you’re ready for a ride.”
Walk away. Walk away now. No good can come from this conversation.
He stood, but remained rooted in place. Her gaze slid down his chest, making him regret—and extol—his immobility.
“Jude, wait!” Lyndie raised her hand like a student in class. “Dorothea, uh, she has a question for you.”
“I do?” Dorothea asked, then cleared her throat. “I mean, yep, I do.”
Not wanting to frighten Lyndie, he forced his posture to soften. The elementary schoolteacher spooked far too easily. He’d noticed her tendency to leave a room whenever an argument kicked off.
He even forced himself to smile at her, and hell, it felt weird to lift the corners of his mouth. Weird, wrong on every level and stilted. As soon as he looked away from her, he returned to his normal expression, the one that said I don’t want to be here, or anywhere.
His gaze landed on Daniel’s fiancée. “Ask,” he said, knowing she didn’t actually have a question for him. He wasn’t sure why Lyndie wanted him to stay, but he wasn’t going to call her out.
Dorothea looked at Lyndie, then Ryanne. Frowned. Opened her mouth, closed it. Finally she said, “Yeah, so...I’m going to be picking bridesmaid dresses soon. Ryanne, of course, is a co–maid of honor with Lyndie. Lyndie is wearing pink chiffon but thinks Ryanne should be forced to wear a trash bag. Do you agree?”
His gaze zipped back to Ryanne, who was now watching him with a thoughtful expression...and upset? “A trash bag won’t detract from her raw sensuality.” The primal admission left him before he could stop it, wiping her upset away.
A grinning Lyndie pressed a hand above her heart. “If you guys were in a movie, female viewers would be sighing dreamily right now, and male viewers would be throwing popcorn at the screen. You just set the bar very high.”
Ryanne peered at him, her lush lips gaping open. “You claimed you were too grumpy to be nice, but I swear I just heard the best compliment of my life.”
“Truth is truth, not a compliment.”
“Well, then, that’s even better.” She beamed at him, so radiant he wanted to take her in his arms and—
Nothing.
Ryanne wasn’t his type, would never be his type. Forget her job. She was too bold, too brash. Too...everything. She drew attention and loved it. Nothing slowed her down. She sizzled with passion and marched through life with no care for the obstacles thrown in her way.
Jude craved solitude, which meant he wasn’t Ryanne’s type, either. Actually, he had no idea what type of man she actually preferred. She was an equal opportunity flirt, charming young and old alike. Hell, charming large and small, tall and short, rich and poor.
Always irritating me, and I don’t know why.
The front door opened, saving him from having to think up an appropriate reply, and the members of Power Trip—the band she hired on Friday and Saturday nights—strode inside.
Daniel and Brock came in behind the drummer, and both males pulsed with a palpable air of anger and frustration they couldn’t hide behind cheerful waves.
Something had happened out there.
The women sensed a problem, as well. As soon as the guys reached the counter, Dorothea threw her arms around Daniel. Lyndie inched away from Brock and glanced at the door, as if planning an escape route.
Ryanne reached out to latch on to Jude’s wrist, the softness of her skin momentarily paralyzing him. Can’t force myself to pull away this time...
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
No doubt Dushku had struck.
Daniel gave an unconvincing laugh. “Who said anything was wrong?”
“Someone trashed the alley outside, spray-painted vile things on the wall, that’s all,” Brock said, and Daniel glared at him.
Dorothea and Lyndie gasped with horror.
Ryanne stiffened. “Show me.”
Jude wrapped his hand around her wrist; she’d held him, and now he held her. It was an intimate pose, and one he wasn’t emotionally equipped to handle. Did he let go? No.
“Stay in here. Please.” He knew his friends, and knew a trashed alley wasn’t the only problem out there. “Let me make sure everything is safe. That’s what you pay me the big bucks for, after all.”
At first, she opened her mouth to protest. Then she looked at her friends. If she insisted on going outside, they would insist on going with her, and they would be in danger, as well. So she nodded, released him.
Silent, he, Daniel and Brock headed outside. His friends led him to the back alley, where he saw bitch, slut and whore, and an assortment of other vile words,
spray-painted on the walls. His molars gnashed again, and he wouldn’t be surprised if they turned to powder.
The boys kept going, stopping when they reached Ryanne’s SUV, parked behind the building. Rage sparked.
The tires had been slashed, and the words YOUR NEXT spray-painted over the windshield.
“Idiot,” Jude muttered. “You’re. Not your.”
This was a scare tactic, nothing more, meant to intimidate Ryanne into doing whatever Dushku wanted.
“What do you want us to do?” Brock asked.
“For now, we clean up the mess. Later we’ll give Ryanne the bare minimum of facts.” The less she knew, the better. He would do the worrying for her.
A woman like her should only ever smile.
CHAPTER FIVE
MONDAYS WERE USUALLY Ryanne’s favorite day of the week. She got to sleep in, drink wine, play video games and relax in a bubble bath. Today, however, she hadn’t slept in. Belle had done her cat thing, somehow climbing on the desk, despite the size of her belly, knocking over a coffee mug, pens, a book and even a laptop. During the loud bang that had followed every downed item, Ryanne had lain in bed thinking about the smile Jude had given Lyndie. A kind smile. Humorless, yes, but kind nonetheless. A smile he’d never given Ryanne.
For a moment, she’d been eaten up with jealousy, and she’d hated herself for it. Lyndie deserved all the kindness in the world.
After giving herself a kick in the pants, Ryanne had gotten up, showered while standing for once and dressed in a hurry. The Scratching Post would be hosting the Strawberry Bookcakes today, and she would be serving tea, finger sandwiches and cookies. Despite the twenty-dollar cover charge, a whole gaggle of retired matrons had signed up.
Guaranteed the sweet old biddies would start off discussing their book club selection—a scandalous paranormal romance titled The Darkest Night; it was chosen because Lincoln West, a beloved resident of the town, had designed a video game based on its mythology. Once the discussion ended, everyone would start gossiping about nonfictional people.
Ryanne had a few hours to run a million errands. Still, she texted Jude an invitation to join her.
Can't Let Go--A Bad Boy Romance Page 6