by Cari Quinn
Goddammit. If he didn’t have bad luck, he’d have none at all.
He got down on his knees to try to find his clicker. After five minutes, he gave it up as hopeless and stood. More guests would be leaving soon. A lot of the attendees were ranchers and kept the same early hours he did. Celebration or not, they’d have to start packing it in soon.
It wouldn’t be that much longer.
He backed up and circled around another dark truck, peering into the tinted windows. Could that one be his? It was a newer model Ford F-150 quad cab. His fob hadn’t worked on it, but maybe his angle had been screwy. Or else the blasted thing didn’t work right. Figured.
Circling around the back, he peered at the license plate. Shit, what was his again? He was pretty sure he had a B in there…
Then again, he knew someone else with a truck like his—that redhead he couldn’t quite get out of his head, no matter how he tried to dislodge her.
Had to be because he’d seen Paige at the wedding. She’d smiled and talked and generally flitted around Char as any maid of honor should, but more than once he’d seen her frowning when she thought no one was looking. He’d also seen her beeline for the bar. Not that most everyone else hadn’t done the same damn thing.
He sighed. Forget it. Even if this was Paige’s truck, he was just going to plant his ass here and wait until she showed up. Maybe she had a flashlight in her glove compartment so he could find his damn clicker, since he sure as hell wasn’t hiking back up to the house. He’d escaped once. Twice wasn’t guaranteed.
Besides, it was a nice night. Slice of moon overhead, warm breeze, with the humidity that caused his dress shirt to cling to his stomach.
A shirt he so didn’t have to wear anymore, since the wedding was over. His part at least.
He shucked his dress jacket, tie and shirt, tossing them over the tailgate before he hopped over it and sprawled on the flatbed. Nope, definitely not his truck, because he didn’t have a plaid blanket back there that smelled like—he lifted the fleece to his nose and took a healthy sniff—something heady and sweet, like hyacinths or night-blooming jasmine. He didn’t know much about flowers, but this belonged to a female…or else the lucky bastard male owner had a woman back here on the regular.
Something he needed to do himself, damn soon. Preferably one who smelled like this.
Paige. Had to be frigging Paige. No other woman smelled quite like she did.
He folded the blanket and leaned back, pressing his cheek into the soft material. He’d just rest his eyes for a few minutes.
* * *
Paige Wilcox stopped beside her truck’s front bumper and frowned at the pair of cars blocking it in. What the hell was wrong with people ’round here? Didn’t they know how to park?
Nah, why would they? Everyone was buddies. If someone got hemmed in, a quick run back to the reception and a few hoots and hollers and the guilty parties would come right out and fix the problem.
Except she didn’t feel like going back to the party. She was all partied out, truth be told.
She glanced down at her fussy blue maid-of-honor gown, studded with pearls and featuring a big poufy thing that wrapped around the fullest part of her hips. Shamu hadn’t yet summoned her back to the great sea, but she expected to hear his mating call anytime now.
Normally Charli had great fashion sense. What was it about weddings that made people go completely nuts? Must be love warped your ideas of what actually would look good on your…curvaceous best friend.
Yeah, she was just going with curvaceous. Shamu calls and all.
She hit the keyless entry on her truck and pulled open the door. She stuck one of her stilettos inside and hauled herself up, immediately flipping down the mirror to check the damage around her eyes. Her little crying jag in the powder room off the Bennett kitchen had been unplanned and had wreaked more than a little havoc on her makeup. But a few splashes of cold water, a new coat of mascara and she’d been as good as new.
It was normal to cry at weddings, right? Happy tears. She was thrilled for her best friend. She’d gotten herself a good man, one who sang while he dispensed orgasms. That was pretty much the Cracker Jack prize in the climax box. Her bestie would soon be on her way to Aruba for a week of sex, surf and sun, while she herself would be logging grain on inventory charts, and ordering feed, and ooh wee, if she got really wild, maybe she’d do a ten-percent-off sale on Saturday in their jointly owned grain and grub store.
Annoyed with her thoughts, she tossed her purse on the passenger seat and glanced at the mirror one more time, letting out a shriek as a shadowy figure rose up in the truck bed. She fumbled for the baton she kept tucked between the seats to use as a weapon, wondering if she should also hit her horn to alert the other guests that a pervert was—
A knock at the back window by the raging, looming pervert cut off her internal monologue. “Hey there. Is this your truck?”
She nearly shot back, “Brilliant observation, jackass,” before it occurred to her she shouldn’t heckle a possible murderer/rapist.
Hot on the heels of that came the revelation that the serial killer sounded like Colt Bennett, AKA her best friend’s annoying-as-hell ex-husband and current husband’s older brother.
“Is that you, Paige?”
Yep, definitely Colt.
She gripped the baton—still not certain she wouldn’t use it on the numbskull—and climbed down from the truck, walking around the back to give him a piece of her mind. What did he think he was doing, sitting his fool ass in her parked truck? Probably drunk fool ass, if his lengthy stint at the bar this evening told any part of the tale.
Then she caught a glimpse of his rock-hard abs, glistening with sweat in the moonlight, and her mouth dried up as though she hadn’t had two cranberry-and-Jack spritzers herself.
Holy shit, that man’s body was fine.
“Hey there, Paige.” He scrambled, still on his knees, to her side of the truck. His eyes widened at the sight of her baton. “Jeez, my luck to climb into your vehicle.” He laughed, as if any of this were funny, but she couldn’t spare the amusement in case it sent her already twitching clit into a spontaneous orgasm.
This was all Charli’s fault. She’d talked so much about Wade’s skills in the sack that of course when she laid eyes on a half-naked Bennett brother, she wanted to take him out for stud. But see, that couldn’t happen. Because number one, he irritated the piss out of her most days. And number two, he was her bestie’s ex-husband. And number three, why the hell was he grinning at her like that, as if he’d shorted out some wires upstairs and hadn’t bothered to call an electrician?
She shook herself. “Yes, Mr. Bennett, this is my truck, as it has been my truck for the last four years, if you bothered to pay any attention.”
“Not the ‘Mr. Bennett’ stuff again.” He groaned. “What have I told you about that? Mr. Bennett is my father.”
She crossed her arms and said nothing.
He tried again. “Yeah, okay, so maybe I thought this might be your truck, but why would I pay attention to your vehicle enough to be sure?”
“Don’t use that reasonable tone on me when you’re the one passed out skunk-drunk in my flatbed like some…like some…” Really fucking hot cowboy with a bulge behind his buckle that should’ve been illegal in six states and registered as a lethal weapon in about sixteen others.
“Darlin’, I’m not passed out, as you can see, and I’m also not skunk-drunk. I don’t think I’ve ever been skunk-drunk. It sounds unpleasant.”
She snorted. “It’s unpleasant all right. Why are you missing your clothes? What would your mama say if she saw you like this?”
“She’d say it’s hot and it’s late summer and Christ, my dick’s not on display, just my stomach.” He reached for his white dress shirt and casually shrugged it on. “Surely you’ve seen a man’s stomach before?”
Oh that slightly mocking tone made her want to slug him…or possibly lick him right from that dark happy trail just pe
eking out over the top of his pants, down below to where he kept his weaponry. Who needed a firearm when you came prepared with your own 12-gauge shotgun?
Man, when Charli got back from her honeymoon, she was surely going to get an earful about holding back on her.
Paige rolled her eyes. Oh yeah, right, because she could really start up a conversation about her best friend’s ex-husband’s dick. That would be totally appropriate.
Though, she was remarried, so technically Colt’s dick was back on the market…
Colt. A gun. She snorted again, a laugh spurting out of her before she could slap a hand over her mouth to hold it back.
“You sure you aren’t drunk? Because you’re awfully ragey and giggly.”
Just like that, she sobered. “I am neither of those things. May I remind you that you decided to camp out naked in my truck?”
“Naked would be if I’d shucked my pants. Which might’ve happened if you’d been a few minutes later. It’s dang hot out tonight.”
“Yeah, it is.” She crossed her arms. “So what’re you doing here?”
Colt didn’t answer.
Paige pointed at the flatbed. “I mean right here, here. I know why you’re at the wedding.”
In truth, she also knew why he might’ve seen fit to get drunk tonight, circumstances being what they were and all.
It wasn’t every day—thank God—that your ex-wife married your brother and the whole town showed up to support them. Though Colt had been remarkably stoic, laughing and joking as if the whole situation wasn’t prime Maury material. Wade and Charlene were amazing people, and anyone could understand how their paths had separated all those years ago. Even so, their road to wedded bliss was a bit…unusual to say the least.
“I couldn’t find my damn new truck,” he muttered. “Must be sixteen black pickups still parked here.”
She lifted a brow as if to say see, you’re drunk.
“Then they’re all blocking everyone in, and I dropped my damn clicker…” He trailed off and shook his head. “Gotta say it’s probably a good thing if I don’t drive myself home.” He paused. “I had a few, but in the scheme of things, I’m not really that drunk.”
“Not that drunk is like a little bit pregnant. Basically impossible.”
He went on as if she hadn’t spoken. “After I find my clicker, I’ll call Drake and get out of your hair. Don’t s’pose you have a flashlight, do you?”
Saying nothing, she jogged back to grab her mini flashlight from the glove compartment. Instead of putting away the baton, she gripped it lightly in her other hand. She still reserved the right to use it if need be.
She returned to him and held out the flashlight. “Here you go, Mr. Bennett,” she said, adding emphasis to the last two words. She’d be damned if she let any familiarity grow between them.
The sensation growing between her legs as her gaze skipped over his still-visible abs was bad enough.
Besides, she liked annoying him. Probably a little too much.
With a sigh, he stepped over the tailgate onto the ground like a damn gazelle, his abs bunching and rippling. She shouldn’t be able to see every ridge and dip so well in the moonlight, but maybe the alcohol had sharpened her vision. Yeah, right. Or else extreme horniness had granted her the ability to fill in the details.
He trained the flashlight at the gravel drive, swinging the beam to and fro. She watched him for a moment before heaving a sigh of her own and reaching for the flashlight. Her fingers brushed his hand and hell if she didn’t hiss like a startled kitten, making him glance up at her in alarm.
“You okay?”
His voice was so husky and deep, but it was his skin, five-alarm hot and rough all over, that had made her react so strongly. He worked long hours in the fields with his horses, and touching him proved it. His hands felt like sandpaper, but not in a bad way. Those broad hands promised thrills and delights she hadn’t known probably ever. Which was just pathetic.
“I’m fine, Colt. Give me the flashlight.”
He did as she asked. “Hey, first time you didn’t call me Mr. Bennett,” he teased. “Progress.”
She didn’t reply. That might’ve been because she’d gone temporarily mute, due to the spectacular ass she could now see outlined in his dark dress pants as he bent over to peer at the ground. Her night vision tonight was seriously creeping her out.
That was it, she was done eating carrots. Forever.
“Jesus, I was standing right here. Where could the stupid thing have gone?”
She flashed the light around. “It’s awfully dark out.” Not too dark to see his abs and ass apparently, but too dark to find a small black object.
“I know, but I’m not really wanting to wait until morning.” He pivoted on his heels and swept over a patch of grass with his hand. “It’s gotta be— Aw, fuck. Motherfucker.” He jumped to his feet and she saw the gleam of dark on his fingers before he shoved them in his mouth.
“What’s wrong? What’d you do?” The instant urge to soothe overrode her natural wariness in his direction. She set down the flashlight and baton, then snatched his hand, drawing it toward her so she could examine it in the faint wash of moonlight. “You cut yourself. Glass?”
“Probably. My own fault for— Hey, hey,” he said as she grabbed the poufy flower thing on her hip and ripped.
Okay, a little melodramatic maybe, but she’d been searching for a reason to decimate that damn flower all night. This would suffice.
The material tore with just a few tugs, but unfortunately, she didn’t just get the protruding part of her dress. A healthy swath of the fabric at her hip came with it, leaving a nice jagged slit right over the outside of her thigh and back toward her ass.
“Oh shit, what did you do?” He peered at her ass and winged up a brow. “Nice undies.”
Efficiently, she tore the piece of material again and dumped the extra in the flatbed of her truck. Then she wrapped the smaller strip of material around his bleeding fingers and tied it off tightly enough to stanch the bleeding but not so tightly so as to cut off circulation.
Then she stomped on his instep.
“Ow, what the fuck?”
“A gentleman doesn’t remark on a woman’s underwear.”
He looked over his shoulder. “Where do you see a gentleman ’round here? It sure as shit ain’t me.”
She scowled and snatched the flashlight, bending to search for his missing key fob herself. The faster she found it, the faster he would get gone. Then she remembered her torn dress and slapped a hand over her ass, holding it there while she crouched and forced herself to focus on the ground in front of her.
Not the laughter filtering out to them as more guests made their way to their cars. And especially not on the smirk he’d worn when he’d commented on her undies.
Just figured the first time she wore a thong, she had to play Florence Nightingale.
“You know, I meant what I said.” His conversational tone rankled almost as much as his large shoes when she swung back too close to him. She knew quite well what large feet often indicated on a man.
Yep, Charli was going to be doing some sharing. If vicarious thrills were all she could get, she damn well wouldn’t be denied.
“About your undies,” he continued when she didn’t take the bait. “They really are nice. I like pink.”
She didn’t flush but it was a close thing. She rose and pushed the flashlight at him, mainly to stem the tide of his mouth. “They aren’t pink. They’re coral.”
“Coral? Isn’t that pink?”
“I can’t find your key fob,” she said through clenched teeth. “Guess you’re stuck here tonight.”
“Nah.” He gave her a winsome smile. “Since you aren’t drunk and all, I’ll skip calling Drake and just ride home with you. I can come back to look for my clicker in the morning.” His smile grew. “Unless you’re afraid of being alone with me…”
“You should be afraid of being alone with me.” His rich laughter f
ollowed her to the driver’s side, then she glanced back. “Um, genius, I’m still blocked in.”
He shrugged as if that was no big deal. “Okay, so fine. Drake it is. He has to be back from San Antonio now.”
“Or we could just go in there and ask the guys who owns the Beamer and the red Jeep to move,” she suggested.
“You really want to go back in there?”
No, she did not. Did that make her a horrible person? Maybe. She’d analyze it another day.
“Fine.” She heaved out a sigh. “Call Mr. Mondell.”
“Drake and Colt, darlin’. Those are our names. Try remembering them, huh?” Before she could toss back a remark, he pulled out his phone. “Hey buddy. You back in town? Good. How’s Daisy?”
Must be one of his horses, unless it was one of his women. They tended to have similar names.
“Great. Glad to hear she made the trip okay. What say you come get me and Paige at the reception? We’re, ah, a bit stranded.” A pause. “Yeah, me and Paige. Yes, we’re together. Of course it’s Paige Wilcox.” He sounded annoyed. “Do you know of any other Paiges in Quinn, jackhole?”
The longer she listened to this—and imagined Drake’s reaction on the other end of the line to the ridiculous possibility she and Colt could be sharing the same airspace—the better going back into the reception sounded. She’d just sidle in, find the owners of the vehicles and sidle back out again. Easy-peasy.
“Yeah, we’re blocked in. You know how people park. And half the guests are toasted, so good luck getting them to move. I bet a bunch of them will crash here overnight anyway.” He laughed. “Sure, my old room will hold at least a few of them. Depends on who hooks up tonight.” He waggled his brows at Paige and she frowned.
Normally his charm didn’t come close to working on her. Since she couldn’t blame her daily carrot-and-kale smoothie for this one, she’d go back to blaming the alcohol. It was the only explanation.
Though if she’d known she would be riding home with Colt and Drake, she would’ve had another two spritzers, and probably a shot or two of Patron as well.