Slow Heat

by Jill Shalvis

  gut. As she lightly rubbed the pad of her finger over his lip, he had to make a correction. The bolt hadn’t gone to his gut, but parts south.

  “Ketchup,” she murmured, then let out a throaty gasp when he sucked the tip of her finger into his mouth.

  She closed her eyes as he lightly raked his teeth over the pad of her finger. “I’m not going to have sex with you, Wade,” she said, her voice husky. “Not out here on the grass. Not inside. Not anywhere.”

  “Sam I am,” he whispered, but he couldn’t help it. He was feeling odd. Uneasy. Restless.

  Aroused.

  Slowly he pulled her in using the lapels of his jacket. She resisted but was little match for his strength, going into a controlled freefall against his chest.

  “Don’t make this into something it’s not,” she said very softly as she fit against him like she was made for him. “It’s just a moment. A weird sort of chemical attraction moment that can’t really be explained.”

  “All chemistry can be explained. You plus me equals combustion.”

  She flashed a quick, tight smile. “Dangerous combustion, don’t you think?”

  “I’m not afraid of you.” He lowered his head to see into her eyes. “Is that it, Sam? Are you afraid of me?”

  “Don’t flatter yourself.”

  But she didn’t look sure, and he took mercy on the both of them and dropped the subject.

  “I’m surprised at how long you’ve stayed out here,” she said after a moment. “You’re missing all kinds of photo ops at the rehearsal dinner.”

  “Can’t have that.”

  “No.”

  She was practically in his lap, her hand on his chest, whether to keep him at bay or to hold on, he wasn’t yet sure.

  “Wade.”

  “Right here.” He dipped his head, his lips a fraction from hers.

  “There’s no one around,” she said shakily, gripping his bicep with one hand, his chest with the other, like he was her only anchor in a churning sea. “No paps, nothing.”

  “Then this one will have to be just for us.” Leaning even closer, he stopped only a millimeter away from her lips when she tightened her fingers on his chest, getting a few chest hairs in the mix. “What now?”

  “I didn’t know your father was alive.”

  Like a cold bucket of water. With a sigh, he set her away from him. “Where did this come from?”

  “Mark mentioned it.”

  “Mark has a big mouth.”

  “What’s the secret?”

  “There is no secret.” There really wasn’t. Wade had been born in a trailer and had nearly died that same day. Would have, if John O’Riley hadn’t gathered his son in a towel and brought him to the closest doctor at an Urgent Care nearly an hour away. Wade had been cleaned up and fixed up and handed back over two days later to his father, who’d gone home and found his woman gone.

  This had left the mild-tempered, easygoing John in a bit of a quandary. He’d been a small-bit character actor who’d traveled from tiny town theater to tiny town theater, not easy to do with a baby and no woman. So he’d adapted, as all O’Rileys were apt to do, and switched professions from acting to gambling, aka conning.

  And had become a professional drunk while he was at it. He hadn’t been a mean drunk, or even a particularly difficult one. Just quiet and sad and utterly clueless about everything, including raising a kid.

  “Where does he live?” Sam asked.

  “Oregon.”

  “Do you ever go back?”

  Wade had few memories from his childhood worth revisiting, so no, he never went back. Not for sentimental reasons, and not for his father, who’d done far better with Wade a thousand miles away making enough money for the both of them. Wade had lost track of the number of times he’d tried to get his father to rehab, and in fact, no longer cared. Things had been fine, just fine, until recently when John’d had a medical problem. A weakened liver. Shock. His doctor had told him he could quit drinking or die. So suddenly John was looking his mortality right in the face, and fretting about his lack of a relationship with his son. “I don’t want to talk about it.” Wade gathered his trash and stood up, offering her a hand, watching from hooded eyes as she struggled not to flash him her goodies beneath that short skirt.

  She wasn’t entirely successful; he caught a quick glimpse of something black and lacy. “Pretty.”

  “You are such a guy.”

  “Guilty.”

  She stood before him, looking into his face for answers.

  Answers he wasn’t ready to give. “I’m going back to Mickey D’s for a hot fudge sundae,” he decided, pulling the borrowed keys out of his pocket. “Quiet people are welcome to come.”

  “Meaning no more questions, I suppose.”

  “Pretty and smart,” he murmured. He was only partially surprised when she walked along at his side. He knew enough about her to know she’d do just about anything for ice cream.

  “Won’t the bride be upset that a member of the wedding party just up and left to eat somewhere else?”

  “If it’d been anyone else but me, probably. Me, she likes.” He had them at the McDonald’s drive-thru in less than five minutes, and they were halfway back when he caught the red and blue lights flashing in his rearview mirror. “Shit.”

  Sam didn’t slow down in her consumption of her hot fudge sundae, scooping a huge dollop into her mouth, licking her lips in a way that nearly made him forget to pull over. “Probably you shouldn’t have been speeding,” she said as he turned off his engine.

  He slid her a look as the officer came to the window, one hand on his gun, the other wielding a flashlight.

  “License and registration, please,” he said. “Sir, do you know how fast you were going?”

  “No,” Wade said.

  “Thirty-five-ish,” Sam said helpfully from the passenger seat, “in a twenty-five zone.”

  Wade turned and gave her a long look.

  She smiled, and he had to shake his head. Now she smiled at him like that. Nice.

  “She’s right,” the officer told him. “Thirty-five in a twenty-five.”

  Sam gave Wade the I-told-you-so look.

  “License and registration,” the officer said again.

  Wade blew out a breath. He’d left his wallet in the hotel room. He’d borrowed keys and a twenty from Matt’s brother. This was not going to go well. He flashed a quick, apologetic smile to the cop. “You’re not going to believe this, hell even I don’t believe it, but I forgot my license back at my room at the Laguna Rey Resort.”

  The cop gave him an unimpressed look, then slowly narrowed his gaze. “Wait a minute. Do I know you?”

  Wade smiled in relief. Once in a while fame really did pay.

  “I do know you,” the cop said. “Hey, you’re big in my house.”

  Okay, so maybe this wasn’t going to be so bad after all. Wade reached into the glove box for the registration and handed it over.

  The officer glanced at it and then handed it back without going to his vehicle to run it. He was smiling now. “Ah, man, this is my lucky day. My wife was pissed at me this morning, but an autograph from you will make it all better.”

  “Absolutely.” Wade was perfectly willing to sign his John Hancock on a piece of paper instead of at the bottom of a speeding violation. He searched the car and came up with a pad of paper and a pen in the console. “How should I sign it?”

  “If you could say ‘To Leslie,’” the cop said. “‘With love, Matthew McConaughey.’ ”

  Sam snorted softly as Wade went still.

  “She loves you, man. You still play the bongos in the buff?”

  Wade slid his eyes to Sam, who rolled her lips into her mouth to keep from bursting out with laughter. He gave her the death-glare and looked down at the paper in his hand. He’d written the “To Leslie with love” part. And with a sudden genuine smile, he signed “Matthew McConaughey” with a flourish. “I’ve cut back on the naked bongo playing.” />
  “Cool,” the officer said. “Thank you so much.”

  “My pleasure,” Wade murmured as the officer walked away.

  Sam gave him one beat of silence. Then she burst out laughing.

  He stared at her. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you laugh like that.”

  She wiped a tear from her eyes and tried to collect herself. “I’m sorry. But Matthew McConaughey?”

  “What? I look sort of like him.”

  She laughed again, and Wade shook his head and drove them back to the resort, feeling irritated all over again. When they were back on the grass, heading toward the hotel doors, Sam put a hand on his arm. “Can I ask a question now?”

  “I’ve been mistaken for him before, you know.”

  “A different question.”

  “No,” he said, knowing where she was going to go. “No other questions.”

  “Do you really never go home?”

  “Jesus.” He drew a deep breath. “Home? My home’s in Santa Barbara, Sam.”

  “Are you in contact with him? Your dad?”

  Yes. Monetary contact. Monetary payback for not being able to be the son John had apparently needed in order to not pickle his liver on a daily basis. “You’re harshing my ice-cream-sundae buzz.”

  “I’m sure he’s getting up there in years but maybe we could bring him out for a game some time. Give him the VIP treatment.”

  Uh-huh. Problem was, the old man would rather play cards than sit through a baseball game.

  “He’d probably love it,” she said.

  What John would love was conning everyone Wade knew out of their pocket change. “Stop.”

  “But—”

  “You know what, Sam? Mark puts up with nagging from Meg, but then again, she blows him every night, so . . .”

  She narrowed her eyes at him. “I’m not nagging. I’m just saying that for the past three years we’ve done a special Father’s Day event. This year we’re having it at the Railroad Museum. Think of the positive, heart-warming press—”

  “Jesus, Sam. Stop working and fucking drop it already. Please.”

  And then, to be sure she did, he headed back inside.

  Chapter 7

  Slump? I ain’t in no slump. I just ain’t hitting.

  —Yogi Berra

  The rest of the rehearsal dinner passed without further provocation or argument, mostly because there were so many people who wanted to talk to Wade, many of them being gorgeous women, that Sam didn’t get the opportunity to irritate him more.

  She supposed that was a bonus.

  Afterwards, she went back to the suite while Wade stayed behind to help clean up and carry the presents to Meg and Mark’s suite. She offered to help, but he’d given her a quick “I’ve got it” and left her alone.

  Which was fine. This was all just pretend, after all. And she had plenty to keep her occupied. She had work she could do. Hell, she always had work she could do, and calls to return. She’d missed a call from her father, her uncle, and her cousin, each of whom read her the riot act by the time she got back to them.

  “Why the hell aren’t you answering your phone?” her father demanded.

  After years of trying, they had come to a tenuously decent relationship. He’d agreed to let her run her own life without his interference, and she’d agreed to work for the Heat. She wasn’t sure why he stuck to his part of the deal, but for her, she worked for the Heat because she loved the job. And she’d like to think that her father got something out of it, too: the best publicist in the business—if she said so herself. She was happy there, or had been until the Jeremy bullshit last season. But lately she’d had a little seed of discontent in the back of her mind, and she found herself wondering if she’d be happier running her own PR firm when her contract with the Heat was over at the end of this season.

  Her father had sensed her discontent and had commented several times that she needed to get over herself. To keep the peace, they rarely spoke. They got together at holidays, birthdays, and the occasional Heat team meeting that he made it to, but for the most part, he stayed on the other side of the country running the rest of his vast business empire. “Well, hello to you, Dad.”

  “Sorry,” he said gruffly. “I didn’t mean to bark.”

  Yes, he had, but she could forgive him since he’d apologized. Another relatively new thing with him, which she knew he’d gotten from Wife Number Five. Or was it six? If he didn’t apologize quickly and sweetly, it cost him. Usually in diamonds, and not the kind on the baseball field. “I didn’t answer my phone,” she told him, “because I was at the rehearsal dinner.”

  “Well, do me a damn favor, and be more available for the next few days. We need you to—”

  “Wait. Stop right there,” she said firmly. One had to be firm with her father, or risk getting walked all over. “I’m still in the middle of the last favor you asked me to do. One thing at a time. Is it business-related? Because Gage is—”

  “It’s not business-related.”

  “Dad,” she said as gently as possible, “you need to go to your wife for the other stuff. It’s what she wants from you, remember? Didn’t you have to go to counseling last year to learn just that?”

  “Christ, don’t remind me. Listen, Sam—”

  The suite door opened and in walked Wade. She braced for a continuation of their earlier fight, but he didn’t look like he was in a fighting mood. He’d shed his jacket, which was carelessly slung over one shoulder. His tie had been loosened, his shirt unbuttoned, the sleeves shoved up. His hair was a little ruffled and he had a new phone number on his forearm.

  He looked at her and grinned.

  Oh, boy. He was clearly inebriated, which was interesting given that in the four years she’d known him, she’d only seen him in that condition once.

  That night in the Atlanta elevator. “I have to go, Dad.”

  “Not yet, Sam. I—”

  “I’ll talk to you on Sunday, when I’m back in Santa Barbara for the opening game.”

  “Samantha Ann McNead—”

  She winced as he middle-named her and shut her phone. Wade tossed his jacket to a chair. His tie went the same route. “Not very nice to hang up on him.”

  “At least I call him.”

  He sighed and walked very carefully over to the bed. “You have Daddy issues.”

  “I think you have that backwards.”

  He sank to the bed and put his hands on the mattress at his side as if he were on a moving boat and unsure of his balance. “Come here, little girl.” He grinned. “I’ll be your daddy tonight.”

  “You’re drunk.”

  “Yes. Yes, I am.” He kicked off one shoe, but had some trouble with the other.

  Watching him fight the laces, she sighed and went to him. Kneeling, she untied his shoe and pulled it off. Then she rose up a little and looked into his eyes. “I think you should go to bed.”

  “I do, too.” He reached out and ran a finger over the stress spot between her eyes. “Tell me what’s wrong, Princess. Tell Daddy all your troubles.”

  She nudged him in the chest and he fell back onto the mattress, just over six feet of sprawled-out limbs. “Whoa,” he said.

  Rolling her eyes, she moved away from the bed over to the small desk. She picked up the phone, dialing housekeeping for a roll-away