Romancing the Rival

by Kris Fletcher

  “Sometimes,” he said, stepping closer so the tip of his toes brushed against her candy cane surprise, “sometimes, there’s no logic. You just know you want to do something and you decide to go for it.”

  “Really.”

  How could she sound so matter-of-fact?

  “Yeah.” His thumb rubbed against her bottom lip, trying to tease a reaction out of her. Nothing.

  But neither did she back away.

  “Interesting philosophy,” she said. “Maybe I should give it a try myself.”

  With that, she turned and walked away.

  Damn it. He’d thought, maybe—

  Then it hit him that she wasn’t marching those enticing little tootsies toward the door. Instead, she was headed back to the herbs.

  Hello, what’s this?

  With brisk, unerring fingers, she plucked a couple of leaves off the peppermint, popping one into her mouth, and then—whoa—coming back and offering one to him.

  “There was a lot of garlic in the stew,” she said. “I’m a big fan, but I find it doesn’t do much for the breath.”

  He blinked. “Sorry?”

  She sighed. “Eat it. I hate kissing someone with garlic breath.”

  Well, hell. He’d always thought that herbs were supposed to be mood enhancers, not killers. Apparently he’d been wrong.

  On the other hand, this blunt acceptance might be just the trick to get him to stop wondering about her. Because while he wasn’t big into romance and sentiment, even he had his line. And apparently a lecture on oral hygiene was where that line ended.

  “You know,” he said, “I might have made a mistake here.”

  “You think?” She grimaced a little as she swallowed. Mint leaves would do that. But she nodded toward his anyway. “Are you allergic?”

  “To this? No.”

  “Well, then, bottoms up. I probably have enough from the bit I ate, but I’d rather not take that chance.”

  He rocked back on his heels. This was seriously the weirdest pre-kiss conversation he could ever recall. “Let me get this straight, because believe it or not, I’m sort of having a hard time following this. I was going to—”

  She cut him off with an impatient shake of her head. “You were going to kiss me. Right. And I have a thing about garlic breath, so I’m making use of some of your produce. What’s so hard to follow about that?”

  “I guess I didn’t expect you to be so . . .” God help him, he couldn’t even come up with the right word.

  “Scientific?” Another sigh, this time accompanied by a roll of the eyes. “Honestly. People always look down on the social sciences and say we’re too touchy-feely. But our research standards are just as stringent as they are for the pure sciences. Do you have any idea how many steps I have to go through before I can—”

  He didn’t think. He zoomed.

  One second he was trying to follow the most bizarre conversation he could ever recall being part of. The next, he thought, Screw this, sank his hands into the fuzziness atop her shoulders, and kissed her.

  And then kept kissing her.

  What little intent he’d had left when he made his move had been along the lines of zip in, satisfy his curiosity, get her to stop talking, and zip out. Bing bang badoom-cha.

  But her lips were more enticing than he’d expected.

  And her nearness was a lot more inviting than he’d been prepared for.

  And it turned out that Bree Elias could do a whole lot more with that mouth than just tell him off.

  He was drawn in closer. Tighter. It was like she was reeling him in, a fish on a line, except he wasn’t fighting to get free. Oh hell no. Because things were sparking and parts were brushing and she was opening and her lips were exploring, and what the hell, her toes were tangling with his, and he was pretty sure that this was not going the way he’d expected at all but it really didn’t matter. Nothing mattered as long as she kept kissing him. And leaning up against him. And sliding her arms up his chest and around his neck, leaving a trail of something irresistible in her wake.

  By the time she backed off, he was pretty sure he was throwing off enough heat to protect the plants all on his own.

  “Well.” Her voice was a little softer, a little breathier than when she’d been going on about research methods. “That wasn’t what I expected.”

  He knew he was going to regret it, but he had to ask. “And what did you expect?”

  Her shrug didn’t come off quite as casual as he would bet she had intended. “I . . . well. I’ve never really kissed anyone I’ve known for so long. I thought it might feel odd. You know.”

  “Too platonic?”

  “Given our history, that’s not exactly the word I would use. But something along those lines.”

  His hand slid down her arm. The sweater was just as soft as he’d imagined. “And that’s not the case?”

  She frowned and raised one hand to her cheek. “Flushed skin, elevated heart rate, rapid breathing—no. Definitely not platonic.”

  He got it then. She had done this as an experiment. That was the reason for the mint, for the no-nonsense approach. He wasn’t a fish. He was her lab rat.

  He would probably be pissed about that once he could breathe right again.

  “I’m no scientist,” he said, “but I’m pretty sure that when an experiment doesn’t turn out the way you expected, there’s only one thing to do.”

  “Replicate it. Of course.”

  This time she was the one who moved first, bunching his shirt in her hands and pulling him in. Not that he was complaining. Oh no. Not when she embarked on a thorough inspection of every nook and cranny of his mouth. Not when she moved in so her breasts brushed against him, then shuddered beneath his touch. Definitely not when she made a soft little noise that was almost like the one she’d made when she first spotted the greenhouse and he thought, Oh hell yeah. Except this one was lower. Needier. More urgent.

  She pulled her glasses from her head. He didn’t know what she did with them and he couldn’t say he cared, because she was doing a slow side-to-side sway that had parts lighting up like a stone on flint. His mouth slid off hers and down, along the line of her jaw, slipping over the curve and skidding down to her neck. He nuzzled behind her ear, chanced an exploratory lick with his tongue, and was rewarded with her hands fisting in his shoulders and that gasp right beside his ear, so close that it seemed to go straight into him.

  Was this really Bree arching against him and curving into him? How the hell had he missed this all these years?

  And was that really Miss Uptight sliding her hands down his ribs, pausing at each one and tracing the outline like she had never felt them before?

  “Bree.” His whisper came out raw and rough. Not that he knew what he was going to say. Thinking was getting harder and harder, as were a whole lot of other things.

  But she seemed to take it as a message. “Right. Right.” She stepped back, shaking her head. “Right. We should . . .”

  Stop. Yeah. They should stop now. Because the things she was doing to him had him calculating the strength of the supports holding the gutters and wondering what would happen if he boosted her up on one and—

  “That.” Her blink was slow and dazed. “Um.”

  It was ridiculous to feel proud that he had been the one to make her incapable of speech. Yet there it was.

  “I guess the experiment was a success.” Maybe if he cracked a joke or two now, he could get his own thoughts back under control a lot faster.

  “Right.” She nodded. “I thought that, given everything . . . I guess I was wrong about that.”

  “Maybe we should try again. Just to be sure.”

  He shouldn’t have said it. He knew it even as the words were slipping out, because the sorry truth was that he was more turned on just by looking at her—mildly rumpled, that
sweater clinging a lot tighter than he would swear it had a few minutes earlier—than he would have thought possible. And he had a pretty damned fine imagination. Another round would definitely be pushing him into the danger zone.

  She, thank God, seemed to be reaching the same conclusion, given the way she was sliding her glasses back into place.

  “That would probably not be the most sensible thing to do.”

  Sensible. What a hell of a lousy word.

  “I didn’t think,” he began, then paused, not sure what to say. How much to reveal.

  Then she pushed her hair back and he caught the totally un-Bree-like uncertainty in her eyes and he knew he had to give her something.

  “I was curious,” he said softly, touching her cheek once again. “But now . . . now I’m wondering.”

  He knew she’d caught the double meaning of the word by the way her eyes closed.

  Yep. It was most definitely time to take her back to the store.

  * * *

  Bree arrived at her mother’s for dinner precisely on time. In a day when absolutely nothing had gone as planned, this was one welcome reminder that she still had some power over her life.

  Yeah. Because promptness was so vital when compared to, oh, a semipublic snarlfest with her father. Or a couple of hours spent wrestling with a book that was no longer cooperating.

  Or reliving, in full 4-D memory, necking in the greenhouse with Spence.

  “Talk about ways to take the day from shitty to clusterfuck,” she muttered, then winced at her word choice. Freud would have said it was no accident that she dropped an F-bomb there. Because as much as she wanted to pretend otherwise, she couldn’t deny that thoughts of feeling, frolicking, and other F words had been tormenting her from the minute he pulled her close and planted one on her.

  Dear God, the man knew how to plant.

  “Enough.” She shook away the memories—okay, maybe it was more a leftover shudder than a deliberate shake, but still. Reframing was a legitimate technique for regaining control over a situation. Since control was something that had been sorely lacking on this day, she would take it. Happily. Gratefully.

  And with only a couple of moments of wishing she was less the type to be sensible and more the type to jump a guy in a greenhouse.

  She marched up the steps to the house, stomped the afternoon’s fresh snow from her boots, and let herself in. It didn’t take long before she had been swept into a swirl of hugs and laughs and all kinds of sorely needed distractions.

  Neenee pulled her into the kitchen and set her to work making a fruit salad. Annie chopped vegetables beside her and asked about one of the kids in her day care who was showing some worrisome aggressive tendencies. Margie brought her a glass of wine. Kyrie drifted in fresh from a phone call with Ben, glowing and smiling so fiercely that Annie started taking bets as to precisely what kind of call it had been.

  “You are such a perv.” Kyrie boosted herself onto the barstool on the other side of the island and stole a raspberry from the bowl. “We were talking about wedding stuff.”

  “Are you allowed to make decisions without the other brides?” Annie asked.

  “Depends on the topic. This was actually about our cake, so yes. Unilateral choice.”

  “So there’s going to be three cakes?” Bree asked.

  Kyrie nodded. “Right. Three big cakes, but then a boatload of little mini cupcakes and other desserts that we’re all choosing. Each bride and groom gets to pick one thing. Same with the buffet. It’s going to be a hell of a mishmash of flavors, and we’ve already told Duncan four times that haggis is absolutely not allowed, but overall, it’s working.”

  “In a very Sister Wives kind of way,” Annie said.

  Neenee cuffed her lightly. “As long as you all take separate honeymoons, I think the rest is kind of adorable.”

  “You have to say that,” Margie scoffed. “You’re their mother. Me, I think this is something we should be milking for all it’s worth. If the Kardashians can get a reality show just for being whatever they are, we should be able to get some coverage for this.” She rubbed her hands together gleefully. “Just think of the publicity you girls could get.”

  “Yeah, that’s not gonna happen, Margie,” Kyrie said. “Besides, Jenna is already laying down the law to Cole about inviting real friends only, no political cronies. So lines have been drawn.”

  “Speaking of Jenna, where is she?” Bree glanced around the kitchen. “I thought she was going to be here tonight.”

  “Nope. Cole has a thing and they decided she needed to play mayoral almost-spouse.” Annie snorted. “She actually asked Mom for advice on what she should do.”

  Bree bit back a laugh. “What, does she have a death wish now?”

  “Sabrina, you know very well that I would never murder my own children, no matter how much they might deserve it.” Neenee opened the fridge and rummaged deep in the depths. “It might surprise you to know that I worked very hard to support your father at those kinds of outings. I had a lot of tips for Jenna.”

  “Like what?” Bree wasn’t simply being polite. She was genuinely curious. “I mean, I remember you getting dressed up a lot, but I never really thought about what you were doing. Other than abandoning us to go out with Dad, of course.”

  “You can’t make me feel guilty, so don’t even try. As for what I told Jenna—oh, there was the usual. Smile a lot. Have a list of prepared questions you can pull out when the conversation lags, though you know Jenna. That’s just part of her DNA. Hold either a plate or a drink, but not both, because you need to be able to shake hands. Wear spike heels.”

  “Okay, that one I wasn’t expecting. Why the heels? To make it easier to look down on people?”

  “No.” Neenee closed the fridge, a bag of something green in her hand, and smiled sweetly. “So when some lecherous bastard pats her ass, she can accidentally on purpose step on his foot and make sure he gets the message.”

  “Woooohoooo! You go, Mom!” Annie delivered two thumbs up. Neenee laughed and pinked so adorably that Bree had to give her a quick hug. It wasn’t often that their mother gave them a glimpse into her past, but when she did, it was always worth the trip.

  “Speaking of men who don’t understand boundaries,” Margie said, leveling a finger at Bree, “I hear you had some issues today.”

  For the briefest second, Bree was whomped by visions of hidden cameras in greenhouses. Then she remembered.

  “Rob. Right. He, uh, decided to make an appearance at the grocery store.” She noticed Neenee’s smile slipping and waved the encounter away as if it hadn’t meant a thing. “Not to worry. I made it pretty clear that I had no interest in talking to him.”

  “Yes, but just because you said it, that doesn’t mean he’ll listen,” Kyrie pointed out. “Remember how many times he showed up at the coffee shop after Jenna told him to take a hike?”

  Margie scoffed again. “He didn’t listen then because Cole was with Jenna every time she decided to give Robbie what’s-for.”

  “Why would that make a difference?” Annie asked.

  “Here. Put this on top of the fruit.” Neenee handed the bag to Bree. “You know, Margie, I think you’re right. Rob was never one to take a person seriously when they said something in front of others. He always said that if there was an audience, people were simply performing. You know.” She shrugged. “Saying what they thought the other person needed or wanted to hear, instead of how they actually felt.”

  Oh great. Given that scenario, Spence’s well-meaning help had probably done more harm than good. Which meant Bree was undoubtedly going to have to unleash her inner Hulk once more to make sure Rob got the message.

  “It probably doesn’t help that Jenna is talking to him now, even just a little,” Annie said, cranking the dread level in Bree’s gut up another twelve notches. “That’s like proof to Dad that
the only things that count are the things we say when we’re alone.”

  Alone with her father. That was definitely number one on Bree’s list of Things to Avoid Before You Die.

  She ripped open the bag Neenee had given her and was immediately transported by the scent of mint. Out of the kitchen. Into the greenhouse. Into Spence’s arms.

  Just like that, she felt it all again. The flushed cheeks. The racing heart. The rapid breathing.

  She glanced down at her sweater and hoped it was loose enough to hide one of the other classic signs of arousal.

  Forget her father. Given her reaction to Spence this afternoon, she might have to impose a ban on being alone with any man. Because obviously, she wasn’t able to react rationally around any of them, though for very different reasons.

  “So what did the Dadmeister do?” Kyrie asked. “Sneak up behind you at the deli and demand a pound of flesh?”

  “You English majors are always so dramatic.” Bree plucked mint from the bag, grateful for the distraction of Kyrie’s words. “But to answer your question, I was at the store doing community education stuff for the task force I’m on. You know,” she said to Margie’s blank stare. “The one to create the town-and-gown food forest.”

  “Oh yeah.” Annie smirked. “The one with your buddy Spence.”

  Must not blush. Must. Not. Blush.

  “How is that going?” Neenee asked. “I haven’t heard of any police calls to the university, so I’m assuming no one has had to turn a hose on you two yet.”

  No, but if they had been in the greenhouse with us a few hours ago, they might have been tempted for a few seconds.

  Bree waved it away like it was all of absolutely no consequence. “We talked. I said I was sorry for going overboard that day in the diner. He accepted my apology, we agreed that the work we’re doing is more important than whatever little—whatever—might be between us, and there you go. Onward.” She shrugged. “In fact, he was manning the table with me today when our darling father made his move.”

  “He was?” Neenee’s jaw sagged slightly. “How did that go?”