“A television show?” she whispered.
When photos from his first professional modeling session went viral and he was launched into minor celebrity status, Harper could feel in her bones that the countdown to his departure had begun. Who wouldn’t love the story of a gorgeous, all-American war veteran who lost a leg during a bomb blast but emerged from his trauma sexier and stronger than ever? The media loved him. Women everywhere loved him. His post-army life was just beginning to take off, and good for him.
She propped the rifle against the wall and touched a weathered brick near the door, a brick that had been set by a mason nearly a hundred and fifty years ago and would remain, stalwart and strong, for many years to come. The brick’s surface was cool and gritty beneath her fingertips.
“What television show?”
He swallowed. His gaze slid away. “Meet the Groom.”
Her ribs squeezed painfully, forcing the air from her lungs. “You’re the next groom on the show?”
“Yes.”
She’d seen Meet the Groom once at Presley’s house. The concept was as ridiculous and vapid as the lineup of prospective brides. It was one of those shows in which Harper could actually feel her IQ plummeting the longer she watched. But she wasn’t surprised that Brandon had been asked to appear on television. From the moment his first professional modeling photos had debuted, the media had fallen in love with his story of heroism and hope as much as his looks.
The Meet the Groom producers probably cast him in order to elevate the show from its campy roots by lending it the credibility that came from featuring a highly-decorated disabled veteran. “You’re not worried that the show’s going to exploit you and your story?”
His gaze snapped back to her face, his expression defensive. “I won’t let them. This is a great opportunity to spread the word about the issues veterans face and show the world what amputees are capable of. If it even inspires one vet who’s down on himself, or one kid with a disability who sees that life can be pretty sweet even when you’re missing a limb, that’s reason enough to put myself out there.”
She nodded. What else could she do? The American Hero card trumped all. “Then I guess congratulations are in order. You’re going to inspire a lot of people. You always do, with every new challenge you overcome.” Damn, she sounded like a speaker at a high school graduation. “Miami isn’t going to know what hit it. You’re going to do great down there.”
His defensive expression held strong. “Thank you.”
“What about your job at the gym?”
“After the photo shoot, I’ll still have one more week left on my two week notice, so I’ll work that last week and play one last Bomb Squad game, then drive back to Florida.”
Frustration tightened her throat. He had it all figured out. How long had he been planning this? How many times since he’d been asked to appear on Meet the Groom had they seen each other, with friends at Locks or at the ice rink, and he’d opted not to tell her the truth?
In a flash of memory, she saw herself as a child, her sisters standing next to her, their father on the sofa, his deep, unemotional voice telling them he was going away again on deployment the next morning. He hadn’t seen the value in sentimentality or lengthy good-byes. Neither, it seemed, did Brandon.
She pressed her palm against the door behind her and traced the carvings on it with her fingertip. “All those poor housewives at the gym. They’re going to be positively bereft without you. You were the hottest personal trainer there.”
“They’ll manage fine. Ramos is already taking over with most of my clients. He needs the extra hours, so it’s all good.” His nose and lips skimmed the back of her head. “You know what? You should come with me next week for my photo shoot. You haven’t taken a vacation the whole time I’ve known you. Three days, that’s all I’m asking for.”
It took her a moment for his suggestion to sink in. Three days in Miami with Brandon. As he put it, that was all he was asking for—temporary fun. But Harper had had enough temporary while growing up to last a lifetime. Frustration coursed through her veins. Did he really expect her to jump at the chance for a three-day fling with him after breaking it to her that he was moving on because this town wasn’t worth his time anymore? That she wasn’t. After telling her for years that he was philosophically opposed to monogamy, he was moving to Miami to pick a bride—on national television, no less.
She curled her hands into his sweatshirt. If he hadn’t used those lips of his on three coeds tonight, she’d take from him a sliver of her due, of the years of pleasure he’d denied her because of that damned restless heart he’d been cursed with.
“Brandon,” she croaked, her gaze sliding to the shadowy hollow of his throat. “You can’t ask that of me.”
He hunched into the arm he’d propped against the door, refusing to let her break eye contact. “I already did. Life’s too short; it’s time you started living it. Come with me to Miami.”
His usual refrain sounded like nails on a chalkboard to Harper. Life’s too short. Carpe Diem. You only live once. Those were the mantras Brandon threw around like get-out-of-jail-free passes. But to Harper’s way of thinking, life was too short to waste on flights of fancy and meaningless flings. On television brides.
And yet . . .
What if she did agree to his proposal? What if she didn’t turn him down? He wanted her because she was unattainable, so what if she made herself attainable? That would end the chase. She could finally have closure.
A full body rush of sensation rippled up her. What if she ditched her responsibilities and spent three days in paradise with a hunky younger man—a professional model, no less? So very tempting. She loosened her grip on his sweatshirt and smoothed out the material. “Three days of monogamy. I’m not sure you could handle it.”
He threw his head back in a triumphant bark of laughter. “I’m taking that as a yes.” His hand cupped her hip, his fingers edging toward her backside. “Baby, I’m going to take such good care of you in Miami.”
Even though she thrilled at his touch and the way he crooned the word baby, as though she was really something special to him, there was no way she could break away from the bar on such short notice, especially not with the trouble buzzing around the place. She felt every one of her thirty-six years when she said, “I didn’t say yes. This isn’t a good time for me, with the bar. I told you there’s been some incidents lately. I have too many responsibilities to leave.”
He brushed his thumb over her lower lip. “All work and no play. Don’t you ever get tired of that?”
“Sometimes, absolutely. But weariness doesn’t make my responsibilities or problems go away.” Weariness wasn’t going to save her bar or get her doctor off her back. Neither were empty platitudes about seizing the day.
He nodded, and she thought she’d broken through to him, when he said, “I have another idea, then. A friendly wager.”
Oh, hell no. He knew she was a sucker for taking bets, no matter how dismal her odds. Which was how, the year before, she’d ended up owing him kisses every time he scored the winning goal for his men’s league ice hockey team, Bomb Squad. The near-weekly make-out sessions had done a number on her heart, and when that bet collection ended along with the NHL season, she vowed to never again enter into a wager with him.
“I’m serious, Harper. I solve your crime problem at Locks, and in return, you come with me to the photo shoot.”
As far as bets went, this was a safe one. No way could Brandon solve her problem in a week because there wasn’t one, easy-to-pinpoint issue to fix. Even if there had been, one man couldn’t single-handedly end crime in Destiny Falls like he was friggin’ Dirty Harry.
Brandon shifted; his right shoe knocked into her sneaker, a reminder of the prosthetic limb he wore. She’d never seen him without it until she’d gone searching for photographs of him online. Even on the sports magazine cover his image had graced last June, he’d worn the prosthetic he used while playing hockey.
But buried in the search engine results, she’d found a handful of photographs he’d done in the first few months of his modeling career. No clothes, no prosthesis. Just Brandon in black and white, his hand loosely covering his groin and his right leg ending below the knee as though the rest of it had been airbrushed out. She’d stared for a long time, assimilating the image into her mind, wondering.
What did he do with the prosthesis during sex? He had to take it off, didn’t he? Did he enjoy having his leg and scars touched by the women he slept with or did the area still hurt? How did he shower, on one leg or seated? Did he leave the prosthesis on when he was home alone or did he peel it off like Harper shed her bra after a long day? So many times, she’d pondered the intimate details of his daily life, details that the trio of coeds had probably learned off-hand, as had dozens of other women over the years. An ache of frustration settled like a tight ball in Harper’s throat.
He couldn’t solve her crime problem, but it might be worth taking the bet to have him close to her for the week while he tried. Maybe she’d invite herself into his bed before he moved to Miami and satisfy all her questions while she had that one last chance to.
The more she considered the idea, the more she liked it. She was never going to have a relationship with Brandon in any real sense, but with him moving away, she’d be spared the pain of constantly being confronted with the fact that she hadn’t been worth a venture into a monogamous commitment for him. And, besides, he was right—she was overdue for some fun.
She sidestepped away from his body and thrust her hand between them for him to shake. “One week. If you solve the bar’s problems, I’m yours for three days in Miami.”
He took her hand, but rather than shake it, he brought it to his lips for a lingering kiss as he held her gaze. “You’ve got yourself a deal.”
Then he smiled, full of devilish charm and triumph, which got her wondering if maybe she needed to start thinking with her brain because her heart was stupid as shit. In typical Harper fashion, she’d probably miscalculated the odds and, dollars to donuts, she’d just agreed to yet another sucker bet at the hand of the one man she couldn’t risk losing herself to.
Melissa Cutler knows she has the best job in the world, writing sexy small town contemporary romances, western romances, and edge-of-your-seat romantic suspense novels. Besides writing, she was struck at an early age by an unrelenting passion for travel and is probably planning her next vacation as you read this. When she’s not globetrotting, she’s enjoying Southern California’s flip-flop wearing weather and wrangling two rambunctious kids. Find out more about Melissa and her books at melissacutler.net or write to her at [email protected]. Visit Melissa online at Facebook (facebook.com/MelissaCutlerBooks) and Twitter (@m_cutler).
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