An Accidental Gentleman

by M. Q. Barber

  “You all using these?”

  Kit shot up straight. Draped on Brian like a lovesick puppy, ugh.

  The shouter, a smiling guy in a soaked tan T-shirt, waved at the four empty benches filling out their table. The rain had driven two score players and families onto the covered concrete slab. The crowd, hemmed in and adding to the humidity, pressed closer on all sides.

  “Not a one.” Raising his voice, Brian piled their trash in a small stack and snapped his cooler shut. “Looks like tables are going for premium prices just now, but I’ll let you have the rest of this beauty for an overnight sat shift sometime when Daniel’s in Prague and wants a morning briefing.”

  “Shit, that price might be too high for me.” But he swung into a seat and extended his hand as Brian flipped the trash into an open-barrel can. “Aaron. You’re the gal who got a double off my slow scramble in center, but I won’t hold it against you. Next time you come to the game, though, I won’t be sleeping.”

  “Kit.” She shook extra-firm. Next time didn’t scare her a bit. Wouldn’t be a next time anyhow, because she’d fuck Brian tonight and get him out of her system. That’d be the right play. A shame, because he—but absolutely the best option. “I might have to stay off the field so my victory isn’t ruined.”

  “Oh, now that’s an unfair move.” Aaron bounced his fist off Brian’s forearm. “C’mon, Surfer Boy, manly pride on the line here. Tell your girlfriend she’s gotta give me a chance to even the score.”

  His friends needed to stop fucking calling her his girlfriend. The easier the word rolled off their tongues, the better the idea sounded circling in her head. The better Brian looked. Not the entitled white-collar office jockey she’d imagined him, the college guy who played racquetball in a sweatbox or golf on manicured lawns and drank imported shit for the prestige of the fancy names. A regular guy who’d made mistakes, fixed the ones he could, and tried to put his little brother on a better road. A man who cared about family.

  “No can do.” Brian swatted his buddy away and flashed bright eyes toward her. His blond fuzz would be gentle on her thighs. “I don’t tell Kit her mind. She’s her own woman. No labels.”

  Goddammit. The pit in her stomach belonged to a lovesick fool. Exactly the situation her rules avoided. Wanting and not-wanting twisted up the guts until the springs popped and the gears bent. Every stuck tooth jabbed in a sore spot. No shortage of those.

  Aaron launched into some story half-drowned by the growing buzz of nearby conversations and the deep-voiced thunder rumbling through the heavy gray clouds. In a clattering shuffle, a foursome claimed the remaining benches.

  More people, more labels, more pressure to know what the hell she was doing with Prince Charming. Would an uncomplicated fuck in his car while the rain beat down around them be so much to ask for?

  “Hey.” Brian slid up against her, their shoulders forming one broad bulwark. No shouts to be overheard, just a solid nudge and a low tone meant for her alone. “Sure is getting stuffy in here, right?” He clasped her fingers in a quick squeeze, gone before the full hold registered. “Must be all the hot air trapped under the roof.”

  His lips shaped each letter. Syllable. Whatever those things were called that no one gave a damn about after middle school because boys with mouths and lips and teeth and tongues grew far more interesting. A soft kiss, for his sweet rescue. A hard kiss, for the way she’d taste him before she let him fuck her. No kiss at all, because they sat surrounded by his friends and colleagues, who undoubtedly figured them for calf-eyed new lovers.

  She followed his thumb up the curves of his knuckles to the back of his hand and traced the tendon to his wrist. “You wanna get out of here?”

  A glance for the roof and its driving beat, and he set his level gaze on her. “Make a run for it? My gear bag’s in the dugout. We’ll get drenched.”

  Reason enough to strip off their clothes and warm up together.

  “A little water isn’t going to break me, Brian.” Hell, the rain shower might wash away the muddiness in her head until her thoughts ran clear again. She gripped his arm, and he flexed under her palm. She’d hold his biceps when he braced himself over her, when his nice-guy manners insisted on not crushing her and she dragged him into the abyss beyond manners for a night he wouldn’t forget. “Is it going to break you?”

  Swallowing, he stared at her hold on his arm. “No, ma’am. Lead the way.”

  She snatched his little cooler off the table and threaded through the crowd with his hand tucked away in hers. He stayed at her heels, so close they rubbed together as often as a grasshopper’s legs in a mating song.

  Same reasoning, too. She ought to fuck him before she grew more attached to his sexy-sweet stares and his ridiculous shorts. Hell, imagining he might understand her living at home because he took pity on his baby brother’s situation. As if she wanted his pity. A quick fuck had no reason to know a thing about her, and a long-term prospect would be an unwelcome hassle.

  Thunder boomed over the chattering crowd as she reached the edge of the concrete slab. Run-off sleeting from the roof pooled and streamed through the grassy area behind the bleachers.

  “Ready to run?” She flashed him a smile, her best mischief-making grin, and crossed the line. “Let’s see you hustle.”

  The storm devoured her shout, but Brian plunged into the riot with her all the same. She sprinted for the dugout with the six-pack cooler banging against her knuckles. The rain infiltrated her clasp on Brian, turning their skin slick. Easier to let him go, but a rebellious no fought simple logic. She clamped down until her fingers ached.

  As they rounded the bleachers, the packed dirt churned into mud under their feet. The earth sucked at her tennis shoes, threatening to pull her out of them. She lurched forward.

  Grabbing her shoulder, Brian yanked her upright. “Watch your step. Ground’s muddy.”

  The storm had soaked them to the skin. Water ran down his face and across his T-shirt collar in rivers, unable to saturate the fabric any more.

  “Oh, is it?” She raised her face to the sky and swept the plastered hair from her cheeks. Tempting to lick the water off his neck and see what he made of that move. “You think that might have something to do with all the rain we’re getting?”

  “Might could.” As he steadied her, he brushed a ticklish spot beneath her ear. “Be right back.”

  He trotted around the chain-link and snatched one of the waxed canvas bags lying in the mud.

  The water beat down with the warmth and pressure of a showerhead. Brian still owed her for the interrupted shower orgasm. She didn’t dare glance down. Her shirt, heavy and sopping, clung every time she moved, and her hardening nipples undoubtedly gave him a barometer on her thoughts.

  Wait ’til they reached the cars, at least. Families with kids milled under the pavilion, for chrissake. Out toward the parking lot, a few other brave souls ran for their rides. A line of cars crept forward, each pausing at the walkway between the barbecue pits and the cinderblock bathrooms. Passengers rushed out from under the roofed picnic area and dove into seats.

  No point running, aside from the fun of splashing in the muck. Kicking through a puddle, she splattered mud clear up her legs. She hit Brian’s, too, as he sauntered up with his bag slung one-handed over his shoulder despite the weight of multiple bats and gloves.

  “Playing dirty?” He tsked and clicked through his smile. “Somebody likes to stir up trouble.”

  Somebody sure as hell did. She stomped, one-two, and splashed more mud his way. “Come and stop me, then.”

  As he reached out, she darted back. She jogged just enough to stay ahead of his advances. With his arm extended, his hand clenched in a claw-grip, and a shambling gait, he chased her movie-monster style. All the way to the parking lot, her leading and him following, she giggled as he swiped and missed and mock-growled at her.

  The happy, carefree moments came few and far between in adulthood. This, with Brian, f
elt more like childhood. Fun. With a man. Without sex. Somehow, the drive to fuck him fell second to the joy of playing with him. She’d lost her fucking mind, and madness was glorious.

  He’d had all afternoon to play Mr. Nice Guy. Maybe he’d like to spend the night as a bad boy. Loosening up her rules more for Brian would be all right if he made concessions, too. A summer fuck-buddy. Still casual, with no guarantees except a good time. But how to ask him in the middle of rain-monster tag?

  Brian stopped his pursuit. Their cars waited a dozen more down the line. Water-filled tire ruts with squishy-slop sides created an obstacle course.

  She hopped across one. “I guess I win this round. Too big a leap for you?”

  He nodded toward the next row of cars, over the low hood of a sporty coupe. “Married life.”

  She followed his cue to the couple standing behind an old pickup. Brian’s buddy Rob held a wide umbrella over his wife’s head.

  Brian switched his grip on his bag to his right hand and resettled the weight. “Sherwood’s Mr. Careful these days.”

  Mr. Overprotective, more like. With one hand on Nora’s back, he kept her under shelter and guided her around toward the passenger side.

  Nora shook her head and danced out into the rain. Twirling, she extended her hand.

  Her husband closed the umbrella and chucked it into the truck bed. Then he took his wife’s hand, reeled her in, and started a slow dance. After three spins, he pulled open the passenger door, scooped up Nora, and set her gently in the seat. Laughing, she leaned out and kissed him.

  Jesus, he’d better not be the same sort of man Erin had married. Skip town and leave his wife juggling car seats and diapers and questions about why her kid didn’t have a daddy. “Yeah. Married life.”

  * * * *

  The allure of the rain must’ve worn off. Kit stood wringing out the bottom of her shirt in a two-fisted grip, the cooler shoved under her arm.

  “Getting somewhere dry’s not a bad idea, though.” He hustled past her, digging in his pocket for the key fob. The sooner they stowed the gear in his car, the faster they’d get on to something else. Dinner, with a heap of convincing. Sure, they’d dragged out lunch for the last hour, but they’d both need time to shower and change. Easy enough to pick back up for dinner and a movie. He’d play up the apology angle—a friendly makeup non-date to compensate for the rain. She might let him get away with that.

  Shoes squelching, she strode across tire ruts and trudged through the muck. She’d been kid-at-recess playful running into the rain and all girlish giggles and squeals when he’d chased her. Hints of the Katherine inside had peeked out all afternoon, a string of small victories. But every time, she reverted to a more distant Kit.

  As he popped the trunk, the downpour eased into a steady shower. Kit set the cooler inside.

  Fuck, she shone even when the sun hid from nature’s fury. Her clothes, pasted to her with rain, and the mud streaking her legs made her more beautiful still. Sleek and curving, she leaned her hip on the car.

  With a quick drop to his knees, he could push up her thin shirt and suckle the soft skin of her belly beneath. Lick the rainwater from her forearms when she reached for him.

  She squelched those plans with a stern brow and a finger-tap on the bumper. “You planning to stow your equipment, or are you using the trunk as a rain barrel?”

  Right, the reason the trunk yawned and waited. Flashing a so-sorry smile, he swung the gear bag.

  His leg slid out in the muck. As the bats thudded on the trunk lip, he tucked his head and went down.

  Splat.

  He’d missed the bumper by an inch. Real close to giving his teeth a good clacking and his head a bump.

  “You okay?” Clanking bats and a solid thud gave her voice a background track. “Brian?”

  Was he okay? Downside, he’d be an absolute mess when he got up. On the plus side, the bag hadn’t fallen on his head. She must’ve heaved everything the rest of the way in.

  Belly flopped in the muddy tire tracks, he rolled over.

  She’d lost her stern expression. She bent over him, eyes wide and lips parted, her breasts rounding in her tight T-shirt. A vision.

  Raindrops pelted his face. “Right as rain.”

  High and low, their laughter mingled. His new favorite soundtrack. When he was with her, clowning wasn’t a plea for attention. The ability to make her laugh was a gift he gave himself.

  He patted her ankle. Soft, smooth skin in his palm. A leg he’d drape across his shoulder when he knelt and tasted her. Fuck, not helping divert blood flow from his cock.

  Releasing her, he left muddy fingerprints behind. “Mud’s some expensive skin care shit, right? Lookit all I’m getting for free.”

  Covered, head to toe. The mud camouflaged his lucky shorts. He spread his arms wide and grinned, eager for a new round of her amusement. Her joy in him.

  She dropped on top of him.

  Arms flying, he caught her waist as she straddled his stomach.

  Cool mud slid between them. With strong calves, she gripped his sides. She leaned forward and folded her forearms across his chest. “Now we’re both filthy. Do the skin-care benefits work through the clothes, or should we take them off?”

  Whoa boy. He tamped down the urge to flip her over and find out. “Probably not in the parking lot. Kids and whatnot.”

  She nodded, her face rearranged into faux-serious lines broken by her twitching lips. “You have a shower big enough for two?”

  If he didn’t, he’d swing by the hardware store for a sledgehammer and a tarp on the way.

  No—bad, bad, bad idea. Once he let his balls leapfrog ahead of his brain, he’d be nothing more to her than a quirky weekend in a long summer. Fuck that. He’d be every damn weekend. And winter, spring, and fall besides.

  “We could squeeze in.” He grabbed hold of her hips, gorgeous and flaring, to appreciate her gasp. A little incentive never hurt anyone. “But once you get what’s in my shorts, you’ll be off to the next conquest.” Exaggerating his sigh, he added a pouty droop and jostled her seat. “Unless you’re gonna put a ring on it. Can’t walk away then.”

  Her face hardened faster than a mud mask.

  “Fuck you, Brian.” Jamming her elbows into his chest, she wrenched herself upward. “Fuck you.”

  Christ Jesus. Two divots burned holes in his chest, and still the coiling wrongness in his stomach outmatched them. He always pushed the jokes over the edge. Shit, shit, shit. “What did I say? I’ll take it back.”

  Her foot caught and dragged his shirt. She lurched forward, arms outstretched, and thudded against the bumper, his scrambling intervention too goddamn slow.

  “Katherine? Are you—” Fuck, no, she wasn’t okay.

  Cradling her left arm, she kicked mud toward him and stood on her own. A wince cut through her glare. “Leave me the fuck alone.”

  “Let me get a medic.” He scanned the lot. Anyone in shouting distance would do. They’d have the kit under the pavilion until the last person packed up. “Or drive you to the hospital. We should get you looked at.”

  Backing from him, she circled around his car to hers and dug keys from her pocket.

  “At least stay and let me ice that.” He gave chase. “You’re hurt. You shouldn’t be driving.”

  She opened the door in an awkward backhanded grab. “Tell me one more time what I should and shouldn’t do, Brian. Who the fuck do you think you are?” Dropping into the seat, she hissed air between her teeth. “I’ll tell you what you are—nothing. We’re done. Don’t text me. Don’t call me.”

  The door slammed. The engine started.

  He pounded on the window with the flat of his hand. “Katherine, wait. Please. I just want—”

  She reversed past him, too fast.

  “—to make sure you’re all right.”

  Spraying mud and rattling through the bumps, she zipped down the aisle.

  His whisper fel
l short of her retreat. “I want to fix this.”

  Impossible, standing in waterlogged wheel ruts. Mission outcome: utter failure. His date idea had shifted her farther from him than they’d started. And for his next trick? Wooing a woman who actively loathed him.

  “Good talk.”

  Chapter 4

  Tucked away somewhere on the backroom shelves, a perfect replacement knob waited. Kit pushed aside the more modern parts-donors. The radio carcasses held a wealth of useful materials, but her current project demanded 1940s styling.

  Holding the pristine exemplar from the client’s vintage set, she searched for a match. Wood, smooth, with a basic round-shiny-button look. No frills. The owners would be getting their radio and record player combo—a wedding present way back in the day—returned to them in brilliant restored and playable condition for their sixty-fifth wedding anniversary as a gift from the granddaughter who’d smuggled the poor neglect victim out of a damp basement.

  Three weeks ago, the machine had been a wreck. Now, the degunked insides and refinished outsides waited on her worktable. She should’ve had the whole project done by now, but Monday afternoon had been busier than usual.

  Couldn’t complain about good business, especially not when she’d offloaded a classic early-seventies pinball machine to a collector who’d driven up from Omaha to take a gander. Could complain about the damn just-in-case brace on her left wrist and the shoulder sling. Take it easy, let the sprain heal for three or four days. Right. Great advice from people who didn’t have deadlines to meet. An extra pair of hands would be heaven-sent. The woman would be in tomorrow to pick up the radio, and the restored grand dame still needed to be assembled and given a test run.

  But first—ah, perfect. “What a beauty you are.”

  She plucked the knob from a basket of loose parts. The dark lacquer under the thin dust-fuzz would match the piece in her hand with some spit and polish. She gave the wood a quick buff against her orange tank top.