by Reese Ryan
It was good Bree had turned down his invitation. Better for the both of them.
Chapter 4
For the past three hours, Bree had tried to take a nap. Instead, she tossed and turned. Thinking of him. And of that damn kiss. The one that had haunted her for more than a year.
Get your head together. It’s not like you’ve never been kissed.
True. But she’d never been so thoroughly kissed. Kissed in a way that made every nerve in her body raw and frayed. Deeply relaxed, yet ready to spring into action. A kiss that made her want him in the worst way. Body and soul.
In that instant, she’d set aside her plan to make Wesley Adams hers for the night. She’d wanted something deeper with the guy who’d been sweet, funny and incredibly sexy. To be kissed like that for more than just one night. So she’d politely refused his invitation to go back to his place.
She’d regretted it ever since.
Given the chance again, she would’ve accepted his invitation. If only to ease the tension and stress that had her body strung tighter than a new volleyball net.
Bree slipped on yoga pants, a T-shirt and a hooded sweater, then went downstairs to order from one of the resort restaurants. She grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge and took a sip. A mouthwatering scent had infiltrated the kitchen.
Grilled meat.
Her belly churned. She could almost taste the steak. The one with her name on it.
Bree stepped through the double doors and onto the back deck, following the scent.
“Hey.” Wes grinned. He stood over the grill on his deck in a black sleeveless shirt that showcased the gun show he called biceps. His right arm was covered with a tribal tattoo. A pair of lived-in jeans highlighted his assets.
It was colder outside than she thought. Her nipples beaded, pressing against the fabric of her bra. Bree offered a half-hearted wave, then pulled her sweater tight against her body. “Hey.”
“You eat yet?” His grin widened when she shook her head. “Got your steak on the grill. C’mon over.”
No. No. Tell him no.
Her brain was clear on what to do. Her belly objected, rumbling in response to the delectable aroma. “I’m ordering pizza tonight.”
“Or you could have a home-cooked meal with me.” His voice indicated that his option was clearly the better choice. Her roiling stomach agreed. “Besides, you’re on the road a lot. Home-cooked meals must be a rarity.”
“You’re assuming I don’t cook.”
Wes raised an eyebrow, his dark eyes lit with amusement. “Do you?”
She didn’t, but that wasn’t the point. “It’s getting late.”
“You’re a California girl. It’s still afternoon there. Besides, it’s just a meal. You can leave as soon as we’re done. If that’s what you’d like.” He’d paused before adding that last bit.
Her jet-lagged brain struggled to manufacture another excuse. Nothing came to her. “Okay. I’ll be over in a sec.” She headed toward the door.
“Or you can hop the banister now.” He closed the lid on the grill and held out a hand to her.
Bree chewed her lower lip as she surveyed the banister between their decks. There were wooden benches on either side of the railing. The banister was only a few feet high. She could easily jump it. Still...
She blew out a breath and stepped up onto the bench. Placing her hand in his, she stepped up onto the railing, then down onto the bench on his side. Before she could jump down, Wes planted his hands on her waist and lowered her to the floor. Taken by surprise, she gasped, drawing in his scent—clean man with a hint of juniper and sandalwood.
Bree fought the desire to lean in, her nose pressed to his freshly scrubbed skin, and inhale deeply. She tried not to muse about how delicious it felt to be back in his arms. So close that heat radiated from his brown skin. She stepped beyond his grasp, shaking her head to clear it of thoughts that would only lead to trouble. “So what’s for dinner?”
Wes grinned. “Rib eyes, grilled corn, baked potatoes and grilled onions and peppers. Sound good?”
“Sounds perfect. You went all out tonight.”
“Just a little something I threw together.” He smiled. “Can I get you a beer or a glass of wine?”
“Red or white?”
“Pink.” A wide smile spread across his face. “Sampled a great wine at the grocery store today that’ll complement the steak nicely. It’s chilling in the fridge now.”
“I’ll take the wine with dinner.” If she was going to be alone with Wesley Adams for the next hour, she’d better do it mostly sober. “Can I help with anything?”
The buzzer sounded in the kitchen. “Potatoes are done. Can you take them out of the oven and plate them? Oven mitts and plates are on the counter.”
She slipped inside the kitchen and did as he asked, glad to put space between them.
* * *
Bree’s eyes twinkled with an excitement she seemed eager to hide as she surveyed her carefully loaded plate. She picked up her utensils. “Everything smells so good.”
“Tastes even better. Dig in. Don’t be shy.” He couldn’t peel his gaze from her face long enough to carve his own steak, afraid to miss her reaction.
Bree took a bite. An appreciative moan signaled her approval. The deeply erotic, guttural sound triggered an involuntary twitch below his belt. “This is probably the best steak I’ve ever had. Where’d you learn to cook like this?”
“My mom is an amazing cook. Taught me everything I know.” He took a bite of the steak. It was tender and succulent. Seasoned to perfection. His mother would be proud.
“It’s good she taught you to be self-sufficient. It’s no picnic being with someone who isn’t.” Her brows knitted, as if a bad memory flashed through her brain.
“Something you know from experience, I gather.” Wes sipped of his beer. He didn’t want to delve deeper into her obvious pain. Yet a part of him was curious.
Bree took a generous gulp from her wineglass. “It was a long time ago.”
He took the hint and changed the subject. “So how’s Rebecca’s shoulder? I read somewhere she’d be sidelined for at least four months.”
“Could be a little longer. She’s going stir-crazy, but her physical therapy is coming along.”
“Good.” He put butter and sour cream on his potato. “Dealing with an injury can be tough. Especially late in an athlete’s career.”
“Were you a soccer player, like Liam?” She dug in to her potato, already smothered in butter and sour cream.
“No, rugby was my sport.”
“Amateur or professional?”
“I played at university, then on a lower tier regional league. Definitely wasn’t in it for the money.” He took another swig of his beer.
“Is rugby as rough as they say?”
“Worse. Got half a dozen injuries to prove it.”
“Were you hurt badly?”
Wes winced inwardly at the memory of his last injury, but shrugged nonchalantly. “Sprains and broken bones. Typical injuries in a high-contact sport.”
“Is that why you quit?” She took another sip of her wine, her expressive brown eyes trained on him.
“Never really had a passion for the game. It was something to do in university and I was good at it. Mostly, it was a great way to blow off steam.”
“Let me guess, you were the misunderstood rebel type.” She speared a piece of steak and pointed her fork at him, then put the morsel in her mouth. His eyes followed the motion. He envied that morsel of beef as she savored it, her full lips pursed as she chewed.
“What gave it away?” He chuckled as she eyed the tattoo sleeve on his right arm, part of a large tribal tattoo that also encompassed the right side of his chest and back. “I didn’t consider myself a reb
el. Too cliché. On the surface, I was a pretty affable guy. Had a lot of anger pent up inside. Rugby seemed like the best way to release it.”
Wes cut into his steak and took another bite, chastising himself. He’d invited Bree to dinner to repair the damage he’d caused and build a working relationship. Not to tell her his entire life story.
He seldom discussed his past with the women he dated. And never with the women with whom he did business. He preferred to stick to the casual overview. Fish-out-of-water Southern boy raised in London was usually enough.
So why had he cracked open the door to his past to Bree?
Because there was something about her that put him at ease. Made him feel like he could let down his guard. It was the thing he remembered most about that night. He was attracted to her, of course. She was Bree Evans. Tall. Gorgeous. Miles of smooth, glistening skin the shade of brown sugar. Provocative, yet sweet. She was laid-back and genuine with a smile that could convince an Eskimo to buy a truckload of ice. No wonder sponsors fell all over themselves to get her to endorse their products. Lip gloss, facial cleanser, breakfast cereal and workout contraptions.
Keep your head in the game, buddy. This isn’t a date. You’re only trying to create some goodwill.
She broke in to his thoughts with a tentative question. “What was it you were so angry about?”
“Life, I guess. The guys I attended boarding school with had the perfect life handed to them on a silver platter. I didn’t.” He shrugged. “It bugged me.”
“Me, too.” She was quiet, contemplative. “I was the scholarship kid at an elite private school.” She winced, as if the memory caused her physical pain. “Took three buses to get there every morning, but I got an incredible education and a full ride to college because of it. Most importantly, that’s where I fell in love with volleyball. That school changed my life, and I’m grateful for it.”
“But...” There was something she wasn’t saying. The unspoken words were so heavy and dense, they practically hung in the air between them. He should’ve ignored them, but the word tripped out of his mouth before he could stop it.
“It was hard being thrust into a completely different world. Especially for a gangly girl who wasn’t quite sure where she fit in. Who wanted to be liked.”
“How could anyone not like Bree Evans, the quintessential girl next door?” He smiled.
Bree glowered at him, then dug in to her potato. “You’d be surprised,” she muttered.
Dammit. He walked right into that one. He wanted to make her forget what an ass he’d been. Now they’d come full circle right back to that night. His gut churned from the hurt in her brown eyes, when she raised them to his again.
“Look, about that night—”
Bree waved his words off as she shook her head. “It wasn’t the right time for you. I know. I’d rather not talk about it.”
Fine. It wasn’t like the conversation was his idea of a good time, either. If she didn’t want to talk about it, he sure as hell didn’t.
They ate in silence for a few minutes. Then Bree engaged him in small talk about the surprisingly mild weather and her lunch with Liam and few of the locals. He nodded politely and responded appropriately. But he couldn’t ignore the pain in her eyes, knowing he’d caused it.
He was his own worst enemy. Always had been.
“The time wasn’t right because, for me, it never is. Not for anything serious. I’m focused on expanding my business, so I don’t get seriously involved with anyone. Ever.”
He studied her face, gauging her reaction and whether he should go further. Her lips were pressed into a straight line, her expression devoid of emotion.
Wes pressed his fingertips to his forehead. “When the night began, it seemed we were on the same page, but then... I don’t know. It felt like you wanted more. That’s not something I can give you. That’s why I didn’t call. Not because I don’t like you. Because I like you too much to start something I can’t finish.”
Bree drained what was left of her second glass of wine. “Thank you for being so honest and for being so very considerate of my feelings. But I’m a big girl. I can take care of myself.” She stood. “Thank you for dinner, but it’s getting late. I’d better get back.”
“Brianna, don’t go. We were having a lovely dinner. I didn’t mean to spoil the mood, but I don’t want you to feel as if I rejected you. That wasn’t it at all.”
“I think I’m still a bit jet-lagged.” Bree was a terrible liar, but he applauded her effort to remain civil. She took her dishes to the kitchen.
“I’ll get it.” Wes trailed her to the kitchen and stacked his plate on hers.
“Dinner was delicious. The least I can do is help with the dishes.” Bree scraped his plate, then hers, and loaded the dishes into the dishwasher.
He leaned against the refrigerator, arms folded over his chest, as she put away the dirty dishes. She seemed to be processing his words as she rinsed the pots and pans.
Wes held his tongue. After all, how many times could a guy say he was sorry before the words became hollow and meaningless? More importantly, he kept his hands to himself, balled in tight fists beneath his arms.
He ignored the persistent desire to touch her. To taste her mouth and softly caress the skin at the nape of her neck, exposed by her high ponytail. To finish what they’d started that night in London.
He shifted his weight, camouflaging his body’s reaction to the tactile memory and the current vision of Bree bent over the dishwasher—her pert, round ass highlighted by a pair of snug, navy yoga pants.
Maybe they should call it a night, before he did something they’d both regret.
“I’ve got this. Really.” He stepped toward her as she turned suddenly, nearly colliding with him. She planted her hands on his chest to brace herself from the impact. He grabbed her arms to steady her. When their eyes met, her cheeks turned crimson. She dropped her hands and stepped backward.
“Then I’ll go.” She headed toward the patio door.
“Wait, I’ll help you over the—” Before he could get through the doors she’d planted her hands on the railing and vaulted over to the other side.
She was practically a blur as she hurried inside, tossing a final “thanks and good night” over her shoulder.
He ran a hand over his head and sighed.
Way to go, Wes.
* * *
Bree retreated to her bed. Her heart rate and breathing were still elevated from her vault over the banister and sprint up the stairs. Knees drawn to her chest, she rested her chin on them and hugged her legs.
The grown-ass woman equivalent of hiding in a corner, hugging her teddy bear.
So much for playing it cool.
She’d accepted his dinner invitation, determined to prove the past was behind them. They’d be able to forge a business relationship that was profitable for everyone involved. She needed to prove it to herself, as much as she needed to prove it to him.
Bex was counting on her to remain calm and stick with the plan. She promised her friend she would. After all, her future was riding on this event being a success, too.
Bree groaned as she recounted the evening’s events. Her plan went off the rails long before they sat down to eat. It was the moment he’d taken her hand in his, then grabbed hold of her waist. Instantly, she’d been transported to that night in London. Her attraction to him was as palpable now as it was then.
Still, she managed to pull it together and get through an hour of dinner conversation. Civilly. Without staring at his strong biceps or focusing on the rise and fall of his well-defined pecs as he laughed.
Okay, that last part had been a monumental failure. He caught her checking him out more than once.
No wonder he felt compelled to outline exactly where things stood between them. He wasn’t
interested in starting a relationship. A statement that was in direct opposition to the starry-eyed schoolgirl fantasy she couldn’t seem to let go of.
His words made her want to crawl under a chair and hide.
He’d seen straight through her ruse, much as he had the night they first met. She’d walked into that club determined to be witty, flirtatious and cosmopolitan. All the things she wasn’t. She’d been able to maintain the illusion most of the night. Until she met Wes. He was charming and funny, and he’d made her so comfortable she’d dropped the pretense and slipped back into her own skin, like a comfy pair of pj’s. The facade quickly faded away, as did her illusions of being satisfied with something temporary and meaningless. She’d wanted more.
That night, for the first time in a long time, she’d been hopeful she could have it.
She’d been wrong.
Maybe she was just as wrong to think she could work with Wes and not be affected by his smile. His charm. His incredible body.
Bree shut her eyes and tried not to think of it. Or the way his hard muscles felt beneath her fingertips, both times she ended up in his arms tonight.
Stretching her legs, she reached for the remote and turned on the television.
Focus on the plan, not the man. She silently repeated the words her high-school volleyball coach would recite to her when she got too caught up with the opponent on the other side of the net.
Don’t be fooled by his good looks and charm. Wesley Adams is the enemy.
A frenemy, at the very least. She’d dealt with plenty of those in her career. Had even partnered up with a couple.
Bree closed her eyes and visualized herself facing off against Wes on the volleyball court. As long as she held onto that image, she’d be good. In control of her thoughts and emotions. Her body’s response.
Everything will be fine. She headed back down to the kitchen, repeating the words to herself.