by Candis Terry
Giggled? Sister Serious? No way. “Our sister appears to be drunk,” Dean said. “And flirting.”
Kate glanced over her shoulder. “She’s having fun. Leave her alone.”
“You’re not worried she might do something stupid?”
“She’s a big girl,” Kate said. “And she deserves to have a little fun. The case she’s on is ugly and tragic. She’s not eating and she’s losing sleep. So if she lets her hair down for a night, who the hell cares?”
“Not me?”
“Correct. Not you. And not me.”
After another quick check on their tipsy subject, he conceded. “I guess a little happiness never hurt anybody.”
Concern wrinkled Kate’s forehead. “I want you to be happy too, Dean. With something more than throwing a football.”
“Careful, you’re starting to sound like Mom.”
“Really?” Her smile brightened. “Maybe that’s not so bad.”
“This from the daughter who believed our mother out-wickeded the Witch of the West?”
“Maybe I’ve changed my mind. We women are allowed to do that, you know.” She gave his hand a squeeze. “And the first thing Mom would tell you would be to stop pushing yourself so hard.”
The look she gave him was all-knowing. But Kate didn’t know half of what she thought she knew. No one did. And no one would find out, either.
Everything in his life was trashed. And for a moment, the tremendous losses stole his breath. He glanced away at the festive decorations. They reminded him of what his mother would create. Only this time she hadn’t. She hadn’t even been there to see her last-born walk down the aisle.
Their mother had died suddenly a few short months ago. No warning. No goodbye. Just bam! She was gone.
His eyes stung and he blinked.
He missed her.
She’d been his biggest fan. And more times than not, his best friend. And it seemed as though Kate intended to pick up the baton now.
“If that new husband of yours ever gets out of line, you better come to your big brother,” he said, steering the conversation away from himself.
“No way.” Kate tilted her head back and laughed. “If he gets out of line, I get to use the handcuffs.”
Go figure. Kate had found her paradise in a town with a population of six thousand. His paradise, however, was a thousand miles south in the Lone Star state on the deep green field of football dreams.
“Now, what’s this about Mom?” he asked.
“Mom is . . .” Kate paused and looked over his shoulder. Then she gave him a faint smile.
Her odd comment snapped his attention back to the present and he found they’d waltzed toward the edge of the dance floor. “Mom is?”
“Never mind.” Kate stopped in front of two women who appeared to be in the midst of an entertaining conversation. One of them happened to be the little blonde he’d escorted down the aisle just a few hours earlier. She turned toward them with laughter still playing at the corners of her mouth.
“Dean, this is my very good friend, Emma Hart.” Kate slipped his hand from her waist. “Why don’t you two dance and get to know each other better?”
Dean whispered against her ear, “Do not play matchmaker, Kate.”
As though she didn’t hear, Kate embraced the blonde dressed in a strapless chocolate gown that hugged some pretty knockout curves. “If he’s not nice, I give you permission to sack him.”
A smile and a wink later, Kate glided away, leaving him alone with a too-short woman who looked too intellectual, seemed much older than the models he dated, and by the lack of gold on her finger, was most likely single and man-shopping. Still, his sister would never forgive him if he didn’t display uber-politeness. He had no choice but to turn on the charm he usually reserved for the media after an opposing team had opened up a can of whoop-ass.
As Frank Sinatra faded away, the DJ put on a country ballad. What was it with all the hokey slow dances? Dean took his cue and extended his hand. “Well, Emma, very good friend of my sister Kate, would you care to dance?”
She looked up at him and sparks flashed deep in her unique Mediterranean-blue eyes. Lips that looked marshmallow-soft parted slightly and revealed the slightest space between her two front teeth. In an instant, studious turned to sexy and a deluge of testosterone flooded Dean’s system that he couldn’t have held back if he’d been the Hoover Dam.
She hesitated.
He held back a laugh.
Like she’d really turn him down?
She tilted her head and silky hair draped across her bare shoulder. He took that as a yes and reached for her hand.
“Thanks.” She tucked her hand behind her back. “But no thanks.”
Emma looked up at Deer Lick’s golden boy and found bewilderment shading his green eyes.
He’d never been turned down before.
Poor baby.
In the space of a heartbeat he recovered as smoothly as the pro who commanded the football field, and he surprised her when his sensuous lips curled into a smile.
Too bad the gesture was wasted. She didn’t plan to stick around and wait to be dazzled. She turned away from the man who was paid millions to repel gigantic ogres in gladiator garb, and who apparently possessed some kind of magic that caused women all over America to drop their panties like coins in a wishing well.
As a bridesmaid she had duties to attend to. Especially since it appeared the maid of honor seemed a bit too tipsy to handle the task.
Emma curled her fingers into the dupioni silk of her dress and lifted it so she wouldn’t fall on her face as she walked toward the bar in her borrowed high heels. As much as she hated to admit it, even to herself, coming face-to-face with Dean Silverthorne had rattled her composure. When he’d walked her down the aisle at the wedding, she hadn’t looked up and he hadn’t looked down. Their eyes had never met. When she’d stood on the altar, she’d focused solely on the beautiful vows being exchanged between the loving couple. But now, standing an arm’s length away with his penetrating gaze focused on her? That had been an entirely different matter.
“Champagne, please,” she told the rent-a-bartender, who promptly popped the cork on a fresh bottle. While Emma waited for her drink, Carrie Underwood’s passionate vocals filled the room. The sweet rhythm of the music poured through Emma’s bones and she started to hum along. As she accepted the fluted glass from the bartender, she became aware of a large tuxedoed presence taking up space to her left. He leaned an elbow on the rented bar, and the luxurious scent of pricey aftershave and warm male settled over her like a seductive web.
“So, you come here often?” The deep timbre of his voice was tinged with humor.
Emma smiled into her glass of champagne and sipped. The bubbles tickled her nose. She looked up, a smirk still on her lips. “Actually, I do. On Wednesday nights I meet here with the ladies’ auxiliary and once a month we hold a Mommy and Me crafting class.”
Her own attempt at humor was met with the imaginary sound of crickets.
“Oh.” She gasped dramatically. “I’m sorry. Was that a pick-up line?”
His smile slipped and his dark brows pulled together.
“And that works for you?”
“No.” A burst of amusement rumbled in his broad chest. “But I try at least once a day to put my foot in my mouth. How’d I do?”
“I’d give you an A+.”
“Perfect.” He leaned toward the bartender and ordered a glass for himself. Champagne in hand, he turned his back to the bar and lifted his glass as if to toast her.
Hmmmm. She thought she’d made herself clear. Not interested. So why didn’t he go away?
Intent on discouraging further conversation, she turned her attention to the dinner tables across the room to see if the disposable cameras were in use. One of her bridesmaid duties was to make sure everyone had a good time, and Emma always took her responsibilities to heart. The man beside her, however, appeared not to be deterred.
S
he looked up. “Is there a problem?”
“No problem.” He shrugged his non-injured shoulder. “Just curious.”
“About?”
“Why you didn’t want to dance.” His head tilted. “Don’t you know how?”
“Of course I know how.” Was he kidding? She knew how to bust a move. Poorly. Alone in her living room with only her cat watching. “I simply choose not to.”
His Sexiest Man of the Year smile widened to a grin as if he’d been challenged. Emma looked away. She took a sip of her champagne and scanned the room again, searching for any excuse to politely escape his overwhelming presence. He was a gorgeous man who, in his tux, would put a red carpet George Clooney to shame. She could clearly understand how women would fall prey to his kind of drug. But she’d sworn to never put herself in that position again. Once had been enough.
His dark brows lifted. “You don’t like me, do you?”
“Don’t be silly.” She kept her attention across the room and wiggled her fingers in a wave to Dean’s father, who was doing his best to avoid the attention of man-eater Gretchen Wilkes. Poor man. “I barely know you.”
“You know . . .” He took a long sip of his champagne. “I believe I like this kind of dance much better.”
She looked up. The lingering grin on his face clearly said he was quite entertained for some odd reason. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean.”
“This banter.” He waved his hand between the two of them. “You know, verbal dodge ball.”
“Really? Well now I’m curious,” she admitted.
“About?”
“Why you’re wasting your time talking to me. I’m not a supermodel or a movie star. I don’t even mud wrestle.”
“Well, that works out great.” Charm oozed from every virile pore in his body. “Because I much prefer Jell-O wrestling.”
She shook her head. “Why is it that men are always drawn to women who don’t mind humiliating themselves?”
“Guess I’ve never regarded a friendly little Jell-O tussle as humiliating.”
“Well, of course not. Because men like you always see the end game.”
“Which is?”
“Meaningless sex. A one-nighter, nooner, or whatever time of day you manage to find a willing body.”
“So, from your point of view,” he responded, pointing a long, masculine finger at her, “that’s all men like me are looking for? A quickie?”
“Isn’t it?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Right.” And sunflowers grow on Mars. “You don’t remember me, do you?” she blurted out in a choked laugh.
He looked down at her, studied her face. Then his mouth slid into a cautious smile. “Don’t take it personal.”
Emma held his gaze. Men like Dean Silverthorne gobbled up women like her. Men who used women, ruined their reputations, then moved on without a sprinkle of apology.
Love ‘em and leave ‘em.
Been there. Done that.
Didn’t need to make a return trip.
“I wouldn’t dream of taking it personal.” Emma set her half-empty glass on the bar. “If you’ll excuse me.” As she scooted around him, his big hand touched her arm.
“Wait a minute.” Concern tightened his brow. “Should I remember you?”
“I have to go. Your sister is about to throw the bouquet.” She shot him an exaggerated look of regret. “But don’t worry. Men like you never remember women like me.” She tapped her chest. “We’re completely forgettable.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
CANDIS TERRY was born and raised near the sunny beaches of Southern California and now makes her home on an Idaho farm. She’s experienced life in diverse ways, from working in a Hollywood recording studio to scooping up road apples left by her daughter’s rodeo-queening horse to working as a graphic designer. Only one thing has remained constant: Candis’s passion for writing stories about relationships, the push-and-pull in the search for love, and the security one finds in their own happily-ever-after. Though her stories are set in small towns, Candis’s wish is to give each of her characters a great big, memorable love story, rich with quirky characters, tons of fun, and a happy ending. For more, please visit www.candisterry.com.
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ALSO BY CANDIS TERRY
Any Given Christmas
Second Chance at the Sugar Shack
For Love and Honor (anthology)
Be Impulsive!
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COPYRIGHT
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Excerpt from Second Chance at the Sugar Shack copyright © 2011 by Candis Terry.
Excerpt from Any Given Christmas copyright © 2011 by Candis Terry.
SOMEBODY LIKE YOU. Copyright © 2012 by Candis Terry. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
EPub Edition JUNE 2012 ISBN: 9780062105257
Print Edition ISBN: 9780062202079
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