But right here, right now, it’s just us, and all Vaughn wants is a place to park his super-fine butt. Next to me. “Have a seat,” I say, patting the spot. He looks too good to be true in cargo shorts and a white threadbare T-shirt that’s half tucked in the front. His light brown hair is finger-combed back from his face. Stubble lines his angular jaw.
He sits, his gaze sliding over me from head to toe and back up until his eyes meet mine. “Thanks.”
“Ladies, my lemon margarita. There is nothing better on a warm day.” Dylan hands one to Dixie. Pours another and offers it to me.
“Oh, I don’t know. I can think of one or two things to do on a summer day that hit the spot better than a cold drink,” Dixie says, innuendo clearly lacing her words.
“No, thank you. I’m good,” I tell Dylan.
“I knew I liked you the second I laid eyes on you,” Dylan says to Dixie.
Dixie laughs. “Everyone likes me when they first lay eyes on me. But fair warning, I don’t play nice.”
Dylan arches a brow. “But you do play.” He turns his attention to Vaughn, moving his arm so the cup he offered me is now in front of his friend. “Here, bro.”
“Thanks,” he says. “But I’m good, too.”
“Suit yourself. Means more for us.” He raises the cup, taps it to Dixie’s, and then downs half the contents like it’s water. When he’s done, he flashes another smile. “What do you think?”
Dixie takes a small sip. “Not bad.”
I stifle a laugh. Dylan has no idea Dixie is an expert at making drinks. He leans over so he’s in her personal space. “I can make it better. Want me to show you how?”
“Oh, would you please? Maybe while we’re naked?” Dixie’s delivery is so over-the-top there’s no mistaking the mockery in her voice.
He scoots back and aims a grin at Vaughn. “Oh, I really like this one.”
“Of course you do,” she says. “You think you see ‘fuck me’ written on my forehead in invisible ink put there just for you.”
“You mean it’s not?” Dylan deadpans.
“How’s the house-sitting going?” Vaughn asks me with a shake of his head.
“I haven’t burned down the kitchen, so good.”
“Hold up,” Dylan says, eyeing the oatmeal raisin cookies on the table between me and Dixie. “Those are fresh baked?”
I pick up the plate. “Yep. Would you like one?”
“Hell, yeah.” He takes two. I offer them to Vaughn. He also takes two, and I wonder if these boys ever get anything homemade.
“Fuck me, these are good,” Dylan says, talking with his mouth full of cookie.
Vaughn nods and when he’s finished chewing says, “They’re fantastic. And I don’t really like raisins.”
I laugh. “Maybe I’ll make you some chocolate chip ones.”
“By ‘you,’ you mean ‘us,’ right?” Dylan says. The puppy dog look on his face makes it hard not to like him.
“No, I meant Vaughn,” I tease.
Dylan feigns a sad face then reaches for the plate. “In that case, I’ll polish these off now.”
Vaughn leans over, his arm brushing my shoulder, his mouth at my neck, and little shock waves race across my upper back. “Dylan grew up on reservations and takeout.”
“And you?” I whisper back.
“Pretty much the same.”
“I hate to break up this little foursome,” Dixie says with a glance at her cell, “but I need to head out.”
“Where you rushing off to, Dix?”
“Word of caution, Dyl, the last guy who called me Dix couldn’t use his for a week.”
Dylan leans back in his chair and with a straight face says, “Punish me, Dix.”
Dixie stands and rolls her eyes. I suck in my bottom lip to keep from laughing and peek at Vaughn. He’s staring at my mouth. So of course I look at his. His lips are full, the bottom lip a little more so, and I want to slide my tongue over it and then taste inside his mouth.
I quickly turn away. “Where are you going?” I blurt out. I need something else to focus on before I fall face first into my hot neighbor. I haven’t wanted to kiss anyone since Mason. Mason. I picture his handsome face, his smile. What does he look like now?
“Not that it’s any of your business, but I’ve got a guitar lesson.” She gathers her towel against her chest with one hand while she holds her notebook in the other and slides her feet into a pair of black flip-flops.
“You any good?” Dylan asks, propping his elbow up on the top of his chair.
“I can hold my own.”
“She sings, too,” I offer. She’s got an amazing voice. Not that I’ve heard it in a while. “You ever performed at an open mic night, Dix?”
I inwardly smile as Dixie presses her lips together. See? It isn’t so nice being called a name you hate. I make a mental note to bake Dylan cookies ASAP.
“I have.”
“Tomorrow night. Seven o’clock. Come to The Cabana on Sunset and let’s see what you’ve got.”
“Dylan owns the club,” Vaughn supplies.
“I don’t take orders. Especially from bar owners.” Dixie twists around to go.
“I guess you’re not as talented as you think you are,” Dylan says.
Dixie turns on him. “Is that a challenge?”
“Let me be straight up with you. Yes.”
She studies Dylan with an intensity I have no idea how to read. “I’ll be there. And just so we’re clear it’s because I assume there’s a purse for the winner.”
“There is.”
“Excellent. Bye, Vaughn. It was nice to see you again.”
“You, too,” Vaughn says as Dixie turns and walks away.
“What? No good-bye for me?” Dylan calls, but Dixie doesn’t even pause, just waves over her shoulder. He tosses a grin at us. “Oh, yeah. She wants me.”
Vaughn and I laugh at the same time. Dylan picks up the margarita pitcher and cups, then stands. “Shall we continue this back at our house?” he says. “Pick up where we left off before we came over here.”
“Actually, I’m going to hang back for a few and talk to Kendall. I’ll catch up with you.”
“Kendall,” Dylan says, “it was a pleasure meeting you. Don’t be a stranger. We don’t bite.” Then he winks and adds, “Unless you’re into that kind of thing.”
I give him a closed-mouth smile and a polite, “Pleasure to meet you, too,” while praying he doesn’t see how out of my element his teasing makes me. Would Vaughn bite me? Where? And since when do I get a secret thrill from the prospect?
Vaughn turns so we’re looking squarely at each other. “Looks like you made another friend.”
“You think?”
“I do. I’ve known the guy a long time. He’s cocky as hell, but underneath all the arrogance, he’s one of the best people around.” The sound of the side gate banging shut echoes around the pool.
Aaand…I’m alone with Vaughn. I reach under the chair for my cover-up and slip it over my head. “What did you want to talk about?”
His lips part slightly as his gaze rakes over my body. My cover-up is completely see-through, and his blatant appreciation raises the temperature a thousand degrees. “Are you busy tomorrow night?”
“No.”
“Great. Let’s go to the club together.”
Like a date? The suggestion/invitation—whatever it is—sends quivers up my arm and puts fireflies in my stomach. I discreetly suck in a breath.
I haven’t felt this kind of thing since high school. My friends and I used to say the boys we crushed on in our small town didn’t put butterflies in our stomachs; they put fireflies because our faces would glow when we thought about them. I look down at my lap before I embarrass myself by glowing.
I can’t seem to stop this attraction to him, and if I’m reading his body language right, he’s attracted to me, too. I close my eyes for a second to focus on my pounding heart. My head can talk all it wants about accepting things that can’
t be changed and moving forward, but the heart is a different organ. My heart doesn’t care about logic. It’s caged in a prison of its own making, stubbornly locked up. I can’t figure out how to set it free. And until I do, I shouldn’t be thinking about a date or a kiss with someone else.
This awareness between us may feel good, and deep down I may want to explore it more, but I can’t. I’m not ready. I’m out of my depth.
“Or not,” he says when I fail to give him an answer. “I just thought I’d be neighborly.”
Oh. Disappointment floods me. My own fault for taking too long to answer him.
I press my lips together, jump to my feet, and slide around to the back of the lounge chair. My fingers curl around the backrest to help steady me. “I, uh, need to head inside to do some reading.”
“Reading? What kind of reading?”
“Boring law school stuff,” slips out of my mouth before I can think about it.
He stands, his eyes traveling over my suddenly sensitive skin before meeting my gaze again. “You’re in law school?”
“Not yet. I’m starting this fall, but there’s some recommended summer reading.” That I can’t believe I’m even peeking at. Routine is hard to break, though. And so is the promise I made to my dad. Hot guy versus Law 101 should be a no-brainer, yet I’m doing what I do best. Keeping my distance. Keeping things safe and steady, under control.
“I admire your dedication.”
I shrug. “Thanks.”
“If you decide you want to go tomorrow night, let me know. I’ll drive you.”
“Oh, um, okay. Maybe.”
Vaughn takes a small step closer. “Look, if this is because of what happened the other night, you don’t need to worry. I don’t make a habit of drinking and driving. You’re safe with me.”
But I’m not. And not for the reasons he thinks. Reasons that scare me because they’re new and unexpected and I don’t know if I want to feel them.
“I do want to, but I’d rather meet you there,” I say firmly, gaining my composure back.
He once again studies me with an intensity that is unnerving. I’m so lost in his stare that I don’t notice he’s moved forward to trace his finger down my arm until I quiver. “Fair enough. But I’m going to prove you can trust me.” He pulls out his cell. “Can I at least have your number in case anything changes?” I give it to him without a thought then stand there for a good five minutes after he’s walked away to contemplate what he just said.
Vaughn wants a next time.
My caged heart rattles the bars.
Chapter Eight
Vaughn
“No offense to Dylan,” Matt says as we approach the entrance to The Cabana, “but this place is everything I hate about clubs.”
“Why?” I reach for the simple metal handle on the understated cedar-plank door tucked into the street level of a post-modern office building on Sunset.
“It’s pretentious.”
I open the door, raise my brows, and make a point of looking around. “What makes you say that? The velvet rope? The big-ass bouncer in a headset working the door?”
In fact, there are none of these things. There’s not even a street number or awning to signify you’ve arrived at your destination. You just have to know. Which is why it’s pretentious.
“I don’t need some bullshit exclusivity to feel special.”
Just inside the door, the first hostess spots us and waves us past a small group of people—mostly guys—waiting to pay the steep cover. I lead the way down a narrow hall and toss him a grin. “How about now?”
“Nope. I don’t need a comped cover charge to make me feel special, either.”
The hallway empties out onto something truly special—a huge open-air configuration of wood and glass cantilevered above one of the best views on the Sunset Strip. The night sky and the lights of Hollywood provide a sparkling backdrop to what looks like a rich guy’s patio party. Beautiful people pack the bar, mill on the decks, and lounge on low, oversized ottomans. Those with the means or the connections occupy seating areas of silvered teak and white canvas.
Another hostess appears to welcome us to The Cabana before escorting us across the crowded main deck and up a couple steps to one of the VIP enclaves opposite the bar, but with a prime sightline to the stage. Before retreating she lifts the Reserved sign from the table, points out the bottle service menu, and promises a server will be over soon.
Matt scans the menu and then tosses it to me. “I definitely don’t need an eight-hundred-dollar bottle of Ace to feel special.”
“Lucky for Dylan and the other investors, you’re in the minority.” The place is hopping for a Sunday night, and most of the cabanas are occupied by thirty-something dudes springing for top-shelf cocktails to impress a highly curated guest list of twenty-something girls.
My cabana-mate leans back into the deep-cushioned comfort of our L-shaped sectional, crosses his arms, and stares at the stage where open mic night is in full swing. A comedian from Boston riffs about how everyone here is all sugar-free, soy-free, gluten-free. Back home he couldn’t get a blow job to save his life. Here all he has to do is slap an “organic” sticker across his balls and people line up.
It’s his big finish. Most of the audience groans. A small contingent of Boston’s buddies cheer him offstage like he’s the next Adam Sandler. Matt shakes his head. “What’s wrong with a pool table, a jukebox, Coors on tap, and a couple flat-screens over the bar tuned to ESPN?”
Just then a trio of girls stroll by. One of them tosses her hair over her shoulder and sends him a smile. He sits a little straighter.
“So you’re telling me there’s nothing about this place you like?” I challenge.
“Huh?” His gaze drifts back to me. “All right. Fine. It’s got a nice view.”
“Nicer than what you find at a place with a pool table and the game on over the bar?”
“I wouldn’t say that, but”—something on the other side of the club catches his eye—“it’s a damn fine view.”
I look to see what captured his attention, and my gaze snags on long, slender legs displayed to perfection in a short white lace skirt. Legs my deviant mind has imagined wrapped around my waist more than once. My eyes track upward. Slowly.
Kendall’s hair flows to her shoulders in loose, tumbling waves, the ends skimming the lacy edge of her strapless white top. The white plays up the platinum highlights in her hair and does amazing things for her sun-kissed skin. Although she’s trying to be inconspicuous in her out-of-the-way corner, she practically glows. The girl to her left doesn’t help. Amber occupies that barstool, a flag of color and similarly superior genes in a little red sundress and black cowboy boots. They’re both facing the stage. A quick glance down the bar tells me Matt and I are not the only guys who notice them. An instant and proprietary heat surges through me. In some secondary part of my mind I realize Dylan’s approaching the table, but I’ll catch him later. “Be right back,” I mutter, and head to the bar.
I’m halfway there when she sees me coming. She smiles before she catches herself. Graces me with an uncensored, utterly uncalculated reaction, and for as long as it lasts I feel like the only guy in the room. She locks it down as I move closer and watches me with a cautious look that lets me know I’m still at the audition stage as far as she’s concerned.
“Hey, neighbors,” I say as I draw up beside her, just to emphasize we’re not mere acquaintances. She’s wearing the pendant I gave her, and I see that as an encouraging sign. “An invitation from management has its privileges. We’ve got a cabana”—I gesture toward the spot—“reserved for Team Dixie.”
Dylan’s there now, with Matt, and he waves us over.
Kendall aims a questioning look at Amber, who answers with raised brows that answer, Isn’t this why we’re here?
“Come on.” Taking their hands, I help them from their barstools and guide them across the crowded patio to our cabana. As we walk I realize Kendall’s not wearing a s
kirt after all, but thigh-skimming shorts in a lacy fabric. A zipper runs from just below her shoulder blades to the small of her back. It’s all one piece. The sporty, sexy look works for her…and me. I imagine us alone on my patio, her hands braced on the railing while I lower the zipper and reveal more of her smooth, tanned back. As long as I’m imagining, I envision she begs me to keep going, and I do—until I reach pale skin never touched by the sun. Then I kiss every satiny inch. I can practically hear her calling my name in a breathless voice.
“Vaughn?”
The voice in question fills my ear now, because I’ve slowed my steps. She has no way of knowing how the soft prompt grabs me by the balls. Matt and Dylan stand as we approach, and I do the introductions.
“Quite a place,” Amber says as she scoots to the middle of the long side of the sectional. “We don’t have clubs like this in Kansas.”
Matt takes the seat next to her, closest to the edge. Dylan drops in on her other side. I settle Kendall into the corner and take the spot next to her.
“We lucked out with the location,” Dylan says as if the space fell into his lap rather than required months of negotiations with the building owners, but I detect a hint of pride in his tone. “If you’re going to open a club in L.A., might as well embrace the things L.A. does best, right? Perfect weather, amazing views, a casual vibe, and—”
“Overpriced drinks,” Matt inserts.
“We can’t all live on domestic beer. Expand your horizons, dude. Besides, when you’re sitting at the owner’s table, drinks are on the house.” Dylan signals a cocktail waitress. “Ladies, what can I get you?”
“I’m a cheap date,” Kendall says. “Just water, please.”
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