I Do!

by Rachel Gibson

  She looked at her watch. After the baseball bat incident, Lindsey’s mom had packed up her and her baby and sent them off to her cousin in Huntsville, which just seemed like cruel and unusual punishment, as far was Becca was concerned. She remembered hearing that Nate had returned to college up north somewhere, but she hadn’t heard much about him after that.

  Of course, she’d moved and didn’t pay attention to gossip.

  Her hand fell to the side and her gaze returned to the front door. If Nate didn’t hurry, she was going to be late for her meeting with Sadie. What was taking him so long? Had he fallen and hit his head again? She was baking beneath the Texas sun. The top of her head was getting cooked and it was apparent that he was in no hurry to reappear and didn’t care if she died of heatstroke.

  Bless his pea-pickin’ heart.

  The heels of her shoes tapped on the concrete as she walked up the steps and across the wooden porch. While it might not be smart to go into a man’s house alone, time was money, and he was wasting hers. Instead of knocking again, or calling out, she slowly opened the front screen door.

  A BROAD SLICE of sunlight slipped between toile curtains, bleached with age, and spilled across Nate’s bare shoulders and chest. He scrubbed his face with a clean washcloth, thick with suds from a bar of Irish Spring. He stood in his work pants at the chipped single-basin sink, his shoes planted in the spot worn thin by generations of Parrish men washing up after work. Cold water from the faucet streamed full force into the sink and splashed droplets on his belly and the thin line of dark hair that circled his navel and disappeared beneath the waistband riding low on his hips.

  Nate had lived alone in this house, his grandparents’ house, since the day he’d moved back to Lovett full-time to work with his father and Uncle Billy at Parrish American Classics a little over a year ago.

  Suds dripped from his chin as he slid the washrag to the back of his neck and across his shoulders. For the first fifteen years of his life, he’d lived in Seattle. He’d been born and raised there by his mother and stepfather, Steven Monroe. After his stepfather’s death, his mother had moved them back to Texas so he could get to know his biological father, Jack Parrish. He and his dad had adjusted to each other easily, but he’d never quite adjusted to Lovett. Not the small town. Not the gossip. Not the dry heat.

  He rinsed the cloth beneath the cold tap water. When it had come time to choose a college after graduating from high school, he’d naturally chosen the University of Washington. He’d lived in Seattle for six years, returning to Texas on holidays and in the summer to see his family. He loved Seattle, but Nate discovered he was a Parrish like his dad and uncle. Oil ran through their veins and he loved the smell of 15W–50. There was nothing like a fully restored American beauty. Nothing turned Nate on more than a 427 big block vibrating the pavement. Nothing like four-barrel carbs, flat open and chewing up the road, to make him hard.

  Soap stung a cut under his chin and he leaned at the waist and stuck his head beneath the faucet. Cold water ran over his head and down his cheeks. The ’66 Cadillac in the driveway made him hard. Real hard, and if Holly Ann wasn’t in Dallas for the summer, he wouldn’t mind tossing her on the Coupe Deville’s big trunk and testing out the suspension. He’d set her between the glossy red fins and step between her open thighs. She’d tilt her face to his and he’d kiss her mouth as he had sex with his girlfriend of one year.

  The chilly water on the back of his neck felt good after working under Cadillac, and he paused to let it run through his hair and down his temples and the welt on his forehead. Of course, Holly Ann probably wouldn’t go for it. She didn’t like grease and dirt and outdoor sex.

  The girl in the white dress in his driveway probably wasn’t the kind of girl who’d go for it, either. Not that he was interested, but she looked like one of those good girls. The kind that didn’t like to get messed up. The kind who teased guys with red polish on her toenails and red shoes that made her legs incredibly long. The kind who wore a white dress that the sun shone through and outlined her inner thighs clear up to the V of her crotch. Between the sunlight and those big sunglasses, he hadn’t seen much of her face. Her legs were memorable, though.

  He felt around for the cold tap and turned it off. She was probably melting out there, but it wasn’t his fault. He’d told her to come inside. He was sweaty and grimy and needed to clean up before he looked for his mother’s photos. She’d worked hard to establish her name, and the last thing she needed was a set of black fingerprints on the white studio folder. And since he was washing his hands, he figured he’d wash the rest of him, too.

  He ran his hands over the back of his head and down his face. It was probably best the girl stayed outside anyway. Holly Ann wouldn’t appreciate it if he invited a girl into his house, and while he’d begun to question his relationship with her, he had to respect the year they’d been together.

  Nate blew the water from his lips and straightened. He shook his head like a dog and sent droplets across the kitchen and down his back. There had been a time in his life when he would have already stepped out on Holly Ann, but Nate was not a cheater. Not these days. He’d learned a long time ago that one-night stands with girls he didn’t know were never worth it.

  A fluffy blue bath towel sat on the counter next to a clean T-shirt. He reached for the towel and covered his head with it. He scrubbed it over his hair and dried his face. He hadn’t hooked up with a nameless girl for several years now. Not since Lindsey Dale had accused him of being her baby’s daddy. Not since the night his father had called him to ask about the story she’d been spreading around town. Not since the night he’d had to tell his dad that he didn’t remember her name or face, but he did remember meeting her at Rowdy’s Roadhouse when he’d been home for Christmas. He remembered her sticking her hand down his pants and having sex with her in the backseat of his ’67 Camaro. He’d been shit-faced, but he’d remembered to use a condom.

  He scrubbed the towel across his back and neck, then slipped it over the top of his head once more. No one in town had believed him about the condom. No one but his family, and while they had all supported and believed him, that whole summer had been difficult on everyone. Especially his parents. It had brought back painful memories for them. Memories of a past they didn’t talk about because it had been resolved. Memories that had the potential to hurt, and it did no one any good to pick at a sore spot.

  The towel fell to his shoulders and everything in him stilled. He heard a faint intake of breath and spun around at the sound. The girl from the driveway stood in the entrance to the kitchen; light poured into the living room and backlit her once again like an angel come down from heaven. An angel with sunbeams in her golden hair and sliding over her bare shoulders to dip into her smooth cleavage. His own breath whooshed from his lungs as if a hard fist slammed into his chest.

  “I didn’t want to call out and scare you again,” she said, and pushed her sunglasses to the top of her head.

  Sweet Lord Jesus, other than his mom coming over to do his laundry, he hadn’t had a female in his house for so long he’d forgotten how they changed the air in a room. “Startle.” He tossed the towel on the counter and grabbed his shirt. He’d forgotten how a woman could turn the air instantly hot.

  “Potato, pa-tot-o.”

  She was a smartass. A good girl smartass. He shoved his arms into the sleeves of the armadillo T-shirt his twelve-year-old cousin had given to him last Christmas, then pulled it over his head. She looked like a good girl. A good girl who made him have very bad thoughts. Thoughts of a certain Northern boy kissing her pink lips, then sliding his mouth south to her Dixieland. He wasn’t surprised by his thoughts. He’d always had a taste for good girls.

  “How’s your head?”

  He’d forgotten about it and raised his hand to the welt. He pressed it with his fingertips and winced. “Hurts like a bitch.”

  “Sorry.” Her little smile twisted her pink lips, and she didn’t look sorry at all. She
moved farther into the kitchen, and with each step of her red shoes, his chest got a little tighter. One step and then two and the tight feeling in his chest slid down his insides to grip him beneath his belt. Three steps, then four, and his ball sac got tight and reminded him just how long Holly Ann had been away. She stopped in front of him and stuck out her hand. “I’m Becca Ramsey. I work for your aunt Lily.”

  Nate looked down into her face tilted up a few inches beneath his. Her eyes were the brilliant blue of morning glories that grew along his grandmother’s fence. “Let me guess.” He took her hand, and the warmth of her palm seeped into his. “You wax eyebrows and armpits.”

  “I cut, style, and color hair. Sorry if you were looking for someone to get rid of that uni-brow for you.” She laughed at her little joke like she was amusing, but he didn’t have a uni-brow and she wasn’t funny. Somehow, none of that mattered as the soft sound of laughter whispered across his skin and sent a shiver up his spine. “Are you cold?”

  Holy shit. He pulled his hand from hers and away from her touch. Hell no, he wasn’t cold. He was hot. Hot for a girl in a white dress and red shoes. He swallowed past the sudden constriction in his throat and wondered for half a second if he’d accidentally gotten ahold of some shellfish. Shellfish made his mouth itch and his throat close. Earlier he’d eaten a huge bowl of Cocoa Puffs. That was it.

  She looked up at him through those shiny blue eyes and her smile fell. “Are you okay?”

  Hell no, he wasn’t okay. His chest felt tight, like he was having an allergic reaction when he hadn’t eaten anything he was allergic to. He had a painful case of hard dick for a girl who wasn’t his girlfriend.

  “Can I get ice for your head?”

  She put a concerned hand on his forearm, and he lowered his gaze to her thin fingers and red nails. The feeling in his chest and belly had nothing to do with shellfish and everything to do with this girl. “No.” His brow lowered and reminded him that he’d whacked his head pretty good. Maybe he’d knocked his head harder than he’d thought. Maybe his reaction was some sort of concussion. A delayed concussion that tightened his insides and made every hair on his body rise like he was standing in a freezer. “But you need to go,” he said before he tried to make her stay. “Now.” He shook off her touch and walked through the kitchen to the living room.

  “My photographs,” she reminded him as she trailed behind. “I need my photographs.”

  Her opened the door and held it for her. “I looked,” he lied. “My mom must have forgotten to drop them off.”

  She stopped on the porch and turned to gaze up at him. “I just spoke to her yesterday.” The corners of her brows lowered as if he was crazy. “She said she left them in the mailbox.”

  He felt crazy. “She must have lied.” He’d just called his mother a liar. Now he sounded crazy, too.

  “I need them for the bride I’m meeting . . .” She paused to glance at her watch. “In ten minutes.”

  Her hair slid over her shoulder and dipped into her smooth cleavage. He could look for those photos, he supposed. Invite her back inside. Kiss her mouth as he pulled her close until he felt her firm breasts against his chest. Run his hand up her smooth thighs and . . . “Not my problem.” He shut the door in her beautiful, stunned face. He’d never slammed the door on a girl before, but he’d never felt so crazy before, either.

  He let out a breath and leaned back against the door. He had a girlfriend. He’d been with Holly Ann longer than he’d been with anyone in the past. Guilt weighed on his conscience. Holly Ann was his girl. He should be all twisted up thinking of her, not some girl he didn’t know. Not some girl with full pink lips and long tan legs. Not some girl named Becca Ramsey who heated his insides with thoughts of those long legs wrapped around his waist as he kissed her pink lips.

  Chapter 2

  THE HAVEN-HOLLOWELL WEDDING was the most anticipated event to take place in Lovett since Elvis Presley played at the Amarillo Municipal Coliseum in ’55 .

  Sadie Hollowell was practically Texas royalty and Vince . . . well, Vince Haven had served his country with honor and was a regular war hero. That alone made up for him being from the North. The fact that he’d bought the Gas and Go from his aunt Luraleen Jinks, and had remodeled the old convenience store so no one was afraid of catching ptomaine from the hot dog roller any longer, helped even further.

  Unlike Elvis at the coliseum, the Haven-Hollowell wedding was to be a low-key, small affair with just close family and friends. Most everyone in town was disappointed not to get an invitation, but as Luraleen Jinks was fond of saying, “Sadie Hollowell always did think she was too good for her raisin’s.”

  Bless her heart.

  Vince’s aunt had never bothered to hide her disapproval of Sadie, but she was willing to let bygones be bygones and even planned to bring a peace offering to the reception in the way of her famous Frito pie. The reception was not a potluck. It was a catered affair, but any Texas gathering was not complete without a good Frito pie, and Luraleen’s was famous on the funeral circuit. For a wedding gift, Luraleen was even willing to write out the recipe on a nice card.

  Frito pie was the furthest thing from Sadie’s mind. No matter how famous. The bride-to-be pulled the wet towel from her hair, then hung it on the rack next to shower.

  “What are your plans?” Vince asked his future wife.

  “Wedding stuff,” she answered as she stepped into her white panties and pulled them up legs still moist from her shower.

  From the bedroom, the groom groaned is if in pain.

  “You love it.” She adjusted her breasts within her white bra, then reached for the hairbrush.

  “About as much as I love a knee to the nuts.” The old wood floor creaked beneath Vince Haven’s feet as he rose naked from their bed.

  “There’s still Vegas.” She brushed the tangles from her blond hair and added, “And the Little White Chapel.”

  “No. My sister did that,” he reminded her as he walked into the bathroom. “It didn’t really work out for her. She’s happy now, but it took a while for her dumbass husband to step to the plate and make things right.” He moved behind her and grasped her waist with his big hands. Through the foggy mirror his light green eyes met hers and he added, “I’m still going to kick his ass someday. Might have to wait until he’s done making a living with his body, though.”

  That was not an ass kicking that Sadie ever wanted to see. The “dumbass” Vince spoke about was professional hockey player Sam LeClaire. Sam was a premier athlete and stayed in top physical shape in order to score goals or drop his gloves to take on any and all opponents who were as big and bad as he. Vince was a retired Navy SEAL, as big and bad as any hockey player, with an additional set of “dispatching” skills.

  “Behave while your sister and Sam and the boys are here for the wedding.” Sadie had met Vince’s sister, Autumn, and Sam twice now. The first time, Autumn and Sam and their son Conner had flown to Texas to meet Sadie and visit the JH Ranch where Vince now lived with her. The second time, Sadie and Vince had flown to Seattle to welcome Sam and Autumn’s second son, Axel, into the world.

  Vince pulled her back against the hard muscles of his chest. “Define ‘behave.’ ”

  “Don’t antagonize Sam.” Vince and his brother-in-law tolerated each other. Barely. No one held on to a grudge harder than Vince, and Sam didn’t seem to have a real forgiving nature, either. The last thing she wanted was for their antics to ruin her wedding.

  “Sam’s a nancy-boy.”

  “Vince.” She set the brush near the sink and stared down her fiancé in the mirror. “I mean it. You and Sam can’t be in the same room without insulting each other, but I won’t have you two ruining my wedding day. It’s the only one I plan to have and no one is going to create havoc.”

  He slid his arms around her waist and pushed his erection into her behind. “It’s the only one you’re ever going to have.”

  “I don’t want you and your friends getting drunk and figh
ting,” she said, referring to the Junger brothers, who’d come to physical blows at their shooting range. The identical twins had duked it out over something so silly as who was the baddest superhero, Batman or Superman. The slugfest continued until Sadie’s sister, Stella, got between the towering men and told them to knock it off.

  “Blake doesn’t drink these days, and since Beau knocked up your sister, he isn’t knocking heads.” He leaned his face down and kissed the top of her wet hair. “You always smell so good.” If his erection wasn’t already shoved against her butt, she would recognize the lust in his voice. “Let’s go back to bed. I love you.”

  Through the mirror, she looked into his hot green eyes. She loved the way he said, “I love you,” like it came from some emotional hiding place deep in his soul. Sometimes she still couldn’t believe that this gorgeous man was hers. All hers. “I love you, too, but I’m not getting back in bed with you.”

  His big hands slid up her ribs to cup her breasts. “I can make you change your mind.” His thumbs fanned her nipples pressed against the white nylon, and she was tempted. “You know I love kissing your thighs when you’re just out of the shower,” he added.

  Real tempted. She did love the way Vince kissed between her thighs, and if she hadn’t just spent the last two hours in bed, riding him like queen of the Tri-State Rodeo, she would have raced him back to bed, no matter who waited for her. “Becca’s on her way over with some pictures of hair she’s done for other weddings.”

  He dropped his hands and backed up as if he was a vampire and she had suddenly turned to silver. “The last time she touched your hair, it was shorter on one side.”

  “That was last year. She’s gotten better, or so she says.” She bit the corner of her mouth to keep from smiling and reached for a tube of moisturizer next to the sink. Vince and Becca had a love-hate relationship. Becca loved to chat with Vince and pour out her heart like he was the big brother she’d never had. Vince hated Becca’s “drama” and avoided it as much as possible. “Besides, Becca’s showing me her updos. No cutting or coloring involved.”