His nostrils flared and the scent magnified, along with the image of Meg, her body flushed and panting and eager for more.
Bobby’s record didn’t stand a chance in hell.
IT HAD BEEN THE MOST incredible sex ever.
That is, it would have been the most incredible sex if it had been real.
That’s what Meg told herself when she opened her eyes the next morning, her T-shirt still bunched up under her arms, her undies laying next to her feet. Sunlight streamed through the open French doors, illuminating the stained sheets and empty wine bottle.
Heat rushed to her cheeks as she forced herself upright. She set the bottle on the nightstand, tossed the leftover Twinkie wrappers into a nearby trash can and tried to ignore the telltale ache between her legs as she climbed from the bed. She had nothing to be embarrassed about. She’d masturbated dozens of times before.
But never with Dillon Cash watching her.
A fantasy Dillon, she reminded herself as she headed for the bathroom and a cold shower. While last night’s orgasm had been very real, the circumstances surrounding it had been anything but.
Dillon had not been standing in her doorway.
The wine bottle had not moved on its own.
N-o-t.
Her mind made up, she spent the next half hour getting ready for work.
When she finally walked out her front door, coffee in hand, she’d managed to dismiss all of her crazy thoughts and face the truth—she was horny. So much so, that she was cooking up hot, sizzling fantasies and trying to turn them into reality.
She tossed her briefcase onto the passenger’s seat, set her mug in the cup holder and turned to retrieve the newspaper that sat near the curb.
She didn’t have time to waste entertaining the impossible. She had a business to run. She had a new ad running today, complete with a coupon, and she hoped with all of her heart that Glenda, the owner of Skull Creek’s one and only newspaper, had gotten it right. Last time Meg had wanted to run a twenty-percent-off coupon, Glenda—who was seventy-six and extremely hard of hearing—had printed it as sixty. Meg had felt obliged to honor the coupon rather than piss off any customers, and so she’d lost a ton of money.
Instead of calling in the ad this time, she’d typed it out and handed it to the old woman herself.
She leaned over and reached for the paper. Just an inch shy, her gaze snagged on the black marks near the curb.
Her memory stirred and suddenly she was back in her bed, her breathing ragged and her body convulsing. Through the pleasure beating at her temples and the pounding of her heart, she heard the grumble of an engine and the squeal of tires and—
She abandoned the crazy thought, ignored the strange tingling in her gut and grabbed her newspaper. Climbing into her car, she shoved the key into the ignition and backed out. Shifting into Drive, she hit the gas and didn’t look back.
Not even a peek.
Because no way in hell, heaven or the in-between had Dillon Cash shown up at her house last night, climbed onto her balcony and watched her have the best orgasm of her entire life.
At least that’s what Meg told herself.
The trouble was, deep down, she wasn’t so sure she believed it.
7
“GET. OUT.”
The incredulous voice slid into Meg’s ears. She glanced from her computer screen to the young woman who sat at a small table in the far corner of the stockroom, a newspaper spread out in front of her.
Terry Lynn Hargrove was Meg’s one and only full-time employee. Unlike Meg’s three part-time employees, she wasn’t a local. She’d been born and raised in nearby Junction. They’d met nearly ten years ago at a community college in San Antonio when they’d both been fashion merchandising majors. Meg had gone on to graduate from SACC while Terry had quit to marry the man of her dreams.
Said man was now her ex-husband and the star of her revenge fantasies—she’d caught him cheating. Terry now lived in Skull Creek, worked for Meg during the day and went to school via several online study courses at night.
She had long brown hair, a centerfold figure, perfect teeth and brown eyes so wide and innocent they would make Bambi envious. She could also spot a couture knockoff at fifty paces. She wore the latest wraparound skirt with rhinestone rocker tee and knee-high cowboy boots. Back in Junction, she’d been Junction High’s Best-Dressed Senior, as well as head cheerleader and homecoming queen. Last year, she’d earned the honor of being the first out-of-towner to make Tilly’s coveted list. A huge honor she’d celebrated by going an extra five miles on her treadmill.
Terry was also a serious health nut since she’d packed on a whopping twenty pounds while married to The Loser. She’d lost the weight along with the man, and was now determined to steer clear of both.
She sipped a soy protein shake and held up the newspaper. “Did you see this?”
“What?”
“The picture on the front page of last week’s Lifestyle section?” Terry waved several sheets of newsprint.
“I haven’t had time.” Meg turned her attention back to the computer and finished ordering the prom dresses for the Weatherby twins—they’d settled on floor-length, bubblegum colored taffeta with rhinestones. A fitting that had gone surprisingly fast since the girls had come prepared with a copy of teen Vogue and a clear idea of what they wanted. “Why are we reading last week’s paper?” she asked Terry.
“To catch up on the soaps. I’m here all day, so I don’t get a chance to watch my favorites anymore, and I had a lot of homework last week so I couldn’t read Marge’s Titillating TV column. Claire told Darius she was pregnant.”
“And Darius is…?”
“Only the hottest hunk on daytime TV. Claire says it’s his, but she’s a skank. I bet it’s Juan’s.”
“Why don’t you just record the shows?”
“Because then I would have to buy a DVD player that’s made in China. I refuse to support an industry that’s neck-deep in child labor.”
Terry was also a humanitarian, a member of PETA and just last year she’d participated in a walk to free the lobsters.
“You could always get Tivo.”
“And contribute to corporate world domination?”
“You can record multiple shows.”
She seemed to think about it. “I could write an explicit letter of disapproval when I sign up. Just to make my position clear. Then it wouldn’t be as if I were compromising my principles.”
“Just bending them a little.”
“Exactly.” Terry’s attention shifted back to the newspaper and she shook her head. “Dillon Cash and Ava Laraby. Can you believe that?”
Meg’s fingers stalled on the keyboard. Obviously she wasn’t the only one who hadn’t bought his startling transformation.
She remembered last night and awareness rippled through her.
You bought it, sister, and it’s just a matter of time until you’re falling all over him just like every other woman in town.
She ignored the sudden zing of excitement that spiraled through her and summoned her initial disbelief. “It is pretty wild, isn’t it?” Ava Laraby had been the dance captain for the Skull Creek Stars way back when. She’d been beautiful and outgoing and Dillon would have sold his soul to the devil for even a smile from her. “Not that people can’t change,” she heard herself add. “They most definitely can and we shouldn’t be so judgmental.”
“I’ll try, but it just isn’t that easy. I mean, Dillon and Ava. They don’t blend. They’re like water and oil. Fish and red wine. Gucci and Donna Karan.”
“I wouldn’t say they’re so different. Dillon’s not that far out of her league.”
“Are you kidding?” She gave Meg a get real look. “She’s way out of his. Her hotness has definitely fizzled even since I’ve known her. Look at that outfit? There’s a reason they call them skinny jeans. They’re for skinny people, otherwise they make your ass look like a billboard and I speak from experience.” She took another drink
of her shake. “And that shirt. Somebody needs to tell this girl that floral is over.” She squinted. “And is that a spiral perm? Do they even do those anymore?”
“I happen to know for a fact that To Dye For does at least five spirals a month.” When Terry arched an eyebrow, Meg shrugged. “Nikki mentioned it the last time I was in. She said it’s still one of her hottest dos.”
“Yeah, for the middle-aged mom’s club.” Terry shook her head. “They’re opposite sides of the spectrum.”
“You honestly think Dillon is too hot for Ava?”
Terry nailed her with a pointed stare. “You don’t?” She tossed the paper.
Meg caught the newsprint and stared at the picture taken a few weeks ago at one of the local honky tonks. Even in worn Levi’s and his Computers Need Love Too T-shirt, Dillon looked hot. Intense. Sexy. His hair was mussed, his jaw shadowed with stubble. His eyes glittered with a knowing sparkle that made her insides quiver.
“He looks even yummier in person,” Terry continued. “I saw him over at Jimmy Jo’s sports bar a few weeks back. I thought I was going to hyperventilate. But then I don’t have to tell you that. You two are friends, right?”
“We don’t see each other as often as we used to, but yes, we still talk.”
Among other things, a tiny voice whispered. A voice Meg quickly stifled.
Terry grinned. “Maybe you could introduce us.”
“I’ve already introduced you about a dozen times.” But Terry had never given Dillon a second glance.
Until now.
Meg tossed the paper back and the girl grinned.
“My bad.” She stared at the picture again. “I honestly don’t remember him looking like this. He’s definitely upped his hotness level. Has he been taking that Carnal class with you?”
“He’s doing research online.”
“On how to be a hottie?”
“Something like that.”
“It’s working.”
Unfortunately.
Meg ignored the crazy thought. Dillon’s newfound sex appeal was a good thing, even if it tested her control.
Because it tested her control.
If he could make her forget the man he’d been and inspire a megadose of lust for the man he’d become, then he could teach her how to do the same. Starting today. She’d already left two messages about lunch. Once he called her back, they would meet and the lessons would begin. Her next sexual encounter was sure to involve a man actually coming on to her, rather than the other way around.
That is, if she didn’t backslide, forget her principles and hump Dillon first.
Her nipples tingled at the thought and she frowned. “Speaking of work—” she hit the Place Order button and pushed to her feet “—Elise and her daughter should be here any minute.”
As if on cue, the bell on the front door tingled.
Terry sighed and set the paper aside. “Any ideas what you want me to set up in the dressing room?” she asked as she got to her feet.
“I don’t think we need to get too complicated. All of Elise’s girls went for the first Marc Jacobs I showed them.”
“Marc Jacobs it is.” Terry grinned. “The girl would have to be nuts to break that tradition.”
Nuts, or just plain stubborn.
Meg came to that conclusion after a fruitless half hour with Elise’s daughter, Honey Harwell.
She eyed the seventeen-year-old who stood on a platform in the monstrous dressing room. Honey had the same shade of blond hair as her mother and her four older sisters. But unlike the other Harwell women, Honey didn’t wear her silky locks styled in the latest trend. Rather, she’d stuffed them under a baseball cap that read Lady Bulldogs in honor of the local girl’s volleyball team. She wore blue jean overalls, a baseball jersey and tennis shoes.
“But your sister wore a dress just like this when she went to her prom,” Elise Harwell told her youngest daughter. A former local beauty queen, the forty-something woman was now the mayor’s wife and mother of five. As usual, her long blond hair was perfectly coiffed, her nails buffed and polished, and her face made-up with the latest Chanel lipstick and Christian Dior eye shadow. She wore a cream-colored silk blouse, matching skirt, a pair of gold sling-back stilettos and a determined look that said she wasn’t leaving without a dress. “You simply have to go with this. It’s too fabulous for words.”
Honey eyed the dress her mother held up and shook her head. “No.”
“But this is perfect,” Elise insisted.
“It’s yellow.”
“Buttercup, dear—” the older woman waved a hand “—and it’s the ideal shade for your skin tone. Just try it.”
Honey shook her head and crossed her arms. “I’m not wearing anything named after a flower. Or anything that has flowers on it. Or anything that looks flouncy. I’m so not doing flouncy.”
“But—”
“No.”
The woman looked ready to argue, but then her lips tightened. “All right, then. No flowers,” she finally muttered. She let out an exasperated sigh as she handed the dress back to Meg. “And no flounce.”
Bye-bye Marc.
“Of course.” Meg slid the hanger onto a nearby peg and reached for a soft, shimmering pink number that hung on a nearby rack with several others Terry had brought in after Honey’s first “Not in this lifetime.” “I bet this would look great.”
The girl took one look and pursed her lips. “If I wanted to look like a giant piece of bubble gum.”
O-kay.
“If I didn’t know better—” Elise forced a smile despite her pinched brow “—I’d say someone isn’t even remotely excited about going to her one and only senior prom.”
“I’m not excited about going. I don’t want to go. You’re making me.”
“Nonsense.” The woman waved red-tipped fingers. “Everyone goes to their senior prom. Why, every one of your sisters was either prom queen or a member of the royal court.”
“I’m not my sisters, and I’m not going to be part of a royal anything. Talk about lame.”
“There’s nothing lame about being popular, dear,” Elise said with tight lips, the flush creeping higher, all the way into her cheeks. “What about forest green? To match her eyes?” she asked Meg.
“Forget it,” the girl said before Meg could reach for another selection. “I’m not going as a cucumber.”
Elise’s smile slipped. “Perhaps we could try something in red?”
“I’ll look a Fruit Roll-Ups.”
“How about salmon?”
The girl rolled her eyes. “That’s just a fancy name for orange. I’m so not doing orange.”
The woman’s flushed cheeks turned splotchy. “How about navy blue?” she questioned.
“Too dark,” Honey chimed in.
“How about bronze?”
“Too flashy.”
“How about chartreuse?”
“Too Shrek-ey.”
“How about a valium?”
Meg smiled. “I’m afraid I haven’t restocked my supply of prescription sedatives, but I do have a nice Chardonnay chilling in the back.”
“Thank God.” Elise waved a hand. “I swear this child is going to send me to an early grave.”
“We don’t have to do this,” Honey reminded her mother.
“Yes, we do. You can’t miss your senior prom.”
“Why not?”
“Because,” Elise countered. “It’s a once in a lifetime thing. A tradition. No daughter of mine is not going to her one and only senior prom. You’ll regret it.”
“I will not.”
“Will, too.”
Both Elise and her daughter stared at Meg. “Tell her,” Elise said. “She’ll regret it.”
“Tell her I won’t.”
“I hate to say it, but you probably will.”
Honey shrugged a stubborn shoulder. “You’re just taking her side because you want to sell us a dress.”
Meg opened her mouth to tell Honey that she didn
’t just want to sell a dress—she knew the regret firsthand—but Elise cut her off. “Honey Helen Harwell, that’s a very unladylike thing to say. Just wait until I tell your father. You’ll be lucky if he doesn’t ground you.”
Honey gave her first smile of the day. “Maybe he’ll do it on prom night.”
“Oh, no you don’t. Don’t think you’re getting out of it that easy—”
“One glass of chilled Chardonnay coming right up,” Meg cut in. “Why don’t you two come up with a few must-haves—cut, color, style, etc—and when I get back I’ll see what I can do to find something that makes everyone happy?” Elise nodded, Honey shrugged and Meg decided to get the hell out of Dodge before things turned physical between the former Miss Skull Creek and the captain of the Lady Bulldogs.
“Let’s start over,” Elise let out an exasperated sigh as she turned toward her daughter. “What color did you have in mind?”
“I don’t know. Maybe camouflage.”
“Forget the glass,” Elise’s voice caught up with Meg just before she disappeared through the curtained doorway. “Just bring me the whole damned bottle.”
HE WAS THE HOTTEST GUY in the Piggly Wiggly.
Meg came to that conclusion later that afternoon as she stared at the tall dark haired stranger who stood in the meat section next to a life-size cutout of Roger the Rump Roast.
A white dress shirt, undone at the collar, framed his broad shoulders. Black trousers accented long legs, a trim waist and a really tight butt.
The guy, not Roger.
He leaned over to pick up a boneless shoulder roast. His trousers pulled and tugged in all the right places and Meg’s mouth went dry. Her grip on the box of Twinkies she’d been holding loosened and thudded into her shopping cart. Last night’s fantasy must still be affecting her.
She’d closed up shop over a half hour ago, after a long, endless day waiting for Dillon to return her phone calls.
Obviously he wasn’t all that interested in her proposition, despite his claim otherwise.
And why would he be? He was already smoking hot. Wardrobe tips were just the icing on the already scrumptious cake.
Meanwhile she hadn’t even made it into the oven.
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