“Devon.”
The name is a breathy whisper of sound that makes my lips tingle and the jittering start low in the pit of my stomach. I haven’t allowed myself to even think his name since the last tabloid article had shown him smiling down at a reed-thin, leggy blonde who’d looked air brushed, she’d been so perfect.
Blech.
Yesterday had been the first time I’d so much as thought his name in years, and yet here I stand, feeling every bit the gauche, plump girl I’ve always been in his presence.
Those gray eyes hold mine for a second before going over my shoulder, the slight smile that had played there hardening when he spots Dillon and the hand still resting at my hip.
“I don’t believe I’ve made your acquaintance,” he says, his eyes trained on the hand that now feels like it’s burning a hole through my flesh.
“Oh, hey man, I’m Dillon, Dillon Johnson. Becky here was just about to agree to a date, ain’t that right, gorgeous?”
No! I want to scream that I am so not even interested in the tall, hot hunk beside me and prostrate myself at his feet in payment for a betrayal that shouldn’t exist, that I really shouldn’t feel, considering I don’t really exist as a whole person to this man. But I can’t.
I do have some pride, after all, and for the first time ever I’m desirable to someone and not just plain little Becky, the kid who’d spent half the summer following him around like a loser.
“Uh, yeah. Let me give you my number and you can call me,” I say, my voice a high-pitched squeak as I fiddle with my phone, ignoring the man beside me.
“Sweet! Thanks, Becky. Oh, I see my little sis. I’ll call ya soon!”
And then he’s off, leaving me alone with the silent man beside me. With a will that is born of sheer bravado I raise my eyes and keep the smile on my face, only holding my breath when our eyes meet and hold, staying connected so long I feel a renewed blush heat my cheeks.
“Uh, so welcome back? You look different?”
Everything I say comes out a question, something I’ve done since I was sixteen—three years into my crush—and have yet to rid myself of.
I can’t help it. Whenever I’m in his presence every pep talk and shred of common sense I possess flies out the window, to be replaced by the gawky nerd he’s always known.
“Thanks, imp. You’re looking all grown up yourself,” he drawls, and I shiver, blushing all over when his eyes run the length of my body and back up, a smile back in place. “Still the same though.”
Every warm feeling I possess evaporates all at once, and I fight back the hurt, not wanting him to see how much it hurts. To Devon I’ll always be the plump little dweeb, and nothing I do will change that.
Two years ago I’d actually gone on a diet and succeeded at losing ten pounds. Grey had invited him over for the holidays, and I’d had this fantasy that if I could look the part and somehow change my personality he’d finally see me.
I’d been sick that year, thanks to the extremes I’d gone to in order to lose weight, and gone against doctors’ orders and traveled back home, so excited for him to see my transformation.
He’d called the day before Thanksgiving and begged off, and I’d felt so shitty I’d eaten enough for three people and slunk up to my room, sick to my stomach.
Now every time I think of the things I’d done to my body to be good enough that he’d finally recognize me, I get so pissed at myself I can’t breathe.
That emotion does what nothing else has the power to, and instead of stammering and tittering like an idiot I give him my stoniest glare and seal my lips, cocking my head toward the doors.
“We should get going.”
“Have I said something to upset you, imp?”
“Nope. I’m just tired. I worked all day, and then I had to ask my boss for time off to come get you. Not one of my top twenty things to do before I die, I’ll tell you that. Come on, we better get going. Mama and the gang are expecting your hallowed return.”
Here’s the thing. I have two settings: sweet, kind, bumbling Becky, and the hell’s spawn Becky who rips shreds into people when she’s hurt or peeved.
A minute ago I’d been my usual self, and now I’m the product of Devon’s sardonic drawl, as if I needed the reminder that I’m a little less than perfection itself.
“Did I say something, imp?”
I keep walking and ignore his question, because honestly, since when would he give a hoot about whether he’s said something wrong or hurt my feelings?
It’s only once we’ve cleared the automated doors and I’m unlocking the trunk that I turn back to him, back in that calm, serene place my shrink—the one I’d gone to as a teen—had taught me to find.
According to Doc Mallory, I can overcome anything by channeling my emotions in a constructive way. I just need to breathe and keep telling myself that I can only get hurt if I allow it to matter.
I’ve survived over two ears of Abi living on that theory alone. I can survive two hours in a car with a man I’m not even sure I want to like if I just keep that in mind.
“You want to get something to eat before we hit the road, or no?” I ask, unlocking the doors and sliding into my compact little Fiesta.
I almost laugh when he’s folded almost double and has to fiddle around for the seat adjuster before unsnapping himself from his pretzel-like slouch.
“No. Thanks, but I ate on the plane,” he mutters, glaring at my twinkling eyes. “Could your car be any bloody smaller?”
“Well, yeah. My grandpa gave me this sweet little old school Mini for my eighteenth birthday, but Grey went nuts and started yelling about semi-trucks and cardboard boxes and, well, I didn’t make it past the driveway before this one replaced it.”
Too bad, because that hot pink little cutie had stolen my heart from the start. She’s still sitting in my folks’ garage, awaiting my return.
“Buckle up, Brit. I plan on making good time,” I warn before shifting into gear and hitting the gas.
His yell and white-knuckled grip on the dashboard lift my spirits considerably, and by the time I make it to my parents’ place I’ve loosened up enough to have sung along to three Spice Girls songs and a lot of Jessi Jay.
“Bloody menace,” is all he says as he bolts out of the car and glares at me, his eyes shooting daggers my way.
“What? I just gave you the ride of your life, big guy.”
Chapter Three
Dev
She’s just as cute as she always was. At thirteen she’d been a slip of a thing, following Grey and myself around and getting into as many scrapes as possible for such a clumsy girl.
She’d been mischievous and awkward and naughty as hell, hence the name ‘imp’. At sixteen I’d had to warn her off and rip the stars from her eyes, effectively killing the schoolgirl crush she’d had on me since the first time she’d seen me and stammered her hellos.
Not that I hadn’t thought her beautiful, even then, but at twenty-two I’d been loath to encourage her sixteen-year-old heart, lest I do something to break the fragile gem.
Now she’s well past the age of consent and all woman, believe you me. I know, since I’d had a hell of a time hiding my all too eager dick cramped within the confines of the little box she calls a car.
Besides being damn near horrified at her driving—something we’ll be talking about soon, as she’s way too reckless and enamored of speed—I’d been forced to breathe in her jasmine scent for over an hour while my erection endeavored to crawl out of my trousers and into her lap, quite ready to do her bidding.
Bloody traitor.
Not that I don’t want imp, I really do, have since I’d gone to that bloody engagement party the year she turned eighteen and seen her in that little yellow dress that hugged her plumpness just right.
But Becky Slade can never be mine, not if I want to keep her brother as a friend. I’ve known this for years now, after he’d caught me staring slack-jawed at her and warned me off. I resented it then and managed t
o stay away, not wanting another episode like the one we’d had, but I’ve known the man almost ten years now since we met in college and shared an apartment, and I have no intention of ruining that friendship for a night between imp’s thighs.
Because that’s all it can be, one night. I never go in for seconds, not after Gia and what she’d taught me, no matter how delectable the woman is.
I have a feeling that one night with the little firecracker wouldn’t be enough, so I’ve resolved to keep things just as they are between us: as platonic as possible, with the way my boy is chomping at the bit to get in there and stake a claim.
Shit.
“You coming or what?”
And that smart mouth of hers isn’t bloody helping. I’m too used to her stammering and blushing when she talks to me. This mouthy piece is doing terrible things to my already raging lust, and I’m not sure I like it one bit.
Where’s my cautious, starry-eyed little imp? I’m not sure what’s happened to change her, or if she’s just having a bad day, but I want my sycophantic imp back, not this scornful baggage who’d rather not look at me at all.
“Rebecca—”
“Hey, Becks!”
I’m stopped from an apology—whatever it is,she needs to look at me again—when Lila comes bounding out of the house, her midnight black tresses blowing behind her as she skips over and launches her lanky frame at a much shorter Becky, all arms and legs, like an enthusiastic puppy.
“Hiya, baby doll. You look even skinnier than usual! Stop making me feel fatter, you bitch!” she laughs, just managing to right herself before they can both go crashing to the ground in an inglorious sprawl.
The way she says it—jokingly—comes out on a chuckle, but it pisses me off nevertheless. She’s perfect just the way she is, and the fact that she doesn’t think so makes my jaw ache. I clench it so hard my ear pops.
That bloke at the airport seemed to have liked her just fine, I think, steeling myself against the anger that thought provokes. Strangely, I am not pleased at the thought of another looking at imp and seeing what I see: a desirable woman ripe for the taking.
“Oh shush, girl, you look fabulous! Oh, Dev!”
I smirk when the leggy chit jumps my way and seizes me in a rib-cracking hug, her skinny frame belying her strength.
“Hi, Lila lips, you’re not having cold feet yet? Run away with me,” I tease, like I have since the day I met her and told Grey she’s way too good for his ugly arse.
“Never. My heart is taken, evil man,” she smirks, lightly punching my shoulder and looking at the car behind me. “So how was the drive?”
“Bloody harrowing. The woman has never met the brake pedal in her bleeding life! And that’s after I had to watch some wanker practically try to crawl his way down her chest.”
I don’t mention the hard on or the fact that I’d tried to engage in conversation at least four times and been rebuffed each and every time, my efforts met with a silent pursing of her lips and a raised brow.
Damned female is snarky.
Lila, being the incorrigible baggage she is, laughs at my chagrin and shrugs a shoulder, hooking her arm in mine to tow me along behind her.
“Leave her alone. It’s about damn time someone noticed her. Maybe she can lose the V-card sometime this freaking century.”
“Uh, wha—”
“Hurry it up, It’s baking hot out here, and Mama will skin me alive if I just leave you out here!” she yells from the doorway, her cheeks red enough that I suspect she heard Lila’s rather indelicate outing of her status as probably one of a handful of twenty-two-year-old virgins still inhabiting the planet.
It’s a shock, a bleeding heart-stopper, a flipping jolt to the senses and other things besides, to know that the sexy little package I’ve purposely avoided for four years is still pure.
I’m honest enough to admit that does things to me, primal things that I have no business thinking about.
We follow her into the house, my eyes squarely trained on her twitching bum, a bum so nicely curved it would likely cradle my monster very nicely as I take her from behind.
“Stop staring. You’re gonna make her uncomfortable, and you know she already has trouble forming whole words around you, asshole,” Lila mutters, pinching my arm. “No. Oh, no way. No freaking way, Dev. Leave her alone. She’s been through a hard time at work lately, and she almost shat a brick when I called her to pick you up. Just leave her alone.”
“What? Why is she having a hard time?” I ask, rubbing at my arm distractedly as that luscious arse twitches out of view and into the kitchen.
God, the things a man can do with that kind of arse.
“There’s a douchebag at work, can’t remember his name, but he’s been harassing her and now her boss is on her ass about it too.”
“Does Grey know?”
“You kidding me? If any one of these Slade boys knew their little princess was being pawed they’d snap the man’s dick off. She asked me not to tell any of them, and I promised I wouldn’t. Just…don’t make things harder for her than they already are. Her confidence is real low right now.”
“Fine. But—”
“No buts. Have an early dinner with us, and keep things light. Becks isn’t one of those airheads you pop and drop, Dev. She’s got deep feelings, and if you hurt her I’ll rip your nads off.”
I nod once, not meeting her eyes, and follow her to the kitchen, where Mill and Brand Slade are greeting imp with hugs and effusive kisses before pulling me into the fold.
We eat an early dinner, conversation flowing freely around the table as the five of us get caught up and listen to the hundred things that still need doing before the wedding next Saturday.
“You sitting for the bar soon?”
I see imp flinch before turning to Brand and shrugging, a sure sign that she’s uncomfortable with the line of conversation.
“Not yet. I’ve been busy working for the Dark Lord. She’s keeping me on my toes and enjoying every drop of blood she can get.”
The answer does little to satisfy her father, and I see him take a deep breath, his lungs no doubt ready to blast her to kingdom come for the non-answer.
“Mum asked me to get you to ring her some time during the week. She loved those jerseys you sent her last autumn and wanted to talk to you about the stitch or pattern or something,” I interject, looking as serious as I can without laughing at Brand’s frown.
I adore the man as much as my own father but he’s too much sometimes, something Grey and I both agree on, and way too hard on imp. If she goes left he shoves her right and vice versa.
According to Brand Slade, anything that imp gets into her head is the exact opposite of what’s safe or right for her.
“Oh! Uh,yeah, sure. She called me two months ago and we spoke about those quilts she was making, but I—”
She’s saved from the outright lie on her lips when a commotion in the hall heralds the arrival of the prodigal son, and everyone but she and me leaves the table.
“Phew! That was close one. Thanks.”
It’s stuttered and barely audible, but I hear what she’s saying and smile, dipping my head in acknowledgement.
“That’s all right, imp, no harm. The old man still riding your arse about being the next best thing in law?”
“Eternally.”
“And that’s not what you want from life.”
It’s no question but a statement of fact. Imp is not cut out to be a lawyer. While she’s insanely intelligent and focused, the woman enjoys crocheting doilies, bleeding hell.
I can picture her in a courtroom about as well as I see myself wearing pink fishnets beneath a dress. Not at all. Ever.
“Tell him, imp.”
“And then what? He’ll have a fit and start the freeze out like he did with poor Logan. No, I’m just—”
“Putting off the inevitable.”
Chapter Four
Becky
Yeah, I know this shit is inevitable, I think
, staring down at my half-eaten chicken and the potato I’d been about to go Terminator on, suddenly not even a little hungry anymore.
I always feel this way when I think about Dad and his unreasonable expectations. Too bad I’m not always capable of staying without an appetite, hence my big butt.
“Look, Devon, give me a goddamned break, okay? My dad’s like a Nazi when it comes to what he expects. You know what happened when Logan went into the Marines instead of taking that football scholarship and going pro-ball. They haven’t spoken in years. The only reason we’re seeing him next week is because Lila threatened to cancel the wedding if he didn’t keep his yap shut.”
Logan is by far my favorite brother. He’s three years my senior, but he’s always been there for me, even in girly situations like that time I got my period and needed him to bring me tampons.
We used to be inseparable, but due to the ‘banishment’ I haven’t spoken to him in about eight months, when he was deployed. Dad’s a great guy, but he has these goals for each of his kids and if we don’t conform he gets stone cold about that shit: what I am currently trying to avoid.
“You’re talking to me,” he says, and I frown, before it hits me.
I haven’t stammered or stuttered or blushed once, not once, because I’m angry and irritated by his nosy interference. Well, ain’t that fabulous? The only way for me to string a decent sentence together is when I’m giving him heat.
Dammit.
“So? I have lips, a tongue, and a freaking mind. Of course I can talk,” I mutter, attacking my potato for something to do while he just sits there and stares at me. “I just don’t do it all that well around you.”
Oh God, why did I have to go and say that? It’s like a red light, a beacon, a siren’s song for guys like Devon. They thrive on knowing that some poor pathetic chick is too dazzled by their beauty to form coherent words, and now I’ve gone and hinted that I’m still a complete dork when it comes to him.
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