Her eyelashes flutter and she sucks in a shaky breath.
“Davis,” she whispers.
“Like that.” I take her purse, freeing her hands in case she wants to touch me. “What I should have told you the other night was that I don’t accept the terms of the breakup. What I did instead was believe you when you weren’t telling either one of us the truth.”
Please, God, let me be right about this.
“I’m not risk averse, Gracie. I’m a betting man. I’ll venture to guess you regret saying goodbye to me.”
“I…” she starts, then has to lick her lips to continue. “I don’t want a Mark.”
“I’m glad. I don’t think I can be Mark.” I smile cautiously. We’re not out of the woods yet.
“Grace? Do you need me to kick his ass out of here?” comes a raspy call from behind me.
My two minutes must be up.
Grace doesn’t take her eyes off me when she answers Candace with a “Not yet!”
That’s a good sign.
“I lied to you.” Grace’s voice is small. I can barely hear it over the bar racket. It grows smaller still when she all but mouths the words “I love you.”
Those tears—now those are beautiful.
“I lied to you too.” I thumb away one tear as she steps into the circle of my arms. I lower my lips to her forehead. “That wasn’t your last chance.”
She wraps her arms around my back and squeezes. I hold her to me and damn, she’s perfect. Like she was molded to fit against me.
My eyes close and I breathe in her scent. Cinnamon and flowers or vanilla and amber. Hell, I don’t know. She smells like Grace. She smells like mine.
“Davis?” She lifts her face to mine.
“Yeah.”
“No more blondes, okay?”
I chuckle as I take her face in my hands. “I love you. Only you. Unless you change your hair color, there aren’t going to be any more blondes in my future.”
She smiles and I smile, and when neither of us looks away for a very long time, I know we’re going to be okay.
We’re back.
Bigger and better than ever.
Epilogue
Davis
My shoes are filled with powdery white sand as I watch the end of a long, white runner for Grace to appear.
The eighty-degree weather makes Cancún a welcome destination in February, but even so, sweat prickles my brow. I’ve been in a frighteningly similar situation before—at the end of the aisle, waiting for a woman to advance toward me.
But this is Gracie we’re talking about. She’s not going to let me down.
The music swells and she steps out of the resort’s main building and glides toward me like she’s walking on air. Grace is like a living, breathing flame.
Her smile is a million watts, her bouquet shades of robust red matching her hair, and her bridesmaid dress a deep rust-orange. Ruby lips part to smile and she winks at me. From my seat in the second row on the bride’s side, I wink back.
Roxanne and Mark kept their wedding party small, but an impressive twenty-some friends and family members were able to make the trip on short notice.
One other bridesmaid follows behind Grace, but my eyes never leave my girl. She maneuvers to the front and stands, creamy shoulders bare, her hair curled and pinned close to her head, her smile genuine.
She’s happy for Roxanne.
But also: She’s just plain happy.
I’m happy. We’re happy.
Grace’s father passed away last month. I was there for her at the funeral and afterward. When she grieved, I held her. Even then I didn’t doubt that she’d find her happiness again. She went to a few lunches and several coffees with Raphael Buchanan. He made his peace, and she accepted him for who he was. It’s all any of us can ask.
Roxanne makes her bridal debut to the tune of a Red Hot Chili Peppers song in lieu of the traditional “Wedding March,” and I have to smile. The crowd applauds, and then they applaud again when Mark kisses his bride.
After the formalities, when the guests have filtered to the reception area farther down the beach, Grace wraps her arms around my neck, compliments my beach-inspired linen suit, and thanks me again for coming with her.
“I know you had reservations about coming….” Her eyes gleam as she watches Rox and Mark dance in the sand. “But I didn’t want to be here without you.”
I understand what she means. I don’t want to be anywhere without her.
She kisses me and strokes my cheek. “I love you.”
I close my eyes and let her words soak in like the warmth from the setting sun. “I love you too.”
“I love you so much…” Her tone is teasing, and I open my eyes to find the orange glow on her skin as soothing as the tropical backdrop. “…that when we get married, I’m not going to make you do it on a beach.”
My hands, resting on her hips, ball into fists, gathering the fabric of her dress. Shock must’ve set in, because when I open my mouth to ask her to repeat what she said, I can’t.
“A wedding in a park would be nice,” she says conversationally, “if that’s your thing.”
“A park?” I repeat, trying to get my bearings. A wedding—in a park or otherwise—hasn’t been discussed. Ever.
“I have one caveat,” she continues with an apologetic twist of her lips. “We have to say our vows at the top of the Ferris wheel.”
The Ferris wheel.
I bite my tongue and let out a brief laugh. I admit, she had me going.
“You’re teasing me. I thought you were serious.” I take her hand. “Come on. Let’s dance.”
She doesn’t budge, squeezing my fingers. “I’m serious.”
My mouth goes bone-dry as I turn to face her. “You’re serious?”
The DJ announces the chicken dance into a microphone and Grace’s face lights up, talk of matrimony temporarily forgotten. “I love this song! We have to!”
She pulls me to the “dance floor” in the sand.
“Gracie. Wait.”
“The park for sure,” she calls as she bocks at me while pumping her arms. “The Ferris wheel is a nice touch, though, don’t you think? You overcoming your fears after I overcame mine of proposing?”
She wiggles her hips and encourages me to do the same. I love this woman so much I’d do just about anything for her.
Just about.
“What about the carousel?” I ask.
She stops dancing to crinkle her nose. “You want to marry me on the carousel?”
“Why not?”
She blinks a few times in succession. I’ve flipped her proposal on its ear.
“Hmm,” Grace agrees with a grin. “I don’t know. I feel like the Ferris wheel is more sentimental.”
Guests sweep by, elbow in elbow. Roxanne’s grandmother catches my arm and we spin. I search for Grace as I turn, finding her in the crook of Mark’s arm.
“No blondes,” she mouths.
I look down at the elderly lady in my arms, her hair platinum thanks to her hairdresser granddaughter, and lose my battle with the smile spreading my mouth.
Another twirl and I release her, catching Grace before someone else can grab her. Rather than lock elbows, I lift her off the ground and kiss her while everyone chicken dances around us.
Once her feet hit the sand, her hands grip my biceps. “Maybe we should make a bet.”
“Gracie Lou, you still owe me two hundred dollars from our original bet.” I catch one of her curls and twist it around my finger.
“Right. I forgot about that.” Her eyes sparkle. I see my future reflected in them.
“Okay,” I concede. “I’ll marry you on the Ferris wheel, but you have to move in with me.”
She gives me a shaky smile. “And the two hundred dollars?”
I shrug with my mouth. “You can pay it back in sexual favors if you prefer.”
Grace tosses her head back and lets loose one of her bawdy, contagious laughs before sobering, rising
to her toes, and touching her nose to mine.
“You’ve got yourself a deal, Davis Price.”
For Nic
Acknowledgments
Huge, rib-crushing hugs to Sue, Gina, and everyone involved in production and marketing at Loveswept. I’m eternally grateful for your belief in me and the Real Love series and for your help bringing these books to readers.
Nicole, agent of the millennium, thank you for listening and imparting your wisdom. This one is for you.
Thanks to author friends (and keepers of my sanity) Lauren Layne, Jules Bennett, Shannon Richard, Katee Robert, and Maisey Yates, to name a few.
And to you, dear readers. You spend your time and hard-earned dollars on my books. I endeavor to make you laugh and maybe even cry a little, and you brave souls stick with me the entire way—thank you.
BY JESSICA LEMMON
Real Love
Eye Candy
Arm Candy
Man Candy
Lost Boys
Fighting for Devlin
Shut Up and Kiss Me
Other Books
Forgotten Promises
PHOTO: NICHOLAS LONG
A former job-hopper, JESSICA LEMMON resides in Ohio with her husband and rescue dog. She holds a degree in graphic design currently gathering dust in an impressive frame. When she’s not writing about super sexy heroes, she can be found cooking, drawing, drinking coffee (okay, wine), and eating potato chips. She firmly believes God gifts us with talents for a purpose, and with His help, you can create the life you want.
jessicalemmon.com
Facebook.com/AuthorJessicaLemmon
Twitter: @lemmony
Instagram: @jlemmony
Read on for an excerpt from
Man Candy
A Real Love Novel
by Jessica Lemmon
Available from Loveswept
Chapter 1
Becca
FRIDAY
There’s a Magic Mike lookalike hunkered over my brother’s bar and I have yet to tear my eyes away from him. Although, if I’m being super scrutinizing—and since he hasn’t noticed me watching him yet, why not?—he’s not quite pretty enough to be a stripper. He’s rugged. Has a presence.
A loud laugh burbles out of the drunk-and-getting-drunker woman at the bar and the stranger’s eyebrows crash down over a strong nose as he flits his eyes up at the sound. Strong nose below a strong brow…and oh, yeah, a firm, strong jaw.
He’s freakin’ hot.
And now that I’m surreptitiously checking him out while I pretend to wipe down the barstools, why don’t I take a perusal of what’s below the neck, too? He’s less Chippendale’s there, more lumberjack. He’s a hulk of a guy, and I’m hovering around five-feet-nine-inches, so I’m not impressed by merely tall.
But this guy? His width is as impressive as his height. Round, strong shoulders testing the seams in his T-shirt. (The sleeve on the right shoulder might blow at any moment.) Back bent, he checks his phone (dwarfed in one large hand), but even though he’s almost slouching, there’s nothing weak about his posture. His back is wide enough to support a beam.
Whenever I wander from my office in the back, I people-watch. I’ve witnessed plenty of customers checking their phones at a bar, but somehow this guy’s sexy incarnate when he does it. What gives?
His jeans are ragged at the bottoms, worn at his heavy thighs, and he’s wearing a pair of motorcycle boots with buckles on the side. One foot is on the floor, the other hooked by the heel on the lower rung.
I automatically cast my eyes to the lot, wondering if he rode a motorcycle in. The lot’s small, only two trucks and a Jeep parked in it. No bike. I bet his is the Jeep. It’s deep gray, hard top attached, maybe intentionally since it’s raining. I can picture him in it. And better yet? I can picture the Jeep with its top off. Picture him with his top off. Hot sunny day, sweat glistening that lined brow of his. Strong, long fingers gripping the steering wheel as he—
“Becca!”
I start, jerking out of my fantasy at my brother’s raised voice.
The stranger meets my gaze and holds, and heat licks up my thighs and teases there so intensely, I almost forget Tad is still pissed at me.
“Yes, Chosen One?” I ask, his nickname from me to him when I discovered he was my parents’ favorite.
He frowns and sneers—a typical Tad combo—as he tosses a bar towel over his shoulder. He’s such a cliché.
“Why are you cleaning shit if I fired your ass?” he asks. Loudly.
The stranger’s brow crashes down again and that curved back goes straight, like he’s ready to defend me. Interesting. Nay…Intriguing.
Oh, by the way, Tad fired me the moment I set foot in here. I’m perpetually late, but it wasn’t my fault this time! Or last time. Or…the last twelve times. I haven’t lived in Tennessee long enough to know the traffic delays at various times of the day or night.
“Is that what I’m doing?” I regard the cloth in my hand in faux shock. “I must’ve been sleep-dusting again.”
Tad snarls and mutters something I ignore. Or not so much that I ignore it but it’s zapped from my head by two heat-seeking silver-blue irises that vanish beneath narrowed lids.
The stranger is not only looking at me, he’s smiling at me.
It’s brief, but I’m rewarded by the flash of white teeth before that smile vanishes and he snaps those gorgeous eyes away from me and back to his phone.
God. I hope he’s not texting his girlfriend.
I’m struck with the sudden need to approach him. If I don’t, I’ll forever regret not seizing the moment—a moment which could result in getting Magic Mike’s phone number, or learning how much weight he can bench press, or getting him to do a body shot off my stomach.
Sky’s the limit, really.
I allow a wily smile of my own even though he’s not looking, and drop the cloth on the bar top so that Tad can pick it up and bitch at me later about not cleaning up my own messes. It’s tradition. I hate to break tradition.
I’m halfway to the stranger when he orders another beer. My next step is more of a stagger. His voice is rich. As thick as honey. Heavy, dark amber-colored honey that takes its time sliding out of the jar while you salivate in anticipation at getting the first taste.
Oh, yeah. Definitely approaching him.
Tad slides me a look of distaste as he pulls the tap for the stranger’s beer. I do the immature younger sister move of curling my upper lip and sticking my tongue out.
When I snake my gaze back to the stranger, I notice he notices my display. He rewards me with another of his crinkly-eyed, white-toothed smiles.
I bet his laugh is phenomenal. And I bet if he let loose that chuckle into my ear—complete with warm exhale—it’d literally incinerate my panties.
At least, I hope so.
Dax
The rain started when I crossed the Ohio border into Kentucky, and then it followed me all the way down to Tennessee. Some vacation weather.
I rented a cabin, but I also brought my tent and camping gear, planning to find a nice spot under the stars in the woods to sleep for a night or two. I need a break from…everything.
From my buddy, Barrett, who is staying at my apartment thanks to a messy breakup with his on-again, off-again girlfriend, but also from my mother’s constantly asking me if I’m hungry or if she can make me something to eat.
My dad died recently. I spent the summer living back home, helping her clean out the shed and the garage. A task I thought would take two weeks, but ended up taking two months.
Barrett’s timing hadn’t been the best—he asked if he could crash on my couch for a week or so. I’d just returned home from my mother’s house and wanted nothing but peace and quiet.
My friend is still bunking on my couch, and watching countless hours of television, and it was either blow my stack and kick him out on his sorry ass, or take myself on a much-needed vacation.
So here I am.
; The bartender, a slight guy in his late thirties if I had to guess, brings me another beer. I started a tab. As ready as I thought I was to have solitude and peace and quiet, I find the post-drive beers more settling in public than cracking them open by myself. Maybe it’s because I own a bar. Drinking in public feels more normal.
I think of my dad as I swig a Miller Lite—his beer of choice—and my throat locks up. I miss him. Losing him meant losing our weekly phone calls. During football season his loss is really going to suck. We used to watch games together.
I hear the bubbly laughter from the girl on my right. She works here—or did, anyway, until the bartender fired her. She’s dressed in dark, slim jeans accentuating long legs and a white, flowy top. The second she set one high-heeled sandal in this place, that guy laid into her, much like he did a minute ago when he yelled her name.
Becca.
I wonder if it’s short for Rebecca.
Anyway, I’m not much for disrespecting women, and this jerk seemed to do it no problem, but I didn’t see a reason to intervene. His harsh attitude rolled of Becca’s back like she was coated in oil.
She’s chatting with another guy who works here. He leans a hip on the bar and sends the stinkeye to the bartender who served me—I’m guessing he’s their boss. They don’t seem to like him much.
Boss man steps in front of me now, and informs me of some bad news.
“Mr. Vaughn, I need to swap keys with you.” He slaps down a key on a red key fob reading GRAND LARK CABINS. It’s exactly like the one he gave me earlier, only this one’s yellow. “I’m moving you to Cabin 13,” he tells me. “I just received a phone call from maintenance. The rain has made that hill impassible.”
The key to Cabin 7 is still in my pocket, and not that I’m superstitious, but Cabin 7 sounds a hell of a lot luckier than Cabin 13.
Arm Candy Page 21