by Marina Adair
“Does Ali know about the shower?”
“Oh, sure. She offered to help me plan it,” Marty said, and suddenly Ali’s determination to avoid him took a painful turn. She hadn’t been avoiding him because of the kiss. She’d been avoiding him because of Bridget.
And something about that felt too familiar to swallow.
“Well, then, I guess I’d better get with her to hammer out the details of this arrangement.”
* * *
It was well past dinner by the time Ali stumbled up her stairs and toward her studio. She’d spent the afternoon sampling menu options, learning the difference between appetizers and hors d’oeuvres, and deciding that anything excluding wings and poppers was just plain crazy.
Balancing her grocery bag in one hand, she reached for the doorknob with the other and froze. The light was on inside, and the door was unlocked. Two things that were different than how she’d left them.
Sticking her keys between her fingers, and dialing her tone to Dirty Harry, she walked into the apartment.
“Loraine?” she ventured. “I hate to break up the party, but I only have full-fat milk.”
“Good thing I brought pie then,” a sexy and surprising voice said from inside. “Can’t have pie without milk.”
Ali peeked into the studio to find Hawk on her couch. His long legs stretched out, feet on the coffee table, making himself right at home—reading a magazine.
Ali dropped the groceries in the fridge, reached over the pie box, and grabbed herself a beer. She popped the top off and took a pull. “I’d offer you one, but then you’d think it was an invitation to stay.”
“You say that like you want me to go,” he said, his eyes never leaving the magazine.
“I do want you to go.” She knocked his feet off her coffee table then sat next to him on the couch—and pointed with a jerk of her chin. “There’s the door.”
“I see. You know, you really should beef up your security.” He slid her an amused glance.
“I’ll talk to management.” She took a swig of beer. “Now, leave.”
“Can’t. It seems I have a party to plan, and my assistant’s been holding out on me.”
“Your assistant? Luke would be offended if he heard you call him that.”
“Not Luke.” His eyes looked over the magazine and met hers. “You, sunshine.”
She snorted. “In your dreams.”
Hawk gave her a slow once-over, pausing at her lips, her throat, grinning right before he reached her cleavage. Which thanks to modern lingerie technology, she could pass for an almost C rather than her barely there B’s. “In my dreams you’re wearing that dress.” His gaze locked on hers. “What am I wearing in yours?”
“My boot print, on your ass.”
He wiggled a brow. “Kinky, but a bit risqué for this kind of event. Don’t you think?”
Hawk flipped the magazine around to show her a photo of an elegantly dressed couple dancing under twinkle light filled mason jars, which hung from an old oak tree.
Ali choked on her beer. “Is that a wedding magazine?”
“I bought it for the articles.” His grin vanished. “There’s a great one on how to throw the perfect She said Yes party. It’s all about the signature cocktail. Which comes in a fancy glass and not from the tap.”
“Why do you care what kind of glasses it comes in?”
“Because I have to, A, order those fancy glasses from a rental company; B, break my one standing rule, everything good comes from the tap; and C, be in attendance for another one of Bridget’s famous parties. One of the few things in the divorce that I actually didn’t mind saying good-bye to.”
Ah, so Bridget did the unthinkable and invited Hawk.
“You don’t have to go to the party,” Ali said, a ping of unease at the thought of walking into that party knowing Hawk wouldn’t be there. “I’m sure she just put you on the list because there is some etiquette book that claims inviting ex-spouses to upcoming nuptials helps in the healing process or some BS.”
“Oh, I’m not going as a guest,” he said. “She’s bringing the party to my place. The Penalty Box to be exact. I’ll be pouring drinks for her and the man of her dreams.”
Ali could have assured him that Bridget would never agree to have her party held in a place that plastered their I’D TAP THAT tagline in bright neon across the wall and on every souvenir.
By the irritated look on Hawk’s face, that would have been the sweet thing to do.
Only Ali was never crowned Home Town Sweetheart—that sash belonged to Bridget. Which was all right with her, since sashes were a hazard around a blowtorch. Not to mention a sweet girl wouldn’t let Hawk squirm—and Ali loved to watch Hawk squirm.
There was something about the NHL’s biggest badass looking as if he were about to eat the ice that made her day. If fact, it had become one of her favorite pastimes. Yet she couldn’t manage to muster up even an ounce of joy over his discomfort.
“Bridget wants a party to impress all of her hoity-toity friends,” Ali said, suddenly wondering if that was really what her sister wanted. She’d believed Bridget when she’d said she’d be happy with small and quaint. “And I don’t think that includes flat screens and beer pong.”
“Then you might want to tell your dad that since he called me tonight and booked the entire bar for a private event.”
That caught her completely off guard, so when Hawk went for her beer again, she let him have it. “Please tell me you said no.”
“How could I say no to Marty?” he asked.
“Easy, you say no. N. O. Or how about, ‘Hey, I am sorry, Marty, but you’re going to have to hold my ex-wife’s engagement party somewhere else, because holding it in my bar is wrong on so many levels.’”
Too many to count. Although Ali came up with seventeen on the fly, without even trying. What was her family thinking?
That normal boundaries didn’t apply. Not when it had to do with a wedding. Which was why she’d wisely been too busy to call Nolan Landon.
“Where else should I tell him to go? The Moose Lodge? The senior center? Neither of those places is big enough for what he wants to host. Not to mention I have the only liquor license in town.” Ali went to argue that they could have it at the park, a nice and sophisticated BYOB affair, but he cut her off. “If she remarries, it’s finally over, Ali.”
The ache in Hawk’s eyes reached out to her, reminded her how painful it was to be stuck in limbo with someone you loved. How impossible it was to love fully when you weren’t sure where you stood.
“No more alimony, no more whispers, no more wondering.” Hawk let out a breath. “No more ties. It will finally be over and we both get to move on.”
Ali wondered if she was part of the ties he wanted to sever, and she knew she’d never move on from Hawk. She’d tried, and now was back—about to be stuck between him and his relationship with Bridget. Again.
“I’m not saying she can’t have her party here in Destiny Bay. But your bar? You can’t really think this will work out?”
“It has to,” he said. “Because what would people say if I told my girlfriend’s sister no?”
Ali opened her mouth to argue, then closed it because there was that. Who knew one kiss could lead to such a mess? Leaning her head against the back of the couch, she muttered a miserable, “Fuck me.”
“That’s not generally the attitude I go for. You’d need some kind of adjustment before we got there,” Hawk said, and she felt him scooch a little closer on the couch. “Maybe we can work on that during foreplay.”
His hand, big and strong, rested on her thigh and gave a little squeeze. Ali opened one eye and slid him a look that was cold enough to freeze his nuts off.
“What? If you jump every time I touch you, people are going to figure out we’re faking it.”
Ali wanted to say that the only thing she was feigning at the moment was immunity to his touch. He was so handsome it was haunting, the memory of their kiss sneaking up
on her at the worst times. Like now.
“We were faking it.” She swallowed that half lie, the reality of it clogging her throat and burning her chest as it went. Hawk had been faking it, but she’d embarrassingly been all in the second their lips touched.
“Were we?” he asked, leaning back and rolling his head toward her, until they were nose to nose and she couldn’t feel his breath skate over her lips—feel her need collide with the confusion churning inside her. “Because I’m pretty good at knowing when a woman is into it or not, and you seemed to be pretty into it.”
Ali fought hard not to lick her lips. Or worse, lick his. “Maybe I’m just better at pretending than you are at reading women.”
“Maybe.” His eyes dropped to her mouth and he grinned. “I guess I’d need more time to assess…”
His gaze lingered, long and hot, until her lips heated as if he were kissing her. As if she were kissing him back. She told herself to move, but her body didn’t seem to want to listen. It was too interested in the way Hawk was moving closer, her breath coming shorter.
His hand reached out to touch her cheek, and she didn’t flinch, didn’t want to. And that more than anything worried her. But when his mouth closed in, instead of the soft flutters she experienced the other day, her heart pounded violently.
What was she doing?
She’d dreamed about this moment for over a decade, yet now that it was about to happen, she couldn’t help wondering why. Why now? Was it because the kiss had opened his eyes to the possibilities? Or was it because Bridget was getting remarried?
She wanted Hawk, but not if she was merely the fill-in for the real thing. There wasn’t a world in which Ali could replace Bridget; the two sisters couldn’t be more different. And Hawk had a type—and it wasn’t Ali.
Terrified that she was making a mistake that could ruin everything, she reached for the only thing she knew for certain.
“This isn’t right,” she said and watched as his eyes fluttered open.
“It’s hard to get it right when you’re talking,” he said.
“No.” She placed a hand between their mouths. “Last time, I kissed you as a spur-of-the-moment solution, to what could have been an awful moment. But the more I think about this, the more I realize it was a mistake.”
Hawk’s face went carefully blank and he sat back, on the opposite side of the couch. “Funny, I’d call it eye-opening.”
“Hawk, every woman is eye-opening to you, which is why you burn hot and fast. Add that to my history with men and we’re destined to go off like a firecracker.”
“Fireworks, because there would be lights, sunshine.”
Ali gave a small roll of the eyes. “We both know there’s nothing more than friendship between us,” she admitted, the lie burning as it came out. “And I don’t want to lose that. Even for…”
He studied her for a moment, his expression impossible to read. “I don’t want to lose that either,” he finally said.
Ali felt light with relief, but her heart was heavy with the understanding that he was agreeing. Confirming what she knew to be true: whatever it was between them wasn’t strong enough to withstand more.
“Good, because you’re my friend,” she admitted quietly. “And I don’t have too many of those in my life.”
“Me either,” he whispered, and Ali wanted to laugh.
Not only was he respected around town, but he was revered for his warmth, humor, and loyalty. If there was an Everyone’s Best Friend Award in town, Hawk would be the lifetime recipient.
“You’re right,” he said with that laid-back grin of his. “You are good at pretending. Just stick with that dreamy look you have going on and no one will question that you’re hot for me.”
Ali laughed, surprised at how he could lighten the moment.
“You might want to work on that.” He pointed to her smile. “Anyone sees that and they’ll know it was a lie and I’m going to look like the asshole who was using his sister-in-law to get back at his ex. And then every time we’re seen together, people are going to whisper.”
Ali sobered because there was the flaw in her self-preservation plan. Preserving their friendship—and her heart—meant calling off the charade. But the charade was the only thing saving Hawk from another year of people thinking he was still hung up on Bridget.
“How do we fix this?” she heard herself ask.
“Like we always do,” Hawk said, putting his arm around her shoulders and pulling her in. It was a comfortable position they’d sat in a thousand times over the years. That it still felt safe gave her hope. “You pretend that my attention annoys you, and I keep flirting with you. Only this time you get to flirt back. And at Friday night dinners, instead of bringing you cider, which I know you hate, I will bring you Scotch.”
“Yes on the no more cider, and maybe we should hold off on the family dinner nights until Bridget leaves. I don’t want to make it harder on my dad, and the last time you showed up, shit went south—fast.”
“Funny, I thought it was finally starting to get good,” he said, and Ali elbowed him.
“Fine,” he said, blaming the sharp pain in his side on bony elbows, and not disappointment. “But that means you owe me a dinner night once a week.” He held up a hand. “Don’t hug me yet, I know you’re excited, but there’s more. I will cook you those dinners at the bar, and you will bring pie for dessert. Instead of barmaid or pansy ass, you’ll need to find a sweeter endearment for me, such as babe or boo.”
She looked up at him. “Boo?”
“Just a suggestion. You can use sex god if you prefer. And I get to pamper you, and you don’t have to pretend you hate it anymore.”
“That’s a lot of rules.”
“Rules are important,” he whispered.
“And what do you get out of this arrangement?”
His smile went wicked. “To see you in that dress.”
Chapter 6
Hawk jerked awake. He was hot, sweaty, his head was pounding, and his right arm felt as if he’d gone a round with the sexy blowtorch wielder next door. Which would have hurt less than the fire searing through the right side of his body.
But it was neither his shoulder nor his fiery neighbor that had awoken him. Nope, that honor went to the club music blaring from the front of the bar.
Hawk sat up, his skin squeaking against the sticky leather as he carefully rotated his shoulder, like the doctor had shown him, hoping to stretch out the muscles before his entire upper back cramped—and nearly passing out as a jolt of jaw-biting pain shot from his shoulder all the way down to his lower back.
He adjusted his hold, took a deep breath, and held it there for the count of ten, focusing on his breathing.
Okay, he made it to four when Bruno Mars started in with one of those high notes Hawk hated, and for five, six, and seven, all he could concentrate on was how he’d pummel whoever had that music playing.
By eight, he was giving one last roll of the neck. Nine, he was headed down the hallway toward the bar. After spending his nights wondering what the hell he’d gotten himself into, and his days wondering just how explosive those fireworks would be, he’d needed a refresher.
Yet he’d achieved exactly forty-three minutes of sleep, a kinked shoulder, and enough pillow marks on his cheek to double as Cosmo Kline’s twin. Even worse, it was the best rest he’d achieved since several days ago when he found out Bridget was having her engagement party at his bar.
Tonight!
By the time he hit ten, he entered the bar through the swinging back door and muttered a “What the fuck?” Because what the fuck was going on?
The bar had been transformed into some sort of sport coat required tasting room. The hand-carved redwood tables were now draped with tablecloths. Some cream and others light pink, but all were dressed with a silver vase and votive, and moved to the outer rim of the room, leaving the center empty as if for—dancing. The canister lights, originally made from hanging cider barrels, were wrapped in so
me kind of silver mesh netting and secured with cream fabric. And his bar…
Jesus, his bar.
It was covered with glasses. Strike that: stemware. Wine, goblets, champagne, martini. Every kind of GNO glass was represented—except the kind meant to go with a tap-only bar. And at least a dozen women were flitting around, hanging twinkle lights over his bar, stacking wine bottles under it, and debating the merits of finding the right color palette.
Luke stood behind the bar, wearing dark slacks and a button-up, uncorking a wine bottle as if this were a fucking tasting room, and he was Robert Mondavi, the famous winemaker. In front of him sat Bridget, wearing a tiny white dress, a sparkly tiara, and a diamond big enough to cut through glass. She was flanked by a group of women: all lean, blond, and each one wearing a cream dress—one shorter than the next.
Her bridal party, he assumed by the matching silver heels they all wore. Well, all of them except the petite brunette on the far end. Two seats away and eating a burger that had clearly not come from his kitchen, Ali was dressed in a lacy cream top, a denim skirt, and black boots. The boots hit above her knee, the skirt mid-thigh, leaving a nice sliver of silky skin exposed.
Unlike the other day, her hair hung loose, in tousled chocolate brown waves that slid over her shoulders and down her back. Her lips were wet with wine, reminding him of how sweet she’d tasted when they’d kissed—or just how sexy she was when she was bold.
She wasn’t bold right then. She was nervous, sitting on the outside of the inner circle, doing her best to fit in. For Bridget. For Marty.
For herself.
“About time you showed up,” Luke said from behind the bar, uncorking another bottle.
Ali turned in Hawk’s direction and hesitated, finally sending him a smile that was a heart-stopping mix of bravado and uncertainty—leaving him wanting things that were definitely not approved decorum for friends. Even friends who were pretending to be dating.
So he gave his double-barreled smile, the one that had graced the cover of Sports Illustrated, and headed her way. “Had someone told me my bar was going to be turned into a sorority house during pledge week, I would have shown up earlier.”