by Kristi Rose
“I know. But I’d rather not have an investor at all if I don’t have too. Davis brought it up. And it’s not that I distrust him. It’s that I can see his primary objective is to broker a deal.”
“And if he has to hit on you to make it happen?”
“That’s the thing. I couldn’t tell if Davis was sincere with that or not.” It had been something I’d thought about a lot, honestly. Not that I was interested, because I wasn’t. Yet still. Was he the sort to do such a thing?
“Who’s Davis?” Heather asks, coming to sit across the fire from us.
“I didn’t tell you?” I say.
She purses her lips in thought before answering. “Maybe but I can only absorb so much.” She grimaces. “Sorry.”
“Davis is Jayne’s Mr. Darcy,” Josie supplies. “Well, the Mr. Darcy she’s looking for.”
I groan.
“Oh, tall, dark, and handsome is he? How did I miss this conversation?” Heather, as always, is completely engaged in the chat with one eye on Tyler. A skill I’m sure is inherent with those who received the motherhood gene, as I’d no sooner looked away than I forgot they were out there.
“No, actually. Quite the opposite. Fair, blond hair.” Josie did an identity check on him from her law firm.
“What makes him Mr. Darcy then?” Brinn asks over his shoulder, attention on the game. “He is overly prideful?”
I flick a questioning look to Josie and raise my hands with the same message.
She shrugs. “Heightened senses. He is a pilot.” Is that all she has to offer?
“No, not prideful,” I say. Not in the way I think he means. Not in the way Colin Firth came off in the film. “And he’s not my Darcy. Not like that anyway.”
“So he’s prejudice?” Stacy briefly glances at me over his shoulder. “Really, Jayne? That’s your type?”
“Good Lord.” I groan again.
“It’s because he fits her Wickham list,” Josie says and takes a shove to the shoulder from me. “It’s not as if it’s a secret, really. The girls know about it.”
But that doesn’t mean I wanted the guys to know. Duh.
“What’s a Wickham list?” Stacy twists off the top to another beer and watches me. I don’t want to have this conversation. Ever. And I certainly don’t want to have it with Stacy. “Wasn’t he the bad guy?”
“Where’s your daughter?” I say, partly to challenge his “maternal instincts” and to deflect.
“She’s building a sandcastle with Tyler,” he answers without so much as hinting he needs to look to reassure himself.
“It’s her man-must-possess list,” Josie says and I chuck the last bit of chocolate at her. Aiming for an eye.
This causes the guys to turn away from the game and focus on us.
“I’ve heard of these lists. ‘Must have sense of humor’ is always on them. Even seen them mentioned in some of those magazines you have, Josie,” says Brinn. “Did you have one?” he asks his wife.
“No,” she says.
Hastily, I add, “That’s not true.” Why should I be under this bus alone? “Yours was what you didn’t want instead of what you wanted. Like mine. You used a list of sorts to avoid relationships—”
“Whereas, your list is to determine if you want to be involved with someone,” Stacy says, leveling me with a hard stare that has me shifting my attention to Heather.
“I have one.” She raises her hand. “Mine’s a combo of both. Traits I want and those I don’t.”
“Should someone check on the kids,” I suggest.
Josie arches up, looks out to the beach, and gives us two thumbs up before plopping down.
“What’s on your list, Jayne?” This from Stacy.
Brinn’s brow arches. “I’m interested in knowing as well. I think women are too vague about what they want.”
“I have good dancer on mine. My ex was such a lump on a hump.” Heather rolls her eyes; the others look expectantly at me.
“Oh, all right. Good dresser is one. I am in fashion after all. Shoes are important to me.” Boy, does that make me sound like a punt. I hadn’t thought so when I wrote it out those many years back.
“That’s what I mean. Too vague. How would you define that? Only Hugo Moss?” Brinn says.
“Hugo Boss,” Josie corrects then chuckles. “Clearly, you don’t make the cut. I think cargo pants and aviator vests disqualify you.”
“I suppose socks with sandals is out,” says Brinn.
Stacy nods. “They say ‘clothes make the man.’” He looks at Brinn. “But some might say they make him soft.”
Everyone but me chuckles and the guys fist bump.
“Come on, Jaynie-girl,” Stacy says. He slid into calling me my nickname after that night at the hospital. “Give us another.”
“No way. I’m not a daft boob.” I cross my arms over my chest and stare over their shoulder at the telly.
“Chicken,” says Brinn, needling.
Josie is bristling next to me. She loves a challenge.
“Of course she’ll want someone intelligent,” she says, unable to contain herself.
The guys nod in unison.
“That’s a fair one,” Stacy says.
“Thank you,” I murmur.
“But not a true answer. That’s on everyone’s list—” begins Stacy.
“Because who says they want a partner dumber than a box of rocks? No one.” Brinn finishes the sentence.
This time they clank their beers together. If the jesting wasn’t directed at me I’d likely enjoy this display of two half brains coming together and working in unison. But no matter how much fun it is to see this once-in-a-lifetime event, which we should be filming for scientific purposes, the fact remains that at their core these men are knuckle draggers.
“He can’t have a history as a player,” I say and instantly regret it.
“Been there. Done that,” adds Heather.
“The kind of guy who tells you he loves you to get you in bed.” This from Stacy. “That’s another fair one. Not that any man will admit to being a player.”
“Unless he’s in a room with other men. Then it might happen.” Brinn shrugs as if to say a man’s behavior around other men is unpredictable.
“Keep going,” Stacy encourages.
I hesitate but come up with one they can’t find an argument against, Brinn being an entrepreneur and all. “He’d have to be a man of his own making. Not one waiting for jobs to come to him. A go-getter.”
The guys nod. Then Stacy says, “My last two jobs came to me and I’m appreciative of the opportunity.” They clank bottles again.
“Slacker,” Brinn says to him.
“Sounds like a workaholic to me,” says Heather. “That’s not on my list.”
“You have to make sure he knows how to stop and smell the roses,” Stacy says, leveling me with a stare.
Oh please, as if my life hasn’t been a bleeding mess these last two weeks. I smell plenty of roses otherwise.
“I take enough time for you and the roses, don’t I, babe?” Brinn asks Josie, nodding toward the henna work that’s beautifully scrolled down her body and comprises a variety of vines and flowers, many roses.
“Yes, you do,” she says.
“Just last night I paid tribute to those fabulous roses. Smelled them, licked them.”
“Enough.” I cup my hands over my ears. Josie, light pink tinting her cheeks, fans herself.
“I miss sex,” Heather mumbles and inspects her cuticles. “Anyone interested?”
That large elephant stands in the room...and farts. Who could she possibly be propositioning if not Stacy? Me? All of us?
“Let’s have another,” Stacy says. Does he sound almost desperate? Or am I confusing that with laughter?
“Jayne?” Brinn prompts.
“I’m sorry,” Josie says to me under her breath. “I don’t know what’s gotten into them.”
“Make it stop,” I plead.
“Half time is over guys,” she says.
“It’s a stupid game anyway.” Stacy flicks his hand toward the TV. Neither turn back to the telly, more engrossed in this conversation than ever.
I cave under their penetrating stares. “Family oriented.” Stuff that, boys.
It’s as if time pauses, their brains searching for something. Anything.
“We got nothing,” Brinn says.
I can’t seem to make myself shut up. “I’d also like a cultured man. Someone who knows the bouquet of wine. Knows the fruit used in scotch.”
“Ah, yes,” Brinn says, attempting an accent like mine. He takes a whiff of his beer, swirls it once before saying, “I smell moss, apricot, yeast—”
“Rubber boot and musty rain,” finishes Stacy. “I’ll concede that point. I have no interest in dissecting booze—”
“Only drinking it. Cheers,” Brinn says and they clank their beers, again, and proceed to chug them.
Neanderthals. Both of them.
“It would be nice if he were taller than me,” I say and try not to look at Stacy. “And if he were sensitive. That would be a bonus.”
“Cried last week when the Seahawks lost. Does that count?” Stacy, after finishing his beer, gets up to deliver the next round and pours Heather a glass of wine.
Of course Brinn can’t be left out. “Me, too. Only it was because The Dirty Dozen was on—”
“That scene when James Brown dies gets me every time,” finishes Stacy.
“Yup. That’s the one. Or how about Lonesome Dove?”
They shake their heads, feigning sadness. Brinn goes so far as to wipe a pretend tear from his eyes.
“Stop, man, you’re getting me all depressed.” Stacy turns away, his hand raised to block out Brinn.
“You two are hilarious,” I say drily and stand. “But all this willy jostling is too much for me.” Granted, it’s not cock swinging at it truest form but this entire vignette came about when Josie mentioned Davis fit my Darcy list. I’ve had enough and if I’m going to look at that proposal Davis sent, now’s a perfect time.
“Aw, come on, Jaynie-girl. Don’t go. We’re only teasing you,” calls Stacy.
I flip him two fingers and a smirk before I skirt around the outside chairs and leave them behind, ignoring their guffaws and blustering. I force myself to retrieve the dossier from the car. Pulling it from my bag, I stare at the simple and elegant cover Davis used. Pretty as it is, it feels as if it weighs a thousand pounds. Reinforcements will be required to take on this task. Maybe I can get Josie to funnel me some more chocolate. And wine.
Chapter 26
Stepping back into the house, I’m thrown from my chocolate plotting when someone grabs me by my arm and pulls me into the guest room, away from the patio where everyone is sitting.
Stacy closes the door behind me and backs me up against it.
“You aren’t mad, are you?” He braces himself by resting both hands beside my head, against the door.
“Angry? Over that nonsense?” I roll my eyes and clutch the dossier to my chest. He smells a little of the fire and a lot of raw man-sex and...beer? There’s a wee bit of dried strawberry jam, from the sandwich he made earlier for Cordie, stuck to his sleeve, and his t-shirt, though old and worn around the hems, isn’t as manky as one of the first shirts I saw him in.
Perhaps a smart dresser should not be on my list; instead I could replace it with a man who knows how to wear his clothes. There is no question this applies to Stacy.
He looks good enough to devour, with the shirt stretching across his broad shoulders, and I don’t care that some crazy cartoon character adorns it with a math saying I’ve no clue how to interpret.
“It’s nice to see you relax.” He thumbs the dossier. “Why don’t you leave this for another day.”
“I have to make a decision soon.”
“May I help? Whatcha got there?” He shifts so that his face is in front of mine, and any request by Davis is forgotten.
“You’ve been a good friend to me these last few weeks.” How would I have made it without him?
He nods and brushes back hair from my forehead. “I’m glad you’re letting me help out. I like being your friend.”
Problem though is, of all my friends, he’s the only one whose form I’m keen to jump. I don’t fantasize about my friends touching my girly bits. Only Stacy.
I’d like one example of friends who had casual sex and went their separate ways without fallout. How does one avoid having their heart trampled on? Already I get a dull ache in my chest when I think about him finding a new Jill and moving on.
“I have a list too, you know,” he says, dipping his head toward mine.
“You don’t say?” My surprise is genuine as I assume men never gave it much thought outside of physical attraction. Not very open-minded of me.
“Maybe it’s because I have a girl’s name. Made me do it.” He drops his gaze to my lips.
“There’s nothing girly about you.” I resist the urge to devour him like the starving lady at the buffet bar.
“You want to know what’s on my list?”
“Do tell,” I whisper, clutching the book with such intensity the spiral binding bites into the palm of my hand.
“Well, she should be tall. One day I’ll be too old to stoop and bending over to kiss her will be difficult. I can’t have that because I’ll want to kiss her until the day I die.”
“Foresight. Very clever.” I lick my lips.
“She also has to be curvy.” He runs one hand down my side and over my hip, sliding it back to cup my bum. He steps closer and at the same time, he pulls me toward him and all the important parts line up beautifully.
I quiver then moan when he moves against me.
“Jayne,” he whispers.
“Yes.” My eyes flutter closed.
He nips my chin, his teeth grazing across my jawline, and I fantasize about throwing the book across the room and winding my arms around his neck, lifting my legs to wrap them around his waist. I get lost in the dream of being ravaged good and proper by a guy who found my hot spots the first night and seemed to commit them to memory.
Instead, I tilt my head to the side, allowing for greater access, and pretend I’m playing hard to get.
“Jesus, you’re going to kill me,” he says, blazing a streak of white-hot kisses down the column of my neck.
“Wait.” I move to the side, my eyelids springing open. “Friends shouldn’t do this.”
His breath is on my neck, and when he chuckles it reverberates through my body. “Jayne, friends do it all the time. Josie and Brinn, Paisley and her guy, and—”
“That’s not the same and you know it.” My palms are sweaty, desperate to clutch something other than this stupid report.
“Sure it is, they just added more to it. Listen, Cordie and I are still getting used to it being the two of us. I’m not looking to add a mommy for the sake of it, and Cordie knows this. She knows I want to date and that she has a voice in relationships.”
This snaps me out of the mood, my weak knees find strength, and I straighten up and turn to meet his gaze.
“Seriously?”
“Yeah.” He pulls back and drops a hand to push back my hair, damp from my restraint, off my forehead. “It’s always been Cordie, me, and my folks. This is the first time we’ve had to do it on our own. Adding another adjustment might be too much for her.”
“Hmm.” Because that’s the only thing a twit like myself can say. What an imbecile. I never once considered he might not want a relationship. I only thought about what I didn’t want. What I was afraid of. “I’m actually quite embarrassed. Trying to set you up.”
“Don’t be. It was fun. Kinda.” He briefly lifts a shoulder. “I thought I better say something before Heather was served up. That might lead to complications.”
My eyes go wide. Yes, I can see he might be
right. Especially in light of her earlier declaration.
I grimace then say, “Sorry.”
“Jayne, look at us. This is ridiculous. There’s something between us. Why are we fighting it? I like spending time with you. I think you like spending time with me and with Cordie.”
“You know my thoughts. Sexual attraction alone does not mean action should be taken.”
“True, but we’re both interested. We’re both willing. We’re both unattached—”
“We both want different things.”
“Right now, all I want is to taste you.”
I moan. “Oh, Lord. This is bad news.”
“Why?”
“What’s the end result here?”
He’s playing with the neckline on my dress, his fingers grazing my collarbone, my knees wobbling. It’s astonishing I’m able to have a coherent thought much less string the words together to make sentences.
“Do you always ask that question?” He bends to kiss the hollow of my neck.
“I usually know the outcome before I begin anything.” The folder slides from my hands down the front of me, and falls to a soft thud on the floor, freeing up my arms to wrap around his neck.
“They all have an expiration date?” He undoes the top button on my dress, sliding it open to kiss the top of my breast.
“Yes. There’s no time in my life for more than something casual.” I borrow a page from his book and run my hands up under his t-shirt, touching all that I can.
“Why can’t we start there?” He looks up from my breast, one brow quirked so adorably I’m ready to throw him down right now.
“You’re saying you think we’re ill-suited for long term?”
“I’m saying I want to stop fighting this.”
“Out of curiosity, on your list is there something about a mother for Cordie?” When it comes time to settle for the long haul, I wouldn’t meet his list criteria. Curvy hips and height don’t carry the significance a mum would have.
“And on your list is no children,” he says, looking away. “We’ve established this.”
It should give me comfort that we aren’t each other’s ideal mate. But it doesn’t.