He's the One
Page 25
Carla stood outside Mark’s place and tried to ignore the tremble in her hand as she raised it to press the doorbell.
She never got to it. Before she had the chance to ring the bell, the door was flung open and Mark stood in front of her, looking better than she’d ever imagined.
“Hi. Sorry, I’m still in my work clothes.” He glanced down at his tie and cringed. “I didn’t have a chance to change.”
“Don’t apologize. I like it. You look . . . profes-sorly.” And with that realization, she had to squelch the insecurity she felt all over again. Where was Tuck and his pep talk now that she needed him?
“Come in. Please.” He stepped back.
She walked a few feet into his home and realized it really was his. It looked like him—the tailored yet masculine furniture and the accents suggested he’d hand selected every detail. Crystal glasses and bottles of liquor made for a beautiful but practical display on the sideboard. Old leather-bound books sat in stacks on every available flat surface around the room. She had no doubt he’d painstakingly searched for and chosen each one.
The last book Carla had read was—when? Back in high school before she’d dropped out.
Crap. This was a bad idea. She was about to leave when the expression on his face stopped her. A frown creased his brow and she noticed the insecurity and hesitation in him. Mark thought that it was him, that she didn’t want to go out again because she didn’t like him.
“Mark, I like you.”
He let out a short laugh. “I like you, too.”
“It’s just—”
Mark held up one hand. “Wait, let’s sit down for this conversation. I have a feeling I might need to.”
Carla sighed. She was screwing this up royally. He gestured toward the sofa, and she sat. He followed, but left a good distance between them.
“Go on. What were you going to say?”
“I want to see you again,” she began.
Mark nodded. “That’s fortunate, since I’d like to see you again as well.”
“But . . .”
He waited, his face an expressionless mask but she could still see the turmoil of emotions he tried to hide just beneath the surface. “But what, Carla?”
Frustrated at her inability to express her feelings, she asked, “Why do you want to see me again?”
“Why?” He smiled. “That’s easy. You’re amazing.”
Disappointed, Carla pursed her lips. “I’m not talking about the sex.” Good sex couldn’t sustain a deep, lasting relationship if there was nothing else there. She’d had relationships like that before. She didn’t want that now with Mark, but how could she have more when they had absolutely nothing in common?
“Neither was I, though the sex was amazing, I’ll admit.” He laughed.
“Then why?” she asked again, hoping with every fiber of her being there was something more between them.
Mark’s gaze captured and held hers. “It’s everything about you, Carla. How you are as comfortable sitting on the bottom of the lake grabbling for catfish with Tucker as you were holding a conversation over breakfast with the heads of the departments the next morning. How you gave me a chance even when I was making a fool of myself trying to catch a one-pound fish. I know Tucker thinks the world of you, and I don’t believe he’s a man to give his respect lightly. I know you’re smart and funny and kind and patient and beautiful—”
He paused when she wiped away the tears streaming down her face, and then asked, “Do you want me to go on? I can if you’d like.”
“No.” She swiped at one more errant tear. “But you’re obviously brilliant. You spend your days with scholars. I spend mine surrounded by manure.”
A frown creased his brow. “Don’t you know, it’s our differences that make me like you even more. Carla, if I wanted to be with a woman like me, I could be, but I’m single.”
It seemed a valid point. One she couldn’t refute. She forced herself to meet his gaze. “I guess you’re right.”
“Good. I’m glad you agree. So, if you’re satisfied with my answer, how about if we finally get around to that date? I could take you out for a nice dinner.” Mark reached out and took one of her hands in both of his.
Yes, she was satisfied with his answer. Carla glanced down at their fingers, intertwined, and then back up at the sincerity on his face. She smiled. “Or we could order in, and then afterward, maybe you can do that one thing you did to me in the tent again?”
“Uh, of course.” His cheeks colored all shades of red as he swallowed hard. “That was just a simple matter of physiology, actually. You see, if you stimulate—”
“Mark?” She moved closer to him on the couch cushion. Carla didn’t need to know how he’d given her the best orgasm of her life using just his mouth and hands, but she did want him to kiss her—and do it again.
“Yes?”
“Stop talking now.” She hooked one hand around the back of his neck and reeled him in until they were inches apart.
“Okay.” He grinned, and when he took off his glasses and set them on the coffee table, she knew things were about to get wild.
Read more Kate Angell in
No Strings Attached,
available now.
At the beach the rule is no shirt, no shoes . . .
“Blonde, metallic blue bikini, left side of the pier near the boogie board rental,” Mac James said in a low voice as he handed Dune a twenty-ounce cup of black coffee from Brews Brothers. The scent of Bakehouse doughnuts rose from a bakery box. “I’m betting Brazilian wax. She’s definitely a two-nighter.”
Dune Cates raised an eyebrow. “Brazilian?”
Mac blew on his coffee to cool it. “Women discuss boxers, briefs, or commando on a man. I debate waxing.”
Dune shook his head. Mac was his partner on the professional beach volleyball tour. On court, they were as close as brothers and in each other’s heads. Off court, their lifestyles differed greatly. Mac was up for anything at any given time. Dune, on the other hand, was more conservative. He had foresight and weighed the pros and cons. He knew when and where to draw the line, whereas Mac had no boundaries. He saw life as a free-for-all.
Mac had dated more women than Dune could count. He’d recently parted ways with a waxing technician at VaDazzle Salon in Los Angeles. The salon was known for its pubic hair designs. Mac now played his V-games with the eye of an expert.
Dune had pretty much seen it all. His bed partners shaped their pubes into lightning bolts, hearts, and initials. One female surfer dyed her pubic hair pink. Another was striped like a zebra. His most fascinating lover had been shaved and decorated with stick-on crystals. She’d sparkled like a disco ball.
His preference was, and always had been, a light bikini wax or totally natural. He didn’t need creative techniques to turn him on.
He leaned his forearms against the bright blue pipe railing that separated the boardwalk from the beach. He took a deep sip of his coffee. It was mid-morning and the sun warmed his back right between his shoulder blades. The heat never bothered him. He’d grown up at the beach. The sand and shoreline were home to him. It was where he earned his living.
He looked toward the boogie boards. The blonde stood out. She was definitely Mac’s type. His partner loved long hair and legs that went from here to eternity. The woman’s hair skimmed nearly to her waist and her legs were sleek and toned.
Dune read women well. He knew who liked him as a person and who only wanted a piece of his action. He recognized the blonde as a woman who enticed men and enjoyed their attention. She made a theatrical production of laying out her towel, then rubbing on suntan oil. She was soon slick. Her entire body glistened.
Beside him, Mac opened the bakery box and offered Dune first choice. He selected a glazed doughnut. Mac chose one with chocolate frosting and sprinkles.
“Sweet Cheeks near the volleyball net,” Mac said between bites. “Red one-piece, black hair, French wax. Nice walk. I’d follow her anywhere.”
Mac squinted against the sun. “Tattooed chic in a fringed camo thong bikini, third in line at the concession stand,” he said. “Is that a tat of a rattler coiled on her stomach?”
Dune checked her out. “Looks like one.”
She was a walking advertisement for a tattoo parlor. He saw just how much she liked snakes when she widened her stance. A python wrapped her left leg; its split tongue darted out as if licking her inner thigh.
“Snakebite, Dude,” Mac said. “Woman’s got venom. I bet her pubes are shaved and tattooed with a cobra.”
“She’s definitely into reptiles.”
Mac reached for a second doughnut, topped with cinnamon sugar. “Sex and snakes don’t mix. I’d go soft if I heard hissing or a rattle.”
“Major mood killer,” Dune agreed.
They drank their coffee and ate their doughnuts in companionable silence. All along the coastline, sunbathers sought their own private space. That space was limited. The expanding crowd was an improvement from the previous summer when the economy tanked and one person had the entire beach to himself. It felt good to Dune to see his hometown thrive.
Mac nudged him, pointed right. “Check out the desert nomad at water’s edge.”
The woman was easy to spot. She was short and overdressed for the beach. She wore all white. White reflected the sun. A Gilligan bucket hat covered her hair. Her sunglasses were enormous, hiding her face. A rain poncho capped her shoulders, and she wore waterproof pants tucked into rubber boots.
She walked slowly along the compact sand, only to retreat when a splash of foam chased her. It appeared she didn’t want to get wet. She bent down once, touched the water, then quickly shook the drops from her hand.
She played tag with the Gulf for several minutes before turning toward the boardwalk. She tripped over her feet and nearly fell near the lifeguard station. The guard on duty left his female admirers and took her by the arm. He smiled down at her. She dipped her head, embarrassed.
The lifeguard gave her an encouraging pat on her shoulder and sent her on her way. Her rubber boots seemed overly large, and she stumbled two more times on her way to the wooden ramp. Sunbathers scooted out of her way.
The closer the woman came, the slower Dune breathed. His heart gave a surprising squeeze. Sophie Saunders. He was sure of it. No one else would dress so warmly on a summer day. And Sophie was naturally clumsy.
Ten months had passed since he’d last seen her, although he’d thought about her often. They’d come together for a worthy cause: to boost the Barefoot William economy.
His younger sister, Shaye, had organized a local pro/am volleyball tournament to keep their town alive. He’d provided the professional players. The pros were auctioned to amateur athletes. Sophie had bid ten thousand dollars to be his partner. She wasn’t good at sports, but she had the heart of a champion.
Sophie, with her brown hair and evergreen eyes, had a high IQ but low self-esteem. She was a bookworm, shy and afraid of her own shadow. She feared crowds and the ocean, yet she’d powered through the sports event and made a decent showing. He wondered if she’d ever learned to swim.
Her image had stuck with him. He remembered things about her that he’d rather have forgotten. She had amazing skin, fair, smooth, and soft. Her scent was light and powdery: vanilla and innocence. Her hair smelled like baby shampoo. She hid her curves beneath layers of clothing, yet her body gave off a woman’s heat.
She’d bought her very first swimsuit for the tournament. He could close his eyes and still picture her in the cobalt blue tankini. He could hear the male fans on the outdoor bleachers applaud and whistle their appreciation. Sweet Sophie had an amazing body.
Their team had fought hard during the event. He’d tried to shield her when they’d battled through the loser’s bracket. His best attempts hadn’t saved her, not by a long shot.
Sophie wasn’t the least bit athletic and had taken a beating. Opponents nailed her with the ball, time and again. She’d gotten sunburned, bruised her knees, and eaten sand. Yet she’d never complained. Not once.
To this day he regretted not telling her good-bye when the weekend ended. Instead, he’d watched her walk away. It had been for the best. She was a Saunders, and he was a Cates. A century-old feud had separated the families back then.
The lines of hostility had blurred when Shaye married Sophie’s brother, Trace. Both sides had eventually accepted their marriage. Only his grandfather Frank had yet to come around. He was old Florida, opinionated and stubborn, and set in his ways.
Dune figured everyone would forgive and forget once Shaye became pregnant. She and Trace wanted to start a family. Dune anticipated her announcement any day now. No one would want to miss the birth of the couple’s first child.
He absently rubbed his wrist. He’d played a big part in Barefoot William’s financial recovery, only to suffer for it later. Tendonitis was a bitch. Freak accidents occurred in all sports. Some were career-ending.
He’d taken a dive at the South Beach Open and fallen on his outstretched hand prior to his hometown tournament. He’d suffered a scaphoid fracture.
His orthopedist put him in a short, supportive cast and recommended that he not take part in the event. Dune refused to let his family down. He managed to serve and spike with one hand as well as others could with two. He’d played through the pain.
In retrospect, he knew he shouldn’t have participated. He’d aggravated his fracture further. Despite additional surgery and extensive therapy, he never regained full strength in his fingers and wrist.
He was a man of quick decisions, yet the thought of retirement left him feeling restless, indecisive, and old.
Sophie was so young. She was twenty-five to his thirty-six. Their age difference concerned him. He’d dated sweet young things, all worldly and experienced. But Sophie was unlike any woman he’d ever met. She was sensitive and vulnerable, and made him want to protect her.
He preferred no strings attached.
Cat Johnson’s Oklahoma Nights series
continues in Two Times as Hot,
coming this October.
Read on for an excerpt from Chapter One,
as plans for Becca and Tuck’s wedding get under
way.
“This’ll be your first time meeting Bec’s sister, won’t it?”
Logan dipped his head in response to Tuck’s question. “Yes, sir. It sure will be.”
“I’m not worried about Emma fitting in. Everyone loves her. It’s the rest of the relatives I’m concerned about.” Becca screwed up her face into a scowl. “My father, Mr. Punctuality, is beside himself they’re not here an hour early and it sounded like my mother was already well into her sherry. She bought a bottle at the duty-free shop at the airport.”
“Sounds like a hell of a start to a party.” Jace walked through the door and scooped Becca into a hug that lifted her feet right off the ground. “Hey there, darlin’. You look great, as usual.”
Jace gave Becca a kiss and set her on the ground.
Becca laughed. “Save some of those compliments for later when my relatives from New York are here and I’m tearing my hair out. I may need to hear them.”
“You’ve got it. And just send me the signal and I’ll sneak you some booze, too, if you want it.” Jace winked at her and slid a flask out of his pocket.
“I’ll keep that in mind. A visit with my parents might require some alcohol.” Becca glanced at Tuck. “I’m going to go see if your mom needs any help in the kitchen.”
“Sounds good, baby.” Tuck nodded.
Jace watched Becca leave as he walked over to Tuck. He stuck out one arm to shake the groom’s hand. “Hey, man. How you holding up? I’ve got the truck filled up with diesel and coolers full of ice-cold beer. It’s parked right outside, just in case. You ready to bolt yet?”
Logan shook his head. Typical Jace. As changeable as the wind. Sucking up to the bride with one breath, and offering to help the groom escape with the other.
Tuck’s gaze cut to the doorway Becca had left through before he answered, “Not at all. I’m loving every minute of it. Nothing more fun than planning a big ol’ wedding. You want a beer? I’m getting myself another one.”
Logan glanced at his own bottle. He wasn’t even halfway done with his own beer yet but Tuck’s was empty. Tuck might pretend he was calm, cool, and collected about the wedding and all it entailed, but the empty bottle told another story.
Out-of-town relatives. Nervous bride. Rentals. Last-minute errands. Saying “I do” for the rest of your life . . . Yup, Logan sure was happy he’d be on the ushers’ side of the altar rather than directly in the line of fire like the groom.
“Definite yes on the beer,” Jace answered Tuck, and turned to extend a hand toward Logan. “Lieutenant Colonel Hunt, sir. What’s the status of the Oklahoma State ROTC program?”
Logan laughed as Jace lowered his tone of voice and spoke more like a battalion commander than a bull rider. “A little slow right now since we’re between semesters for the summer, but thanks for asking. How you been, Jace?”
“Good. Rodeoing quite a bit now that it’s summer. Dragging Tuck with me when I can convince him to ride.”
“Just don’t break him, please. Tuck may be a bull rider part-time, but full-time he’s one of my soldiers, and one of my department’s best military science instructors. I need him with two good, working legs for when we go back to working out with the cadets. Got it?”
“Sure thing. Let’s just hope Becca doesn’t break him during the honeymoon.” Jace waggled his eyebrows. “As for rodeo, he usually ends up getting his ribs broken when he wrecks, not his legs, so we’re good. Broke ribs hurt like a son of a bitch, but he can still run with ’em.”
Jace grinned and accepted the beer Tuck handed him. “Thanks for the vote of confidence, Jace. And I only broke my ribs once or twice, thank you very much.”