Unmanageable

by Lavinia Kent

  She took a sip of wine. Her brow creased. “I don’t think I’d mind. I can’t remember anybody ever trying. Isn’t that odd? Surely somebody must have at some point.”

  “So, you’ve never had a nickname?”

  “I didn’t say that. My mother used to call me Buttercup, and my brother often called me Brat. My father calls me Honey—but then, he calls every woman that.” She lost her smile at the last bit.

  “Am I being too personal?” He bent down to Baxter, giving her a moment to herself. Baxter’s eyes remained locked on her.

  “I’m forgetting to give my boy his bedtime treat,” she answered, avoiding his question. “Let me get it for him and then I’ll pull out my calendar. My work schedule is incredibly busy these next weeks and I really do need to make sure he’s properly taken care of.” She opened a bin and took out a chewy treat.

  Baxter was on it instantly.

  And finished almost as fast.

  The smile returned to her lips as she gazed at the soulful eyes that had once again returned to her.

  She bent down, holding something else out to Baxter. “He knows he’s going to get a dried sweet potato treat as well. They take him a little longer. It seems so unfair that he expresses such excitement only to be done almost before it begins.” She looked up at him, her eyes catching his. “I guess he’s a typical man that way, waiting and waiting and then it’s over.”

  “I may be fine with fruity drinks, but a comment like that could taunt my masculinity.”

  She didn’t say anything, just continued to smile. Her eyes lowered to his lips again—which promptly caused him to look at hers, so full and pink. She wasn’t wearing lipstick as she had been this morning; now her lips were bare and so tempting. What did she taste like? Probably that wine she’d been drinking.

  She stood slowly; time seemed to still.

  There was only about a foot between them. It would be so easy.

  She took a half step forward.

  He could almost feel the heat from her body.

  Their eyes caught and held.

  There was no mistaking that look, that want.

  He didn’t move.

  Her tongue darted out, licked that lush lower lip.

  He could feel her breath.

  He curled his fingers, resisting the desire to reach out and stroke her cheek.

  They stood there, staring for a moment.

  She leaned slightly closer. Her tongue darted out again, lifting any doubts he’d had about her intent. It was so tempting to follow through on that invitation.

  She turned her face up, lips parting—and then she shook her head, the tiniest of gestures, and stepped away, reaching for the wine she’d left on the counter. He could imagine exactly how the coolness of the glass felt against her lips.

  He took another swig of the beer, watching as her eyes followed the movement.

  She might have stopped the kiss, but she was still feeling something. Turning away, she asked, “Can you keep Baxter overnight tomorrow? I’m staying in the city for a firm event. I’d arranged it with Mrs. Clouster, but if plans have changed…”

  “I’ve talked about it with Aunt Mols. I’ll have him during the day and then she’ll be there for the night so I can go out.” He debated whether to initiate a kiss himself. He had a feeling she wouldn’t refuse.

  She hesitated, almost as if sensing his thought. “Fine. I can’t see what the problem with that could be. And she’s discussed the schedule for next week? I do want to be sure everything is covered. I’ve never had a problem with Baxter, even when I missed the train and was seriously late getting home, but it seems so unfair to him. He does like company.” She turned away and glanced at her dog.

  Baxter had finished his second treat and was sprawled across the floor, eyes closed, belly up, giving no sign at all that he cared that anybody else was there.

  No, it was not the time to try for a kiss, no matter what he might want. He didn’t know what had happened, but something had changed. “Yes, I have the schedule and I’m flexible if you need changes. My calendar is pretty open for the next few weeks. I’m just taking it easy, enjoying life—and working some on my knee.” He glanced down. And he was continuing to study, but there was no need to explain that.

  “I saw the brace. What happened to you?”

  He wished people would stop asking—even if he had invited it. He hated the looks that he got when he explained—and that was from the people who didn’t already know. It was even worse when they did, when he had to pretend that he was no longer bitter, that he knew it was simply one of those things that happened. “A work injury. It’s improving fast. The doctor says it should have normal function soon.” Of course, normal function did not include dropping to the ice in a full split.

  “Oh.” Her face said that she wanted to say more, but was resisting.

  Was her mood shifting back?

  It didn’t matter, thinking about his knee killed his own desire. He did not invite further comment. “I’ll be going, then. Text Aunt Mols if you have any schedule changes.”

  He heard her pull in a breath. “Why don’t you give me your number?” she asked. “I’d hate to not be able to reach you if there was a problem.” She lifted her phone from the counter.

  Sensing he had no choice, not that he needed one, he recited the digits. She punched them into her phone.

  His buzzed in his pocket.

  “There, you have mine too. I want you to be able to reach me if there’s a problem with Baxter,” she said.

  “That’s good. I’ll be by in the morning to pick him up,” he replied.

  “Fine.”

  He turned to leave. Baxter opened one eye and stared at him. “Bye, I’ll see you in the morning, then.”

  “Bye.” She did not move to follow him.

  He was out the door and down the stairs before he pulled out his phone and stared at her number, adding it to his contacts list.

  He paused, stared a moment longer, then typed, Send me the info on the wedding. It’s a yes if it fits my schedule. I never could resist good food and an open bar.

  The phone buzzed with her reply. I only promised decent food—but it’s a date, if it fits your schedule.

  Now he just had to figure out if he wanted to turn it into a real date.

  Chapter 3

  She had a good life. Veronica turned in a slow circle, absorbing the joy of the party. The Petersens knew how to share a great time. Some of her friends might feel the evening was a bit formal or stuffy, but that had never stopped her from enjoying something. It was all in the attitude.

  It had been a mistake to let her half sister’s coming wedding dampen her spirits. Having somebody else be happy took nothing away from her.

  Unless it did. Her father was still weighing his decision about making new partners and what he was going to do with the firm when he retired. He’d just about promised her a new role at the firm, rewarding her for all her hard work, but he was being deliberately vague about what that role might be. She didn’t know why he’d be like that unless…

  No, she was not going to think that way.

  She was out on a Friday night. The weather was perfect, the sky filled with stars and the air with music. People were dancing and laughing.

  And she looked hot. You weren’t supposed to think such things about yourself, but damnit, it was true and she wasn’t denying it. It might have been awhile since she’d had sex and even longer since she’d been with somebody she’d been wildly attracted to, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t pull out all the stops every now and then. And it wasn’t only because she’d been attracted, really attracted, to a man for the first time in ages. Her thoughts filled with how close she’d come to kissing him, to tasting him, to…

  She smoothed the red silk over her hips.

  It
was a far more daring dress than anyone else’s here, but she’d been in the mood and that was reason enough. She was thirty-five. and if she wanted to wear a short red dress and sky-high heels to an end-of-summer party, she was going to. In the back of her mind, she could hear her father telling her she looked like a promiscuous teenager, but she didn’t care.

  She felt good and it was all that was important.

  Speaking of looking good, she turned and let her eyes wander over the very cute man, a cute man in an expensive suit, walking across the dance floor toward…toward her dear friend Jordan. Now, that was a pity, but if anybody deserved a cute man it was Jordan. She had been mourning her deceased husband for more than two years and that was enough.

  But almost before she could finish the thought, she saw Jordan shake her head. The man persisted for a moment, but then with a shrug headed off in search of easier prey.

  For the briefest of moments, Veronica considered intercepting him, but friendship was far more important than any man, even on a night when she was in the mood to scratch an itch she’d let go on for far too long.

  She was going to confront Jordan about her behavior, about the fact that she just might need a man even more than Veronica did at this moment. She strode up to her friend, letting her feelings sound in her voice. “That wasn’t very nice.”

  Jordan shook her head, but didn’t bother to deny the words. “Sometimes I don’t feel like being nice. And I wasn’t actually rude. It’s always better to say too little than too much.”

  Rudeness was clearly in the eye of the beholder. She let her gaze move across the room to the man. “But he was cute. Why—?”

  “Don’t I want to dance?” Jordan turned away, acting almost as if she wished Veronica would leave. “Do I need a reason? Can’t I simply not feel like it? I had an unpleasant conversation about the foundation a few minutes ago, but that wasn’t the reason. Oh, why do I have to explain? I just didn’t want to dance.”

  Veronica focused on her friend. Jordan would never dismiss her if there wasn’t something bothering her. “Come on, we’re not talking about dancing, Jordan. And if it were one time, I’d accept that, but it’s been years since I’ve seen you dance, seen you look happy.”

  “That’s not true. We have a good time on our TV marathon nights and I had a wonderful time at Ellen’s baby shower. I’m happy, don’t pretend otherwise. And you know why it’s been so long since I’ve danced.”

  She rolled her eyes, being sure that Jordan saw her. “Yes, I know. Mark was sick and passed away. It’s horrible that you lost your husband. We’ve had this conversation a dozen times. I understand. I was there with you through all of it, but it’s been over two years since his death and I’m starting to worry. You may have happy moments, but only if you’re taken out of yourself. I want to see you happy all the time.” She was happy. Was it too much to want her friend to be the same?

  “Nobody is happy all the time. But you know…I woke today and I heard the waves out my bedroom window. I’ve heard them every day for years, maybe for my whole life, but today I truly heard them. I lay there listening for twenty minutes, feeling the peace they brought. I mean, they’ve always brought me peace, but today I heard them. I heard their individuality. When I listened, I could hear how different they were. Some splash. Some rumble. Some lap. Some pound.”

  Veronica fought the urge to roll her eyes again. Jordan could be so unrealistic. What she really needed, what they both really needed, was to get laid. “Okay…what does this have to do with your not dancing with a cute man? I know you’ve read some shape-shifter romances, but I do hope you’re not waiting for your own selkie to rise from those rumbling waves.” She could imagine Brian Walsh as a selkie, striding wet and naked and slick from the waves, relentless against the pound of the water.

  “Well, I wouldn’t complain if one walked up nude from the beach. And don’t pretend you don’t read them too. But no, I’m not expecting a selkie. I was just trying to explain that I’m feeling more alive and maybe soon I’ll be ready for hot men someplace other than in the pages of a book. It might not even be that long. I’m actually starting to dream about men—very vivid dreams. I simply haven’t found the right one in real life.”

  Veronica knew all about not finding the right man, but that didn’t mean you didn’t have fun in the meantime. Again, her mind pictured a wet Brian, his long legs standing firm in the waves. “Come on, you know as well as I do that if I don’t push you, you’ll never get out of that big chair on your balcony overlooking the sea. How often have I found you there with your nose deep in a book? Books are wonderful, but they’re not life.”

  Jordan answered, but Veronica gazed past her, still listening but letting her eyes move over the crowd. Cute guy was getting lucky with the redhead. Oh well. And then she turned and saw him, saw that strong build, those powerful thighs. Had her desires conjured him?

  She kept talking to Jordan, listening as much as she was able, but it was impossible to concentrate fully. She was a bad friend. Yes, she was, but…Damn, she’d have to do better. She forced her eyes away, smiled at Jordan, chided Jordan, made plans with Jordan.

  She even kept her smile when Jordan told her, “Now, why don’t you go find somebody to dance with yourself?”

  “Maybe I will,” she whispered in answer as Jordan walked away.

  Veronica turned back to the crowd, unable to avoid staring.

  Fuck. What was he doing here? What was Brian doing here? Did he know the Petersens? He looked around a moment, seeming lost. And he wasn’t wearing a jacket, unlike almost every other man here. In fact, he was dressed more like a…Could he be a cater waiter as well as a dog walker? It would make sense. Those black pants and white shirt could certainly be part of a uniform.

  Did it matter why he was here? Her body knew what it wanted. Was she willing to take a chance?

  Brian wasn’t sure why he had come. He’d never been a fan of this type of party. He was much more comfortable sitting on the couch or in the backyard, having a few beers and talking with his friends, and if grilled meat happened to be involved, so much the better. In his old life he’d sometimes been forced to attend this kind of event. Owners had always thought they were doing the players a favor inviting them and they liked to get a good look at their investment—and then there was the press. It was important to look good and friendly—who knew when the right endorsement deal might come along?

  Of course, that was then, and this was now.

  He glanced down at his knee. It gave a sharp twinge as if in answer. If he’d known he’d be standing all night, he would have worn his brace. Of course, he should have known, but…

  Maybe he should just head home now.

  He glanced to his left. No, he hadn’t been forced to be here, but it had been important to Aunt Mols. She’d dreamed of coming to a party at the Petersens’ house. He understood a lifetime of staring at life going on around you and never quite feeling a part of it. If his presence made it possible for his aunt to come, then he truly had no choice. She’d been a true support his whole life and particularly these last few months, when all he’d wanted was to be left alone. She had a real talent for always being there, but never intruding.

  Still, he’d been at the party long enough. If he slipped out, nobody would notice. It would be too far for his aunt to walk home, but he could leave her the car keys, it was her car, and walk himself. Walking was actually much easier on his leg than this useless standing about.

  “Hey, did you catch the game yesterday?” a deep voice asked.

  Shit. There was no point in asking which game. He didn’t know how many times he’d answered that question tonight. It might have been an early preseason game, but everyone wanted to know what he thought. He turned to the man coming up beside him, put on his professional smile. He had no idea what the fellow’s name was, although he did look vaguely familiar. “I saw the e
nd of it. I was out earlier.”

  “McQuire had quite the save. I was sure that shot was going in. Thought we would end up in a tie at the last moment. And, no offense, our guys aren’t the best at shoot-outs.”

  Brian had never been sure why he was supposed to take offense at criticism of other players, even when they were his former teammates. He was also tired of fans talking about “we.” When he’d been playing, it had never bothered him. He’d understood the importance of fans feeling like everybody was working together to bring a team to greatness, understood wanting to be part of something bigger. In this moment, however, it struck him as pretentious. “It was a great play.” A play he wished he’d made. Perhaps his internal griping was nothing more than the feeling he was missing out.

  “You should come over to my place for the next game. I’ve got an 86-inch TV. It’s like being at the game. And the wife stocks a great selection of beer.”

  There was nothing like being at the game, like being on the ice, like feeling the crowd, feeling the chill rising up around him, feeling his mind go to that place where every second lasted a year, where everything moved in slow motion, his whole world the hard puck moving about the ice, the…“Sure, sometime.”

  “I’ll have Janet, that’s the wife, give you a call. And I’ll have her invite some colleagues over, we can make a night of it.”

  It was probably too late to ask the guy for his name, not that he actually intended to attend his game party. He hated being the center of attention because of who he used to be, who he’d never be again. “Sounds good. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got someone to catch up with,” he lied, deliberately not giving Mr. NoName a chance to ask for his number.

  And then the lie turned into the truth. Veronica was standing there across the room, looking amazingly hot in a tiny red dress. And those shoes. He’d never had a foot fetish, but the woman was changing him. And damn, but she had legs that never quit. He felt himself go semi-hard. What was it about her?

  Turning with a smile, he headed in her direction. This was some catching up he was more than eager to do.