“Mopping the floors…” Dylan teased. At least, he hoped Jeff didn’t mop the floors. With his wrinkled shirt and dark hair to his collar, someone might mistake Jeff for the janitor.
Jeff’s nod had a Zen-like quality. “Even mopping the floors.”
Dylan drank to keep himself from responding. From their Facebook pages, Jeff and Amy did everything together—lived, worked, ran a business, errands, went gliding, hiking, to local events. Their ever-present smiles suggested they were in some sort of daze. Too much wedding planning? Too much sex? Holy hell, Jeff’s expression suggested a frontal lobotomy, no clue about anything except Amy, Amy, Amy. During their online communications, Dylan had tired of hearing about how perfect she was. No woman was worth giving up a $100 grand engineering career to move to Bumfuck, USA and flip burgers, designer or not.
Jeff gestured with the bottle. “How’s life treating you? If your online profile’s any indication, you’re doing pretty well.”
Is that how it appeared? “Not bad.” He struggled to think of something he could share with Jeff, some party where he’d had the best time, or some girl who’d screwed his brains out. Work, nights, weekends all blurred together.
Dylan swung his head toward the entrance as the door flew open. In walked five-feet-eight inches of tattooed glory. Layered blond hair catching the light, cotton top so sheer it revealed every curve not hidden by her bra and short olive skirt, which didn’t hide much. And red leather cowgirl boots. Hell yeah.
Laughing, Dylan turned to Jeff. “You dog. I knew it.”
Jeff blanked. “What.”
“‘Hurry back soon, Amy.’ So freaking perfect.” But who was the tall guy shadowing the blonde? Her manager? Pimp? Kind of old for that line of work. Personal cowboy? Fit as he was, one toss from the horse would break the old man’s hip for sure.
Jeff shook his head. “Perfect? What are you talking about?”
He clasped Jeff’s shoulder. “You really had me going. Can I have the first lap dance?” Even if it made his instant hard-on more unbearable. The way the girl swished her hips, he might cream his tighty whiteys any second now.
“Oh.” Jeff’s entire face flinched. “No, you don’t—”
Dylan punched his friend’s shoulder. “All right, all right. I get it, you’re the groom.” It killed him to say it. “You go first. But man, save some for me.” He grabbed the beer bottle tighter just thinking about it.
She sauntered up and stood beside them like some biker-chick angel, hot and wild, with an air of innocence about her. Such a knockout, she literally stunned him into silence.
Clear, blue-green eyes studied him, then bounced to Jeff. “First for what?”
Oh, killer voice, too. Gravelly, down and dirty, like a hard drinker. With her flawless skin and eyes wide enough to drown in, he’d never have guessed. Dylan whipped a twenty out of his pocket. “Don’t take too long with him. I don’t care if he is the doomed groom. This’ll be waiting.”
“Do you need me to make a beer run?” She reached for the bill.
Dylan snatched it away and held it high. “You make beer runs, too?”
Jeff muttered, “Dylan, wait.”
Man, he couldn’t tear his gaze away from her. “No way, I’m not the one who’s getting shackled.”
The girl jerked her head back as if he’d slapped her. “Shackled.”
Did she think he meant handcuffs? Oh shit yeah, a wild one. “Married, whatever. I have no one to answer to about a lap dance, or a stripper gone wild.” He leaned closer. “If you know what I mean.”
The warmth left her face. Her eyes narrowed and her mouth pinched. “Stripper?” Her tone and volume increased as she drew up her height to eye level with him. No wonder her legs seemed to go on forever. This girl was one tall drink of thousand-proof whiskey, and he couldn’t wait for the burn going down. But why the attitude?
He glanced at Jeff, who sadly shook his head. “I swear, Clarissa, I—”
The name stole Dylan’s leering smile. “Clarissa? You’re not Amy’s Clarissa?”
Her lip curled. “He isn’t. Tell me he isn’t,” she implored Jeff.
A sigh, and Jeff gestured. “Dylan Wall, meet Clarissa Hartman.”
Dylan smiled. “Hi.”
“Sonofabitchfratboybastard.” She drew back her arm, then slammed her fist into his jaw. A yelp, and she curled back and shook her limp hand in the air. “Ow. Oh shit, I hope that hurt you more.”
Hard to say until his vision cleared and his brain returned to its balance inside his skull. She’d rung his bell, all right, though not in the way he’d hoped. “Jesus. Nice to meet you, too.”
Nostrils flared, and she pressed those sweet lips into a determined line. “You asshole.” She crooked her arm back again.
The old man stole behind her and grasped it. “Whoa, darlin’.”
Dylan recovered from his defensive flail. “See? Even your father knows I didn’t deserve it.”
Her jaw dropped. “My what?” She turned to the old man and jerked her head toward Dylan. “I’ll let you have the next shot.”
Now what?
“Look, I’m sorry.”
She widened her eyes. “I’m sorry you’re an asshole. It doesn’t improve any part of this situation.” She shook her head and her fist. “Wow, I need a drink.”
Jeff took a tentative step toward the tin tub. “Let me get you a beer.”
Her shoulders slumped. “You’ve got nothing stronger than beer? Seriously Jeff, I really need tequila. At a minimum.”
“I was saving it for later tonight.” Jeff sent a worried glance to Dylan. “Maybe now I’ll save it for another time.”
The old guy winked. “Probably best you don’t add any fuel to the fire.” He extended his hand to Dylan. “J. D. Murphy.”
“Dylan Wall.”
Whoa, quite a grip
. He extracted himself from the viselike grasp. “So, no relation to Clarissa.” He couldn’t bring himself to say “father” and insult the guy again.
J. D.’s dimples deepened. “None whatsoever.”
Point taken, though the intense delivery creeped him out. Dylan’s nervous laugh betrayed him. “Cool. Soooo.”
Awkward. But not your place to judge
. Though what she saw in a geezer with a handlebar mustache, he’d never guess. Clarissa had the grace of a dancer. And the body. Perfect skin. Perfect everything. Even with all those tattoos, crazy, spiked hair, and her killer right hook, she could have any guy at the snap of her fingers. Stupid of him to jump to the conclusion she was a stripper, but one look and his hormones had gone into overdrive. He’d have to find a way to make it up to her.
“So,” J. D. repeated. “You and Jeff go back a long way?”
“College. We had the best times.” Bet she’d be a real knockout if she grew out her hair. Even standing across the room, gesturing toward him in what must be a condemnation of his character, she was incredibly striking.
J. D.’s baritone jarred him. “Nice you came all this way for the wedding.”
“I wouldn’t miss it.” Weird, to see Jeff in this artsy-fartsy environment. Even weirder how comfortable he looked. Happy. “Have to give him a good send-off.”
“He’s not going anywhere,” J. D. deadpanned.
Except to greet more couples entering the café, leaving Dylan to fend off the imitation Clint Eastwood. “In the figurative sense, I mean. To commemorate his single days.” At the vibration from his cell, Dylan drew it from his back pocket and checked the text. Mario checking in, nothing new at work except that Randy worried him. Kind of a loner, didn’t contribute much to brainstorming sessions. After a quick reply to let Mario know to keep an eye on the newbie, he replaced the phone in his pocket, and then braced as Clarissa strode toward them and handed J. D. a bottle.
The cowboy smiled his thanks at her. “They’ve lived together almost seven years.”
“Right, I know.”
Seven? That long?
“Seven years next month, Frat Boy.” Clarissa raised her chin and scowled down her nose at him. “You’re one of those guys who complain that marriage is like a death sentence, huh?”
“Well.” He shrugged. Maybe. He couldn’t stand the thought of it. Linking himself to a woman forever? Please. Not yet, or in the foreseeable future. Unless he found someone beautiful and exciting, someone who knew how to hold his interest longer than a month or two. Laura Croft fit the bill.
Of course, before that could happen he had to sort out his life. Sell the business? Start a new one? Or head in a new direction?
“Pathetic.” A noise of disgust erupted from Clarissa before she tilted the bottle up for a long drink.
The way her throat moved as she drank almost melted him. The beer slipped down his fingers, and he tightened his grip around the bottle’s neck.
Jeff made his way back to them. “Everything okay here?”
Clarissa smiled sweetly. “Oh yeah. Dylan’s making lots of new friends.” She linked her arm through J. D.’s. “Buy me another beer?”
“Anytime, sweetheart.” J. D. touched two fingers to his brow in salute. “Adios.”
Jeff pinned him with an accusing stare. “What the hell, man?”
“Hey, I didn’t know. The way she sauntered in here….” Nothing like the way she moved now, all fluid grace and power, steaming into the kitchen. The old man sent him a threatening glare before following.
Shouldn’t have been watching them
. But he couldn’t help it. Aside from the May-December thing, or more like March-December, he was riveted by her.
Jeff hunched nearer. “Tonight was supposed to be a low-key, quiet celebration with friends.”
“When Amy left, I just—”
“Assumed. Yeah.” Jeff’s blinks didn’t hide the glaze of disbelief in his eyes.
What the hell did that mean? “Sorry.” Sorry he’d traveled all this way. To stay in a freaking yurt. After starting off the party on such a bad note, he couldn’t even bring up that subject.
Jeff blew a long breath. “I have to go welcome more guests. Try not to get in any more trouble.”
“I’ll, uh, mingle. Make some friends.” Yeah, right. He was off to a great start. He waved Jeff and his serious expression away, backed off until he hit the stools at the coffee bar, then plopped onto a seat at the far end. Away from the couples and groups who laughed and chattered and completely ignored his existence. On planet Marfa, Dylan was the alien while Clarissa, the punked-out Grace Kelly, was apparently queen.
Can’t wait to see those wedding photos of the best man and maid of honor
. They sure as hell wouldn’t sit on his desk. Yet the image of one, a close-up of he and Clarissa, all smiles and heads tilted toward one another, seared into his brain.
Really weird. The atmosphere must be getting to him already. He heaved a long breath, then took another swig of beer. Two freaking weeks. He’d looked forward to the down time, a chance to mull over the latest bid to buy his business. He leaned toward yes, especially after an old client contacted him about a new gig to patch up their public image yet again. The firm’s reputation could seriously be jeopardized if he took the sleazy job, and it sickened him. Cha-ching and gone, no more spin jobs to cover up the poor choices of other CEOs.
Whatever new perspective he’d hoped to gain during his time away, this wasn’t it. Maybe this would be the longest two weeks of his life.
***
Clarissa Hartman stomped through the kitchen of the Blue Moon Café straight through the back door and outside. She kept going, barely avoiding trampling the row of lettuce edging the large veggie and herb garden, past the trellis weighed down by morning glories, to the cottage, easy to spot because of the red paper lanterns that ringed the roof, the Texas sun providing an endless stream of energy to keep their solar cells charged.
Sanctuary. Her tiny house before tiny houses came into vogue.
Once inside, she slammed the door, wishing Frat Boy had poked his head along the frame in time for her to crush it. She couldn’t stop moving, or she’d smash something. Fists clenched, she paced, wishing for the first time for greater floor space.
Unbelievable. How am I supposed to get through the next two weeks?
Arrogant, narrow-minded, self-centered…how had someone so sweet as Jeff befriended such an asshole?
You can’t let him get to you. That gives him control. And he’s exactly the type to take advantage of it. He’ll provoke and manipulate you, and you’ll look like the ass instead of him. He’ll flash his perfect-toothed, Frat Boy smile at the photographer, the ideal best man—in 2-D anyway—and you’ll come off as the bitchy maid of honor, grimacing. Worse, you’ll ruin it for Jeff and Amy. They deserve better
.
Okay. Exactly the point. And exactly the reminder she needed. It took all the wind from her sails so she could stop moving. Breathe deep.
A soft knock at the door jolted her worse than a crash when she imagined Frat Boy on the other side.
“Clarissa?” J. D.’s baritone vibrated through the thin wood. “You all right?”
She opened up. “Fine. I needed a little space.”
His signature lopsided smile appeared as he glanced inside. “That’s what you have, a little space.”
“I love it. It’s all I need.” One well-structured room, with a sofa, bookshelves, and work table in front, the kitchen and eating space at the rear, bathroom to their left, and out back, a patio and deck chairs. To the right, the sleeping loft, one of the best features. A skylight directly overhead let her fall asleep under the stars every night. Despite its small size, the place had an airy feel, and definitely more homey than her parents’ McMansion could ever be.
His smile froze. “Sure you don’t need anything else? An ear to bend? Shoulder to cry on? Any other body part?”
Shit. Much as she loved spending time with him, she couldn’t think of him as more than an older brother. Much older. “I’m good, thanks. I let out the bottled-up steam, and I’m ready to go back.”
Disappointment cooled his gaze, but his smile never faltered. “I’ll walk you, if you like.”
“I’d like. A lot.” What she liked better was the way he never pressured her. Not once during his daily patronizing of the Blue Moon Café or the few times they were alone in his glider or hanging with her at the bar. He stood up for her if someone overstepped their bounds and backed off when she left with another guy. She knew she was breaking his heart, but wished he’d fall for someone else. And sometimes wished Marfa wasn’t quite so small.