Authors: Chantilly White
Allison had surprised herself by tearing up. She wasn't
easily moved to sentiment, but they'd just looked so damn happy. Mia had been
positively radiant after her long-awaited deflowering, all the more so with
Derrick's ring on her finger.
And Allison had thought, just for a moment, "I wish. .
." before catching herself.
She was only twenty-five, after all. Way too young to be
thinking about marriage and, God forbid, babies. In-laws, shared vacations,
college savings accounts. She still had her own college loans to pay off, for
crying out loud, not to mention her mortgage.
No.
No, thank you very much.
Just because her friends had been bitten by the love bug
didn't mean she wanted to roll around in the same romance-infected grass. Not
yet. What she needed was a vaccine. She was fine on her own. Better than fine.
Besides, she hadn't met The One yet. She'd know him as soon
as she did, or so all the women in her family claimed. They'd each recognized
their soul mates immediately, the family stories went, complete with ringing
bells and shooting fireworks to mark the occasions. The Kelly women were
practically famous for their love-at-first-sight tradition.
Blessing, curse or tall, tall tale, Allison had always
scoffed over the stories out loud, even to her closest friends. Even to Mia.
Secretly, though, a tiny, defiant part of her heart still hoped she'd have the
same sense of certainty when her time came.
Just not yet. She was having way too much fun playing the
field to be thinking about a permanent I-do.
Which did not in any way excuse Mr. Whatever-His-Name-Was
for ditching her at her own freaking party on New Year's freaking Eve. She'd
intended to have her sexual itch satisfyingly scratched tonight. Instead, her
Adonis-turned-traitor was scratching Kris.
Man-whore.
Allison thought the words, but the phrase scrolled by
without any real heat. How many times had she done the exact same thing? Left
one man dangling when another with better chemistry caught her eye. She would
not begin a new year by succumbing to hypocrisy.
Irritation, she'd allow.
Reentering her living room, she caught Jeff's eye above the
shimmy-shaking crowd. Exotically handsome with his dark hair, pale green eyes
and to-die-for bone structure, Mr. Drag Queen of the Universe—as he
billed himself—stood six-foot-four and could see over practically
everyone. He quirked his perfectly tweezed dark-winged brow at her, then jerked
his chin in the direction of her couch, pushed against the wall out of the way
of the dancers.
Ah.
Jeff had spotted her would-be scratcher with his new itch,
as well. Don-Ron-Jon's blond hair glinted in the mood lighting, and Kris's
blood-red nails clutched the golden strands as the two of them writhed like
eels on the purple fabric. Allison grimaced. If they got any friskier, she'd
have to have the sofa shampooed before she could sit on it again.
Raising her shoulders in a shrug for Jeff's benefit, she
wove through the dancers and out into the garage to check on the second bar
she'd set up there. One of her neighbors, Sally Turner, had crashed on the
loveseat Allison had placed along the back wall and was snoring with gusto, her
head lolling on the shoulder of a giant of a man Allison didn't recognize, also
sound asleep.
Glad they found the party so invigorating, Allison thought
with a half-laugh, but she knew Sally. One glass of champagne was enough to do
her in. The guy, though. . .
Running an assessing gaze along his stretched-out form,
Allison wondered where Sally had dug him up. He wasn't Sally's usual type,
though Allison's libido gave a little kick. She had a thing for big men, and
this man was huge, a veritable mountain. He had to be even taller than Jeff,
and easily as well-built, but wow, he was hairy. A long, thick mop of rich
sable glowed in the dim light, but it looked like he hadn't had the benefit of
a haircut or a shave in decades, and he was dressed like a barbarian. Beat-up
denim, an ancient plaid shirt and—ugh—hiking boots? Really?
Not the New Year's style she preferred.
Big, hard-muscled man or not, she'd take hers without the
B-movie Sasquatch veneer. Sally could have this one.
Aside from the snoozing couple, the garage was empty.
Everyone else either partied in the house or outside in the cool night air that
passed for winter in southern California. She'd leave the lovebirds be for now.
With a delicate shudder, Allison went back to studying the bar.
They were getting low on champagne, and the shot glasses
were empty, but there was still plenty of beer and wine. The canapés and
single-serving dessert parfaits looked like a marauding band of pirates had
pillaged the row of pretty holiday tables. At least they'd left the
carnation-and-lily flower arrangements.
She sighed, but there was no point in refilling at this
hour. Midnight was past. People would begin departing soon.
The celebration had come together quickly in any case, since
she'd originally had a gig booked for the night, as she did every year. Her
clients had canceled a week ago, so Allison had decided to take advantage of
the rare treat in her schedule—a New Year's Eve off—to throw a
party herself. Maybe it hadn't been quite up to her usual standards on such
short notice, but then, when partying in her own home, she tended to keep it on
the casual side compared to a professional event.
Not hiking-boot casual, she thought with an aggrieved glance
for the offending size-fourteens on the mountain man's feet, but almost
everyone in attendance was a friend. They just wanted to hang out, dance and
have plenty to drink.
There were a few strangers aside from the giant gorilla,
though, and that reminded her of her promised duty to her friend, DeeDee
Barnett.
Where had she left that bowl?
Spinning around, Allison cast her eyes over the assorted
buffet tables draped in purple cloths lining the garage walls. There. She
hurried to the far end of the room near the loveseat, her heels click-clacking
loudly on the chilly concrete during a brief lull in the music. Snatching up
the crystal bowl, she flicked through the remaining business cards inside.
Good, they were almost gone.
As a favor, she'd agreed to hand out the cards to all the
singles and uncommitted couples at the party. Each card was inscribed with a
code for one free month's membership to DeeDee's dating-service business,
Cupid's Cavalry. Allison had also invited a select few of DeeDee's clients to
the party as a social mixer.
In return, DeeDee had provided some of the drinks and hors
d'oeuvres and would help with clean-up the next day. Even better, she'd pimp
Allison's event-planning services to her own clients for showers, bachelor and
bachelorette gigs, weddings, and more. It was a win-win arrangement and one
they intended to formalize in the new year.
A clutch of cards in her hand, Allison's gaze strayed right,
roving over the hulking man on her loveseat. Glints of red and gold shone in
the dark brown of his hair and beard, and she detected a pleasing, masculine
scent beneath the usual party aroma of spilled beer and dancer's sweat
permeating the garage. Something a bit woodsy, with a hint of spice. She
sniffed again. Nice.
Her eyes traveled up from the long
tail of his beard, over his flat stomach and wide chest, then widened like a
deer's caught in a hunter's crosshairs. His deep-set eyes were slitted open,
too narrow to determine their color, but fastened on hers with an intensity
that had her taking an instinctive step back.
A beat passed, then two. Then
three. Frozen in place, a strange current raising all the hairs on her arms as
though in recognition of an imminent threat, she stared. He didn't appear
dangerous, scrunched as he was into the corner of her tiny sofa, Sally snoozing
on his shoulder. And yet. . . Wishing she could see his eyes clearly, she tried
to draw a breath into her airless lungs. He hadn't moved a muscle.
And. . . and she was still
staring.
Flushing, Allison whirled and hurried to the door without a
word, intending to escape back inside. Instead, she nearly barreled into Jeff's
muscular chest as he exited the house.
Already taller than most women, in her heels she stood
eye-to-eye with his six-foot-four frame, though he outweighed her by at least a
hundred pounds. Jeff and the angelically blond Greg, who stood behind Jeff
clutching his arm, blocked the doorway. Both men frowned at her.
"What happened with Tom?" Jeff shouted over the
music—Shania Twain's
Man, I Feel Like A Woman
this time.
"Jon," Allison corrected. Sean?
"Whatever," Jeff and Greg said in unison.
Uncomfortably aware of the mountain man's gaze burning a
hole between her shoulder blades, she shrugged. "Greener pastures."
Not wanting to hold a conversation in front of Grizzly
Adams, Allison made a shooing gesture to encourage Jeff and Greg back into the
house, which they ignored.
"Do you want me to take him outside?" Jeff asked.
Behind his back, Greg rolled his eyes, making Allison cough to disguise her
laugh.
"No, I'm good," she managed, leaning forward to
kiss Jeff's tanned, movie-star-handsome face on the cheek. "Thanks. He's
not worth messing up your manicure."
Jeff studied her for a moment, while Allison chafed under
the weight of the stare still boring into her back. She never ran from a man,
not even a hairy hippie throwback, but getting caught scrutinizing a guy she'd
thought was asleep had thrown her off. She stiffened her spine and flashed a
smile for Jeff, evidently satisfying his silent query.
"Well, then, my darling girl," he said, kissing
her back and waggling his dark-red nails—the same shade as her
own—toward her family room with a flourish. "
Après vous
."
Taking her hand in his left, with Greg's clutched in his
right, Jeff towed them both back into the thumping music. "Let's
dance!"
The next morning, at half-past way-too-freaking-early,
Allison hobbled into the kitchen, bleary eyed, her cold bare feet caked in the
glitter they kicked up with every step.
"Coffee," she moaned. "Coffeecoffeecoffee,
oh, God, why is there no coffee?"
Elbows on the grey marble counter, she dropped her head
between her arms and lightly banged her forehead against the stone. When that
failed to make a cup materialize, and no helpful java faeries rushed forward to
fulfill her need, Allison called on her superpower—also known as
desperation—just long enough to get the pot going. Staggering to her
breakfast nook, she collapsed into a chair at her kitchen table.
"Why am I awake," she groused, mouthing the words
soundlessly to the room in deference to her aching head.
The house sat, silent as ever, surrounding her with privacy
and security, familiarity and comfort, all the things she valued in her home.
Yet this morning, she thought she detected a disapproving air in the waiting
stillness.
"What?" she said out loud, then winced as the
sound of her own voice set off a cymbal crash in her skull.
So she'd had a little too much to drink last night. With no
temporary-Romeo waiting for her in her bed, she'd commenced to serious
partying, aided and abetted by Jeff and Greg. Which, she admitted, had been a
mistake. Jeff could drink her under the table on her best day, and she'd
already had a few glasses of champagne before they started. Even Greg, a lightweight
compared to Jeff, could belt them back.
Had she learned nothing in college?
Strange dreams had chased her through the few hours of sleep
she'd managed—dreams in which she'd strolled hand-in-hand with Bigfoot
through a softly lighted forest, a garland of flowers on her hair. When his
big, fur-covered paws reached to slide her camisole and lacy bra straps down
her arms, and his hairy face leaned in for a lover's kiss, she'd bolted from
sleep with a gasp, repulsed and not a little freaked out by the tingly sense of
anticipation humming in her veins.
She liked some wild and kinky sex as much as the next woman,
but she was
so
not into the whole animal
thing. Allison wrinkled her nose and a shudder rocked over her body.
Gross.
A rumbling snore interrupted her hangover and had her
jolting upright in her seat. Cripes. She'd forgotten the slumber-party guests
crashed all over her house. How had she missed their lumpy forms on the way to
the kitchen? Coffee-brain, she decided.
Hoping to hell no one expected her to cook for them this
morning, Allison cradled her head in her hands. 'Safety first' was a motto she
took seriously when it came to partying, so it was a given that anyone who'd
over-imbibed would either catch a ride with a designated driver or stay put, but
that didn't mean she planned to don her hostess hat again. Not today.
Not after those too-few, dream-laden hours of sleep. Sally's
hobo had certainly made an impression on her alcohol-embellished night
ramblings. Usually, her dreams were filled with nonsensical but entertaining
little vignettes, like tap-dancing pineapples with beaver tails and top hats,
or the more mundane but easily understood business worries. Not poorly dressed
strangers with big feet and too much hair.
The aroma now wafting from the coffee machine had her body
quivering like any self-respecting java addict's on caffeine withdrawal.
Seriously, why couldn't they figure out the whole intravenous thing?
Pushing to her feet, she grabbed her favorite 'Life's A
Beach' mug—a Christmas gift from Mia their freshman year—out of the
cupboard, then stood, waiting impatiently for the final drips to straggle into
the pot.
She was on her second deeply appreciative sip when a
gravelly voice rasped, "Coffee," in her ear, making her jump.