Finding Their Balance (47 page)

Not even figuratively, but literally. He’d swept her into his arms and carried her from the bath to his bed, and she’d bled on his sheets. Old traditions in keeping with his bent toward artistic theater and history.

“Our wedding night.” The darkness beyond the lamp swallowed her up, blinding and incomprehensible. Henry considered her his wife. No way divorce existed in his lexicon. “I didn’t have a clue.”

“Would you have stayed then if I’d told you?” So gently he asked, with acceptance and not blame in his voice.

“I would’ve run far and fast. I wouldn’t have let myself get this involved.” Foolish. She’d given men less consideration than design projects, marking them all under failed tolerances and refusing to re-run the simulation. Until Henry and Jay had wedged themselves into her life with their undemanding friendship and their structured arrangement. The warm security of their love flowed all the way to her toes as she pressed them to Henry’s legs. “I would’ve missed everything that came after.”

With one searching kiss, he poured his soul into hers. She succumbed, letting him overwhelm her senses and race through her blood.

He grazed her forehead before drawing back. “Then the time was well spent, even if success required we remain apart for longer than any of us would have liked.”

Staying apart had disturbed Henry, but her confused circling must’ve crushed the man asleep behind her. Henry would’ve borne the brunt of his boyish enthusiasm and adorable persistence. “When did Jay start nagging you?”

“With a desire to have you move in?” In a near-silent laugh, Henry puffed air through his nose. “The day after your birthday celebration. Mere moments after the door closed behind you, in fact.”

“That soon?” Thanksgiving, God. Less than four months into their relationship, and both Henry and Jay had been certain. Her heart had taken half a year more to convince her head.

“Only because Henry’d already said kidnapping you was off the table,” a sleepy Jay answered from over her shoulder. “A move-in invite sounded like a good compromise.”

“Holding her captive in the apartment until she agreed seemed a tad overdone. Though the thought did occur.” Henry pressed his hardening cock to her thigh.

Laughing, she encouraged him with a firm grip on his ass. “You’re as incorrigible as Jay.”

“As insatiable as well.” He rolled her on her back and rested a share of his weight on her. “Your counting class will be in session momentarily.”

She twisted in his arms, reaching out and brushing Jay’s chest. “Were we too loud? Did we wake you, sweetheart?”

He shuffled closer, blinking the sandman from his eyes, and stole a kiss. “Sleep is overrated.”

Gripping Jay by his hair, Henry claimed a kiss of his own. “How fortunate we are to have forty-eight hours to indulge our fantasies on this anniversary weekend.”

True. Their next class at the club was two weeks away, she had no overtime projects demanding her presence at the office, and they’d planned no dinners with friends, no basketball outings. A weekend to recuperate would do them good, especially with next week’s challenge on deck.

“Let’s enjoy it while it lasts.” Her mental tally of things to do and chant of
please let this go well
kept track of the hours already. “My baby sister will be here in five days.”

USA Today
Bestselling Author
M.Q. Barber
likes to get lost in thought. She writes things down so she can find herself again. Often found staring off into space or frantically scratching words on sticky notes, M.Q. lives with one very tolerant, easily amused husband and one very tolerant, easily amused puppy. She has a soft spot for romances that explore the inner workings of the heart and mind alongside all that steamy physical exertion. She loves memorable characters, witty banter, and heartfelt emotion in any genre. The former
Midwestern gal is the author of the Neighborly Affection contemporary romance series as well as several other standalone romance novels. Pick a safeword, grab a partner or two, and jump in. Visit her on the web at mqbarber.com.

Be sure not to miss M.Q. Barber’s contemporary small town romance

Her heart is in his hands…

After her marriage ends in betrayal, Eleanora Howard finds herself struggling to navigate the dating scene as a thirty-one-year-old divorcee. But feeling undesirable, and living alone in the house she once shared with her ex, is hardly the recipe for finding new love—until she meets Rob. He’s just the kind of charming, old-fashioned guy she needs—but he’s also eager for intimacy…

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www.kensingtonbooks.com

Dead last. Again.

The four of them went out after work every Friday, and every Friday Eleanora sat and smiled while guys bought drinks for Sharilyn. Hit the dance floor with Amber. Chatted up Chelsea’s breasts.

Even the sidekicks—wingmen, whatever guys called themselves—refused to give her a second glance. She couldn’t blame their lack of interest on the ring. She’d taken off the meaningless metal circle before the divorce had been finalized.

But to the endless crowd of broad-smile bar-hoppers, she rated five seconds of stilted conversation between texting or checking sports scores or playing Angry Birds. The highlight of four hours of boredom. Single life almost matched the worst tedium of married life.

That’s what she got for saddling herself with David and galloping through her twenties with his ring on her finger. He’d been her first. Her only.

Now she performed rotating roles as babysitter, chaperone, and charity case. She didn’t belong at a too-small table packed alongside tight-skinned and perky-breasted girls who flashed their IDs with the affected nonchalance of twenty-two-year-olds.

She downed the final sip of her third beer of the night. She didn’t dare hop in her car and head home yet. Given her luck, she’d end up pulled over and facing a drunk-driving charge. David would love any excuse to point out her idiocy. Hiring a lawyer without him finding out would be impossible in this town. She’d never live down the humiliation.

“—and it’s deep, too.”

Chelsea laughed along with what’s-his-name. Dog Collar Dude. Not attractive, but he had deep pockets. Probably thought he’d be getting in deep with Chelsea tonight, payment in exchange for buying round after round of drinks. God knew he hadn’t taken his eyes off her breasts.

Laughter came dangerously close to making Chelsea spill out of her silky, sleeveless v-cut. Eleanora’s closet didn’t hold a shirt anywhere near so revealing. Boring and staid, as much an accountant in her fashion picks as in her career choices. And in her bedroom habits.

She tilted her brown bottle. All gone. No magical extra swallows remained to knock David’s voice from her head.

“Whoa.” An unknown quantity stumbled to a halt beside her chair. “Your friend’s hot.”

Fantastic. The newest Mr. Drunk-and-Horny leaned in close and drenched her nose with the scent of teen body spray. Probably the same disgusting brand he’d used in high school. Probably lived in the same bedroom, too.

“Oh? Which one?” She’d come to this lousy bar with three friends—well, acquaintances—and he didn’t have a chance with any of them.

The skinny blond kid blinked as he scanned their table. Jesus. He looked barely old enough to buy the three beers he held, and she’d celebrated thirty-one six months ago.

Sooner or later she’d have to inform her coworkers she wasn’t going out with them anymore. They were twenty-four, twenty-five, and poaching college boys was fine for them. For her, the whole scene smacked of desperation. Three months of this bullshit added up to quite enough.

“Uh, all of ’em?” He presented a dopey smile.

“Damn, Ellie. Picking ’em young tonight, aren’t you?” Sharilyn swung her martini glass upward, sloshing vodka over the rim. “Good for you.”

“Yeah, no, I’m not—”

The kid wobbled into her chair. “I don’t feel—”

Vomit splattered her shoulder and rolled down her chest. Ugh. Should’ve dodged faster. She shoved him back.

Stumbling over his own feet, he landed on his ass, spilled his three beers all over himself, and retched. The acrid stench of puke replaced the flood of body spray in her nose. A toss-up, really.

She laughed over the chorus of oh-my-gods from the rest of the table. At least the night wasn’t boring anymore.

* * * *

“Oh, fuck.”

Rob swallowed the last of his beer. Lucas had better hurry up with the refills. “What now?”

They’d hit a handful of bars already. Brian had found trouble with every damned one. With Lucas staying at his place for the summer, he’d been playing mother hen for the last three weeks.

“I think my baby brother’s puking his guts out.”

“Take him home. Happy beer-buying birthday and all, but he’s done for the night.” He’d celebrated his own twenty-first on base with a pack of fellow tech geeks. Good guys, including Brian. How had fifteen years gone by so fast? “Pour him into bed.”

“Yeah.” Brian grimaced. “Soon as I figure out what to say to the woman with puke running down her shirt.”

“Try an apology.” He shoved his chair back and stood, scanning the tables for Lucas’s god-awful sea-green pullover. “Where is he?”

He spotted the vomit-splattered woman about the same time Brian answered, “Your four o’clock.”

Shit. Lucas had spewed at a full table, and he couldn’t get eyes on him. Man down. Threat?

No punches thrown, so far as he could tell. A circle of horrified and disgusted faces clustered to one side, their owners staring at the floor. One guy held his phone up. On the far side of the table sat a laughing woman with a beautiful smile and a stained shirt. Damn. He hadn’t taken a woman home in almost four months, and Lucas had party-fouled the first to catch his eye. “C’mon, let’s go rescue Lucas and get out of here.”

Looked like tonight wouldn’t be the night to break his sexless streak.

* * * *

“Oh my God, Ellie, seriously, how can you laugh about this?” Light glinted off glitter-speckled fingernails. Amber pushed back from the table. “Yuck. Danny, take me dancing.” She dragged her boy of the night away with a theatrical flounce.

“You do kinda reek, Ellie.” Sharilyn wrinkled her nose. “Not your fault, but eww.”

Waving in front of her face, Chelsea nodded.

Dog Collar Dude flipped through his phone. “Fuck, I missed the kid’s first splash. You think he could upchuck again? The visual’d make the video so much better.”

Eleanora glanced down with care. The regurgitated beer soaking into her shirt quickly lost its amusement value. The kid had added a puddle beside her chair. He barked out coughs like a hoarse dog.

“No, I don’t think he’s got anything else in his stomach.” She poked his knee with her foot. “Kid? You all right? You got somebody we can call for you?”

No answer, unless she counted more retching. Between the sound and the smell, her stomach started to turn.

A second man with the same pale hair as the first dropped to the floor beside the kid and laid a hand on his back. “Shit, Lucas, I thought you might’ve passed out.”

“Are you all right, miss?”

Sex on a stick. Thick thighs encased in denim inches from her eyes. She launched her head back and her chin skyward. Eyes up. Ohhh, bad idea. The stranger loomed over her with his strong jaw and his short, dark hair and his no-nonsense eyes.

“No, of course you aren’t.” His aborted hand movement stopped short of her shoulder. “Ugh, he did a number on your shirt. Let me give you a hand.”

He slipped around the other side of her seat. Cupping her elbow in one hand and pressing against her back with the other, he coaxed her to her feet. Large hands. Warm hands.

Her body jangled like a change jar spilling on tile.

“Look, he’s really sorry, or he will be when he’s sober.” The stranger glanced down, shaking his head. “He’s twenty-one today.”

She nodded. The blond guy picked the younger one off the floor. First legal drinking day. Okay. She filed the data under
don’t care
and waited for details about Mr. Tall, Dark and Handsome.

“You can’t wear that home.”

Her chest had snared more attention in the last five minutes than in three months of flaunting herself at bars. She’d found the secret of dating. When introversion and modest assets failed, distress attracted the good guys. Not how she’d hoped to find someone.

The man with large hands squeezed and let her go. Peeling off his shirt, he revealed a to-die-for body. Solid, toned muscles from top to bottom. Too bad his jeans came almost to his waist. Denim blocked the enticing slope heading into his pants. God, David had never reached such nonchalant bare-chested perfection.

Her rescuer held out his shirt and gestured her toward the back of the bar. “Here, let me give you mine for tonight.”

No fucking way. This guy couldn’t be for real. She stumbled over her chair.