Hold 'Em: Vegas Top Guns, Book 3 (26 page)

He answered with a wide grin and a hand on her ass. “How could I?”

“So, these hobbies? Gimme.”

“I play guitar, for a start.”

“Seriously?”

“Yup.”

“Wow, that’s explains your brotherhood of the mariachis.”

“I’m
good
, Princess Leah. But I don’t sing. Not in a million years.”

She frowned slightly, as if trying to solve some logistical mathematics problem. Was he really that hard to figure out? He didn’t think so. Open book, except for his bedroom preferences. Or was she really that unobservant? Didn’t make sense when compared to how acutely she read him during their sessions. Then, she was hyper-focused to the point of mind reading.

“But back to sod-laying,” she said, apparently shaking it off. Her ability to compartmentalize was impressive.

“I’ve been prepping the backyard for the summer. Getting the topsoil ready, all the right nutrients and water levels. The rolls of sod are being delivered Wednesday. Thought I’d make a party of it since Dash and Eric volunteered to help.” He paused, met her eyes. Although he tried to keep his posture and expression casual, he was anything but. “Sunny’s going to be there too. Thought you might want to join us.”

A host of thoughts jumbled in her eyes. Those quirking lips scrunched into what he was beginning to regard as her thinking face.

“See? I’m learning. No surprises.”

She nodded. Her mind was still spinning. He saw it in the unfocused distance of her gaze.

He didn’t like the next part, but he knew it was a necessity if he wanted her to show up. “You could come by on your own. I don’t expect you to be here when the others show up. If that’s what you need.”

The real Leah returned from whatever place she’d traveled to. He just wanted to shake her.
I’m here. I’m not going to fuck this up.

She wouldn’t believe him, might not even hear him. Head in the sand. For such a ballsy woman, her ability to face up to the hard shit was surprisingly lacking.

“Sure,” she said with a shrug. “You’re insane for trying to grow grass in a damn desert.”

“I like it. My mom did it too. Her hobby—gardening and the lawn. Not easy where they live in Kansas, either. Dad put up with it, even if he thought it was a waste of time.”

Inwardly, he cringed.
Duh.
Clue smack. That was why he’d taken it up himself. His dad’s snide remarks about what his mother did in her housewife spare time had never seemed fair. She offered Mike advice now, which kept them closer than mere updates on very different lives. He enjoyed having that in common with her.

“Then I won’t tease. Don’t wanna be a dick about whatever you like.” Leah kissed him gently on the mouth. “Sod-laying party it is. What should I bring?”

He smiled and rolled her onto her back. Greedy. Happy.

“Bring dessert.”

“Moron. You had to pick the hottest day so far.”

Mike stood up and rubbed the ache from his lower back. “Shut up, Kisser. This is not the time to turn chatty. You’ve done way less work.”

Dash hauled another roll of sod over his shoulder, from where dozens had been stacked on the patio. “And all you’ve done is the fruit roll-up part. Do some lifting, you big bastard.”

With a shrug, Eric met him at the pile of sod. “Sure. Must be a trial being so scrawny.”

“I’d go all physics teacher and point out the power ratio of longer limbs relative to muscle mass. Alas, big words bounce off your dented skull.” Dash grinned. “So bite me.”

Eric smirked. “Isn’t that Sunny’s job?”

As if tugged by a string, Dash turned to where his wife sat beneath a shade umbrella. She’d already laid out the food in Mike’s kitchen. Now she was reading a fashion magazine.

“I heard that,” she said, not looking up from
Vogue
.

“Doesn’t mean it isn’t true,” Dash replied.

He was a whole other man when she returned from DC. The dark clouds from that night at the strip joint were gone. The notorious smile had returned, with no sharp edges. He still looked like a bird of prey, but his mile-a-minute sense of fun was a welcome relief.

While Dash hauled his roll to the next row—they were about a quarter done—Mike met Eric at sod central command.

“Hey, Leah said she’d come by too. Can you do me a favor?”

Eric lifted his brows but didn’t answer.

“Keep your damn mouth shut. I don’t want to play referee between you two.”

“Quite the request, Mikey. Anything you’re not saying? Or you gonna stick to ordering me around?”

“It’s my party and I’ll make rules if I want to.”

“Whatever. She seems cool.” He leaned in with a vicious smile. “And I won’t hit on her.”

“Fuck off.”

Eric offered a pissant salute. “Yes, sir, Strap Happy, sir.”

“Get back to work or no beer.”

From across the lawn, Dash perked up. He was on his knees with his hands deep in the roll of grass and soil. “No beer? I was promised beer. What sort of thieving racket have you got going on here? Sunny, it’s time to head home.”

“No.” She wet her index finger and turned a glossy page. “I still haven’t seen buff fighter pilots take their shirts off.”

“Well, shit,” Dash said. “Now I have to first. Otherwise it’ll be painfully obvious these vultures are making a play for your attention.”

A teasing smile was his reward. “Do it then, butt munch.”

Sunny’s parents were Indian, and she was a lawyer, so the foul mouth she let loose among friends was still a surprise. Mike and Eric grinned and, because they were dudes, returned to their work while Dash stripped. It wasn’t five minutes later before Eric was shirtless too.

Mike knew he was waiting for Leah. He was a goddamn showoff when it came to pleasing her. He checked his watch and squelched a tickle of unease. She said she’d show. That meant she would.

So it was back to the sun-drenched chore of laying his lawn. He loved the smell of the warm dirt. Bermuda grass was unheard of outside of casino golf courses, but here it was because of his doing. Small accomplishment. Big reward in his head.

“Sunny, you’re not pulling your weight,” Eric called. “Get dirty with us.”

Still not looking up from her magazine, she grinned. “Piss off, meathead. Besides, I ordered the pizza. Wouldn’t want to get too worn out.”

In an exaggerated whisper to Eric, Dash said, “We have plans, you see. Nighttime plans. The kind
you
have to pay for, Kisser.”

“She put out, by the way. That redheaded stripper.”

Mike rolled his eyes. “You should’ve been a writer for
Hustler
. Flying jets neglects your talent for dirty fiction.”

“First the BJ she promised.” Eric shrugged. “Then doggie style.”

“Bullshit!” Dash said, rising to a kneeling position. “See, it’s the Kisser-gets-it-up-twice-in-one-night part that’s most unbelievable.”

“I should’ve known it’d be all trash talking today,” came a welcome voice. “Though it’ll be worthwhile if it means three men on their knees doing women’s work.”

Mike looked at the bright green grass beneath his knees and smiled. An exhalation slipped out of his nose.

He turned to see Leah standing on his porch, one hand on her hip, smirking. She wore the world’s tightest jeans, which did mind-bending things for her slim, toned physique. Usual holy Christ tank top. Usual ponytail. And she hefted a grocery-store cake.

The other pilots greeted her with customary insults and bickering. Mike only stood and walked to face her. Two feet separated them. She’d worn perfume—a touch of floral that seemed more like making an effort. He liked that.

“Glad you could make it, Princess. Nice cake.”

“Where do you want it?” A sparkle lit her eyes, suggesting a whole manner of subtext.

“Anywhere you want. Indoors probably.” Just as he’d planned, he ran a hand through his hair and found his nastiest grin. “Damn it’s hot out here.”

Leah’s dark eyes flared with hunger. She gave the smallest nod.

He grabbed the T-shirt’s hem and pulled it over his head, tossed it aside. The knocked-dumb expression on her face was worth every moment he’d spent working with the sun on his back, magnified by a layer of sweaty cotton.

“Don’t suppose you’ll join us?”

She wet her lips. Blinked. “In the grass or shirtless?”

“Either.”

“Nope. I think this beautiful lady has the right idea. It’s been a long week, Strap. I’m gonna put my feet up and just…watch.”

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Leah stashed the cake in Michael’s kitchen before making her way back outside. Unlike most dudes she knew, his patio furniture wasn’t plastic. Instead it was classic wrought iron, with a glass-topped table and an umbrella. The woman sitting in the shade was beyond elegant. She wore what looked like silk, which Leah had always taken for one of those after-sunset sorts of things. The blouse was distinctly Indian, wrapped almost like a sari, but paired with trim black slacks.

The woman looked up with a small yet friendly smile. “Sunny Christiansen.” She held out her hand. “It’s nice to finally meet you.”

She returned the sentiment before dropping into one of the cushioned chairs. “Leah Girardi.”

“Captain Leah Girardi, yes?”

“My reputation precedes me.”

Dash’s wife fanned shut the fashion magazine. “You say that like you assume it’s a bad thing.”

Leah chuckled, but the cold burn in her lungs didn’t bear any resemblance to humor. “I know my reputation.”

Sunny’s hands were elegant, with a French manicure and pampered skin. She watched Leah with dark doe eyes that were clear and steady. “Let’s see… You used to be known as a party girl, but those days are apparently behind you. No one’s witnessed you with bruised knuckles or smelling like booze for at least six months. Shall I go on?”

Leah gulped. She nodded, almost against her own will.

“Dash says you’re an excellent pilot. You’re conscientious of the aircrews that take care of your plane. You’re Fang’s right-hand girl. Plus Dash is really, really impressed with your motorcycle, though he thinks your ovaries were showing when you picked pink.”

Leah shifted. Twisted again. She leaned back in her seat. She ran a thumbnail through the fringe along the side of a placemat. “Maybe I was wrong.”

She’d thought herself marked. Once somebody hooked up with a particular reputation, it was hard to shake within the small community of the military. That led her to wonder what else she was wrong about.

She avoided Sunny’s way-too-astute gaze and turned toward the yard. Half done now. The three men’s bare chests covered the spectrum of masculine appeal. Dash with his slim, precisely cut torso. Kisser was made of hefty curves, with shoulders that sloped down from a thick neck. He looked like he’d been artfully swirled in a vat of black ink, with a distinctive abstract tattoo spreading across his chest.

They caught her attention, but Michael kept it. He was her golden boy—the perfect balance, with his lean hips and an upper chest thick enough for a girl to hang on to. His hair gleamed like sunshine, and his smile made her insides tumble. She liked him so damn much.

Hearts and flowers and puppy dogs sort of liking.

“You know, Princess,” Mike said with a grin. “It’s better you’re not trying this.”

She lifted her brows. “Is that right?”

“Not up your alley. Too tedious.”

Dash nodded along with him. Right. They were both so damn subtle. Except not. “Really, you just stay up there with Sunny. This is man’s work. Best not to trouble your pretty little heads about it.”

“You’re assuming that I’ll get my nose out of joint and prove myself by mucking around in the dirt.” She folded her hands behind her head in the most arrogantly relaxed pose she could manage. “You’d be wrong.”

“How about you, Sunny my lovely angel?”

The woman blew Dash a kiss and returned to her magazine. “Fuck off, darling.”

“You see how she sweet talks me?” He punched Kisser in the shoulder as he stood. “Means she loves me.”

“If that’s love, count me out.” Kisser rocked back on his heels, looking something like a hunk of meat on the hoof. His hands dangled between his knees. “I’ll stick to pulling tail.”

Dash flashed his wide grin. “Pulling your own pud.”

“Classy, dude,” Michael replied. His eyes cut toward Leah. His smile…changed. The smallest shift of his lips made her brain melt. Was he going soft on her?

Christ’s angels, would she even mind if he did?

She couldn’t bring herself to think the L word. They weren’t there yet. She knew that much. Her heart seized in fear every time her head started down that road. That had to be a big sign, right? If she were actually in love, she wouldn’t be so afraid. End of story.

Didn’t mean she was blind to the possibilities. She was thinking of buying him a cuff, for God’s sake. All the research she’d done about D/s taught her what a big deal that was—not to mention the pressure she felt to get it right, to find the perfect one.