Romancing the Running Back (10 page)

“Okay.” Why was she still smoothing out his shirt? Could she feel his heart kicking up a notch in his chest? She wasn’t looking at him, but focusing greatly on getting his now-smooth shirt even smoother. “Anya.”

“Oh, we just need to try it out on someone first. Because you guys are pretty big in the grand scheme of males, we don’t want tiny little things hanging on your chest. It’s got to be proportional.” She reached over to the table and picked up the arrangement he hadn’t noticed her carry over.

Hadn’t noticed.
He snorted to himself. The second she’d start running her palms over his chest, he wouldn’t have noticed the president riding by on a dinosaur, shooting a ray gun.

“Okay, here we go.” She worked and finagled her way around, pinning on the first selection, then stepped back. “Yeah, see, Justin, it’s too small.”

Justin?

“I agree,” the florist said from over by the table.

Oh. Justin. Right. Josiah clenched his jaw as she started to work the arrangement out from the pin anchoring it to his chest. Anya paused briefly, then continued working her way through removing the small set of flowers.

In a casual voice, she asked over her shoulder, “While I’m doing this, do you think you could maybe create a miniature version of the bouquet we discussed for the bride? The ribbons might not be right, and the colors, but a smaller version. Like the size of a tossing bouquet. Just something I can take home with me for her?”

“Sure, no problem.” Justin closed the album and headed back toward a double doors which, he assumed, held the flowers and other supplies.

“You okay?” Anya asked low, smoothing his shirt once more. “Did I stick you?”

“No,” he breathed out.
Hurry, please, before the sensory overload of flowers and your scent and your touch causes me to do something incredibly stupid, like kiss you.
“No, just . . . tired.”

“Oh. Of course.” She picked up another example and pinned it on, stepping back slightly. “It’s the right size, but too much . . . much.”

“That’s not a thing,” he pointed out, breathing a little easier now that she wasn’t standing with her nose all but pressed against his sternum.

“You look and tell me what you think.” She waved to the small mirror over the table.

He pivoted and looked and realized she was right. “It’s too much.”

“Too much of the baby’s breath and extras. Let’s try one more.” He obediently moved into position so she could remove
it and replace it with another. It felt lighter on his chest, and when he turned to look, he nodded.

“Looks more right.”

“I think we have a winner.” She stepped forward just as he pivoted back, landing against him. He steadied her at her upper arms. “Whoops. Sorry. I think all the flowers are going to my head.”

She wouldn’t look at him. Why wouldn’t she look at him? She removed the arrangement and put it on the tray before stepping back.

Come back.

Justin pushed through the double doors just then, ruining any hope he had of making a move.

Wait, what? No, no moves were in the making. That was ridiculous.

After paying for the small bouquet, Anya followed Josiah to the car. Her phone rang just as he was unlocking his door. He reached automatically for the small plastic vase containing the flowers as she dug through her purse for her phone.

“Thank you. Can you just prop it up in the back, maybe? So it won’t tip?” Phone in hand, she stepped away and answered quickly. “Hello?”

Josiah glanced at the flowers, and then his SUV. There was no really good place for him to put it that it wouldn’t spill. He’d have to have her hold it. Following her to indicate as much, he heard her hiss, “Stop doing this to me.”

His entire body tightened, and his hand gripped the vase like a weapon, ready to attack. Who was messing with her? She caught sight of him from the corner of her eye and quickly hung up, shoving the phone back in her purse. “No place to put those?”

Okay, so they weren’t going to talk about the phone call. “I, uh . . . yeah. Here.” He thrust it back toward her, and she took it without a word. “It won’t fit in the cup holders, so . . .”

Pleasant, distant smile on her face, Anya nodded. “No problem. Let’s drop this off at Cassie and Trey’s place before our last errand.”

He glanced up at the setting sun, then his watch. “It’s getting late. Places are closing.”

“Not this place. And we have one other item to pick up at their house before we continue.”

Mysterious.

Josiah sat in the car, unwilling to get out just yet.

“Come on.” Anya poked him. “We have your disguise, so let’s go in.”

Some disguise it was. Josiah stared down at the fake glasses in his hands. They’d run to Trey’s so he could steal them—from their place of honor on the top of his dresser—and use them for the errand. As if this was actually going to help him.

“I can read your mind. It worked for Trey, it’ll work for you. Now, let’s go get some naughty stuff!” Without waiting for him, Anya hopped out of his SUV. With her luck in his presence, she’d get nailed by a semi crossing the dark, nearly empty parking lot. He jumped out, leaving his ball cap behind, and followed to keep her out of trouble.

“This is a terrible idea,” he muttered.

“You said you’d help me plan the bachelor and bachelorette party,” she reminded him.

“Plan,” he emphasized. “Plan involves writing down ideas, thinking up funny junk to force them to do, picking the location, that sort of thing. This is not planning. This is . . . I don’t know. Worse.”

Anya rolled her eyes at him and stopped just before the door of the store. “I’m not going to push. We can go back to your car, you can drive me back to my new place, and you can go home. I’ll come back another time, alone.”

Spoken in those reasonable tones, it was almost as if she were daring him without actually daring him. On a sigh of regret, he pushed the door open and held it for her. “Ladies first.”

“Thank you,” she said primly, and walked into the neon-lit store.

“Welcome to Pleasure Trail,” the female employee behind the counter said in a bored, monotone voice, “where all your erotic dreams are just a hop, skip, and slide down the Pleasure Trail.”

Wow
, Anya mouthed at him. From the corner of his eye, he noticed the young woman—maybe twenty-five, tops—leaning against the counter and flipping through a magazine while chewing gum. She looked like she’d rather be asleep.

Only one other customer currently occupied the store, and he was nervously checking out the selection of porn DVDs that lined one whole wall in the back.
Ever heard of the Internet, buddy?

Keeping his head down, he followed Anya to a row of bright pink products. Everything glittered, glowed in the dark or had a sheen of fake metallic over it. “Here we go!”

“Here we go . . . what? What the hell is all this stuff, anyway?”

Anya grinned at him over the end cap. “Bachelorette party supplies.”

Josiah tapped one display of beaded necklaces and watched them sway and jingle together. They reminded him of the type of cheap beads you bought in bulk and threw out at Mardi Gras . . . except they had penises all over them instead. “You remember this is a co-party, right? Bachelor and bachelorette, combined? No guy is wearing this shit, and no girl is wearing it in front of the guys.”

“They will,” she said confidently. “Well, not those. Those are stupid. But these,” she said, holding up another set of necklaces that said
I’m With the Bride
and had cocktail glasses dangling from them that sparkled when they moved. “These, they will wear.”

“It’s a private venue. We agreed to that. Everyone in the room will be with the bride, or the groom.”

She let the necklaces drop back to the shelf she’d picked them up from. “Hey, buzz kill, it’s a bachelor-bachelorette party. It’s supposed to be a little raunchy and naughty and tasteless. It’s not like we’re going to a red-carpet gala where the dress code is black tie. The props set the mood. It’s all about the ambiance. Just trust me. Did you get a basket?”

He looked around. “A basket of what?”

She sighed and pointed toward the front of the store. “Baskets are usually by the front door, or next to the register. Go.”

He grumbled, but kept his head down and found the three empty baskets by the register. He also found the tub of disinfectant wipes, and grabbed one of those to wipe down the handle and inside of a basket before taking it with him back to the pink-shit aisle. “They have bleach wipes for their shopping baskets.”

“Good for them. Sanitation counts.” Anya dumped the necklaces in the basket he held out, and that’s when he noticed it hanging around her neck.

“What the hell are you wearing?”

“Hmm? Oh, these?” She held up the shot glass shaped like a pair of tits that hung on a lanyard and nestled against her clavicle. “I think these are meant for guys, given they are blue and the chain is a bit more manly. Think Trey will like them?”

“You cannot be serious.” But he watched as she held up the breasts like she was about to take a shot, smiling as if she were in an infomercial. “I can’t even with you.”

“You like it.” Grinning, she poked him in the belly. “Stop complaining, you’re having fun.”

Behind him, he heard the nervous guy checking out with his porn selections.
Seriously dude, the Internet.
And then he was gone, leaving them alone in the store, minus the uninterested clerk.

“I bet she’s seen some stuff,” Anya said in a low voice. “I want to ask her.”

He caught her elbow as she tried to breeze by. “Are you drunk? What are you doing? The point was to get in and get out
without
attracting attention. If I get caught in here, it’ll be all over the blogs and social media. The team doesn’t need a stupid distraction like that.”

“I was kidding,” she said, patting his chest. Was it his imagination, or did she let that touch linger just a bit longer than was necessary to be mocking? “I wouldn’t put your career in jeopardy like that. Or your personal life.” She walked back to the aisle and pulled out two sashes—one for the bride, one for the groom—placing them in the basket. “I’m not sure how you guys deal with the fame, to be honest. It would drive me crazy. Cass had a crash course, and it nearly broke her.”

“Never. Cassie’s not the kind of girl to break. She might get knocked back a few steps, but she’s not breaking.”

When she looked up at him, watchful, thoughtful, he reviewed what he’d just said. Nothing had been offensive, had it? “What?”

“How do you know that?” she asked, her tone one of mild curiosity.

“Just . . . because. I know Trey. He wouldn’t fall in love with a woman who would break. So, she won’t.”

“Hmm.”

Hmm? “What does that mean?” he asked as she put a few streamers with alternating breasts and penises in the basket. God, she didn’t actually want to hang those up, did she?

“You have a lot of confidence in your friend’s taste in women.”

“You don’t?”

“Of course I do.” She picked up a set of shot glasses, studied them, and put them back down again. “I’m just glad others see the same thing I do.”

Infuriating woman. “We about done here?”

“Hold your horses. A few more . . .”

“No. You are absolutely not serving drinks with penis straws.”

She smiled up at him, teasing. “You can just stir your drink with yours, then.”

“Putting my foot down on this one.”

She rolled her eyes, but let them fall back to the shelf. “Spoilsport.”

A dozen giant light-up diamond rings went into the basket next, along with a tiara and attached veil.

“Notice how most of this is going for your side of the party?” he said, putting the basket down.

“That’s because traditionally, the hens go out for a night out with the girls. We get flashy and tacky.”

“And the guys?”

“The cocks,” she said, making him wince and apparently loving it, “tend to stay in, drink beer, and hire a stripper to come over and make them feel manly. No need for light-up anything. But we’ll get there.”

“Uh-huh.”

“No, really, I’ll bet they . . . bingo!” She held up a box of cards. “Beer drinking game.” She read the box, then froze. “Wait . . . is Stephen going to be okay with all this? I mean, because of his . . . problem?”

She slowly started to put the game back on the shelf, blushing as if embarrassed it hadn’t occurred to her before.

“He’ll be fine. We’ll watch him, and Mags will be there.”

“I’m sure Cassie will invite her,” she said offhandedly, picking up another deck of cards that didn’t have alcoholic connotations, scanning it, and tossing it in the basket. At this rate they should have gotten a damn cart.

He shuddered at the thought of what someone might load a cart up with in a store like this.

“But I don’t think Mags has the same pull with Stephen as she did when they were together.”

“But they are together,” he said smugly. When she glanced sharply at him, he added, “Or they will be.” Damn. He hadn’t meant to tell her. He’d wanted Mags to be the one to say it. “Forget it.”

“Forget what?” she asked, eyeing a blow-up penis that was, according to the box, purported to stand six feet tall
when—ahem—fully erect.

“No.”

She sighed, then glanced down at the basket. “Looks like we’re good.”

He hefted the basket—and was ashamed to admit it took some hefting—and walked with her to the checkout counter. The only sign of realization that she had a waiting customer was the way the younger woman held up a finger in a
wait a sec
gesture.

Anya glanced at him with raised brows and a twinkle in her eye.
Wait a second
, she mouthed, then stuck her tongue out at him.

He had the oddest desire to grab her by the waist, haul her against him like he had in the Wal-Mart parking lot, and kiss the silly grin off her face.

Then the clerk flipped the page of her magazine and slid it down the counter, out of the way. She barely looked up as she started ringing up purchases.

“Yes, yes, we
are
having a bachelorette party, how’d you guess?” Anya asked in the silence.

The clerk looked up for a half second, then back down at the scanner as she continued scanning.

“Any bachelorette party favorites?” Anya asked, persistent as ever. He reached down and pinched the back of her arm. She hissed and swatted at him.

“Nope,” the clerk said, ignoring their antics.

“Oh, well. Guess we’ll make do with what we’ve got.” When the clerk read the total, she started to dig out her wallet from her purse. Josiah beat her to it. Tossing the cash on the counter—he’d rather not have his credit card on file, thank you very much—he waited for change while Anya stared at him.

Holding the door—and all of the bags—to leave, he waited for his companion to exit. The second they were in the parking lot, she started.

“I could have paid, you know.”

“You picked out the junk, so I paid. What’s the big deal?”

“The big deal is, I’m the maid of honor.”

“And I’m the best man,” he shot back, loading the bags in the backseat. “What’s the big deal?”

“The big deal,” she said, raising her voice as she opened the passenger door and hopped in, “is that I didn’t bring you here so you could foot the bill the entire way.”

“I didn’t think you did!” he shot back, climbing in himself and closing the door.

“You were against this from the start!”

“You didn’t give me much of a choice!”

“Stop trying to change my mind,” she growled.

“Stop worrying about what I think and just get what you need to done.”

“I am!”

“Good!”

Their breathing hard, both of them glared at each other across the center console. They were nearly nose to nose, and he could smell the delicate scent of her. Lilacs, if he had to guess. Lilacs and clean soap. And Anya.

She broke first, settling back in her seat. “I’m not even sure why we’re arguing,” she said quietly.

“Because we seem to do that really well?” He started the car and set the fake glasses in the cup holder.

She had no answer for that. He pulled out from the nearly deserted strip mall and headed back toward Coach Jordan’s home. After a while, the silence clawed at him. He shouldn’t have raised his voice. It was unnecessary. The whole argument was unnecessary. He opened his mouth to apologize when—

“I’m sorry.”

That brought him up short. “For what?”

“For snapping at you. You did something nice. I’m just . . . I don’t know.” She covered her face with her hands, sounding weary and unsure, and maybe a little vulnerable. “It’s been a long few weeks for me. Lots of changes. I’m not handling it well, I guess.”

She’d moved—sort of—halfway across the country, she was helping her best friend plan a massive, public wedding, and she had a business of her own to tend. Lots of changes, that was for sure. He could cut her a break.

“Hey.” He risked it and reached over to rub her upper back a bit. When she tilted his direction, but didn’t glance up from her hands, he kept doing it. “Stop trying to take on so much. We got the errands done, including that florist thing, right? To pick out the bobbyneers.”

“Boutonnieres,” she corrected automatically, but he could tell she was smiling at his obvious butchering of the word.

“Same thing. You’re planning this wedding, and taking on the bachelorette party, and I’m guessing a more formal shower closer to the wedding. Stop beating yourself up for getting a little snappy when I’m giving you shit.”

“You were giving me shit, weren’t you?” Looking up, she narrowed her eyes. “This is more your fault than anything, I guess.”

“That’s one way to look at it. Another might be to consider ourselves at a truce. You don’t have to go to Save-the-Whales concerts with me or shop for koala-fart towels, and I won’t bug you about your buttons-and-lace stuff.”

“Wow, you sweet-talker. Tell me more.” She straightened, though, and he took his hand away. It shocked him how warm it was, and how much he wanted to put his hand back on her. “Okay. Crisis moment over. Sorry about that.”

“Nothing to be sorry about. Truce?”

“Truce.”