Texas Hustle (10 page)

“You’re not going to be comfortable. It’s too short. Your feet will hang off.”

“Whatever,” he snapped at her. “I don’t know what’s changed since this morning. I thought we had the sleeping arrangements all worked out.” He held up his hand. “It’s fine.” He blew out a long breath. “I think Cash and Paige are getting ready to head out.” He nodded toward the couple making a circle of the room to speak to each person.

She and Darren stood not speaking as they waited to say their congratulations. Her heart pounded. Rushing blood throbbed in her head, giving her a headache. She hated Darren’s tone, hated hearing the disappointment in his voice. Yes, he was right that they had discussed the sleeping arrangements, and she’d been honest when she’d said she’d have no problem sharing, but at this moment, she was feeling a lot of flimsiness in her firm resolve to stay on her side of the bed.

She couldn’t tell him that.

He would think her another ditzy, irresponsible blonde.

The buzzing in Darren’s head sounded like a hive of bees. He leaned against the stainless-steel counter and waited for his cousin and his new wife to reach him and his frustrating roommate…his beautiful-but-driving-him-crazy roommate.

“Congratulations,” Porchia said, hugging Paige. “I love your outfit. And I love how you guys did this wedding. So perfect.”

“Thanks,” Paige said. “Did you recognize the cake? You made it last week.”

Porchia laughed. “I did, you sneaky thing. I thought it was for a couple named Patti and Carlton.”

“It was delicious,” Cash said. “Mom’s freezing the top layer. Something about an anniversary?” He shrugged. “I don’t have a clue what she’s talking about.”

“Tradition, honey,” Paige said, linking her arm through his. “We eat our cake on our one-year anniversary.”

Cash frowned. “Now that sounds gross.”

Porchia and Paige laughed, but Darren thought it sounded disgusting too. “Frozen year-old cake? Yuck.”

“Don’t worry, Cash. It’ll taste just like tonight,” Porchia said. “Trust me. But if it doesn’t, I’ll make sure you have another one a year from now. How’s that?”

His face looked relieved. “It’s a deal.”

“If you’re through being all girly and talking about cakes, I’d like to congratulate you,” Darren said.

The two men first shook hands, then Cash grabbed Darren in a hug. “Good Lord, man,” Darren grunted out. “Get a hold of yourself.”

That just made Cash grin. “Can’t help it.” He threw his arm over Paige’s shoulders. “I just married the woman of my dreams. One day, you’ll know exactly how I feel.”

“Oh, baby. I love you,” Paige said and kissed him.

Darren was stunned by the jolt of jealousy that rattled down his spine. He wanted what his cousin had found with Paige. What his brother had found with Magda. He glanced at Porchia talking with Paige.

And he wanted it with Porchia Summers.

The newlyweds moved on to Reno and Magda. Suddenly, Darren felt like a balloon whose air had been released. His shoulders sagged.

“You okay?” Porchia’s eyebrows were drawn down with concern.

“Exhausted,” he confessed. “It’s not the work that wears me out. It’s the constant talking.”

She nodded. “I know exactly what you mean. Let’s say our goodbyes and head out. What do you think?”

“I think it’s the best idea I’ve heard in the last hour.”

The walk back to their cabin was quiet. Darren was thinking about the sleeping arrangements and wondered if she was too. But how could he broach the subject without making a mess of everything?

She entered first, flipped on the living room lamp and toed off her shoes.

“
Oh
,” she moaned, flexing her toes. “That feels so good.” She rolled her eyes upward. “Now you know, I’d rather be barefoot than in fancy, high-dollar shoes.”

“Nothing wrong with being a barefoot redneck,” he joked. “In fact, some of my favorite people are barefoot rednecks, including me and my brother.”

She extended her arms in his direction. “My people,” she said with a laugh.

“See? I knew we were perfect for each other.”

There was no reply from her, and he wondered if he’d stepped into a pile of manure with his comment, but then she chuckled. “You might have a valid point,” she said. “I smell like a fire, so I want to take a shower before bed. You want to go first?”

“You go. I can wait.” He removed his hat and set it brim up on the coffee table.

She ruffled his hair. “You like that dirty, rough cowboy smell, do ya?”

He’d vowed he’d smell like a dirty, rough cowboy for the rest of his life if she would just keep running her fingers through his hair.

“Nah. But I think I’ll have a drink first. Sort of wind down from the day.”

“Suit yourself.” She stepped over her shoes and headed up to the bath.

“Save me some hot water,” he called after her.

“I’ll see what I can do,” she said with a grin over her shoulder.

He couldn’t take his eyes off her heart-shaped ass as she wiggled away. He sighed. He’d rather put his mouth on hers instead of the mouth of a bottle of bourbon, but the bottle appeared more attainable.

He cracked the top on the new bottle and tilted the bourbon to his lips. The smoky, rich amber liquid erased all traces of cake sweetness as it rolled across his tongue and down his throat.

He heard the water in the shower come on. Porchia was naked in there. Naked and slippery wet.

His jeans tightened as his penis grew at the mental image.

“Fuck,” he muttered and lifted the bottle again.

Porchia climbed into the massive shower, determined to not use up all the hot water, but the multiple showerheads hitting and massaging her tired muscles from every direction had her moaning with pleasure. The only thing that could make this better was having Darren in here with her…not that she could ask him. Oh, he’d come, no pun intended, but she didn’t want to hurt him, or herself, for that matter, if she screwed up their friendship.

She shampooed her hair and stood under one of the jet sprays, letting the soap trickle down her back while the pounding water stimulated the blood flow to her head at the same time.

He’d never hidden his interest in her. And she really,
really
liked him too.

She’d read somewhere that girls have a tendency to marry men like their fathers. She remembered that when she played wedding with her friends, her imaginary nameless husband had always been someone like her dad or the fathers of her friends—suit-wearing professionals who went to an office every morning, did whatever they did and came home.

A blue-collar guy with rough hands and a sunburned neck like Darren Montgomery had never shown up in her husband-slash-lover fantasies. Maybe it was time for her to rethink some of her more erotic daydreams.

She wasn’t ready to get out of the shower. Far from it. The hot water beating her tired muscles into submission felt just too good, but she’d promised to leave Darren some hot water. She climbed out and wiped the moisture from her body, her mind continuing to throw thoughts at the speed of light. It was almost impossible to keep up with all of them.

But when she bent over to run the towel down her legs, one thought stuck. Maybe, just maybe, the ideal man for her didn’t wear a thousand-dollar suit and work in an office. Maybe he wore dirty jeans, scuffed boots and a battered hat to work every day. And maybe he smelled more like hay and horse than Polo cologne and a pipe.

She pulled on the thin-strapped top and tap pants she slept in, then looked at herself in the mirror. Turning side-to-side, she knew she wasn’t beautiful. Her mother had tried to show her how to make the most of her limited physical attributes. Her mother and grandmother had assured her that she was attractive enough, but even she could see that her nose was too pointed and her eyes too far apart.

Grabbing her stomach pudge, she wiggled it. This frustrating pouch had attached itself to her and wasn’t going anywhere.

Her thighs were not smooth either. When she pinched them, she could see the cottage-cheese dimpling.

What did Darren see in her? Whatever it was, she didn’t see it.

She covered herself with a long silk robe and headed back to the living room. Darren sat on the sofa, his fingers wrapped around the neck of a half-empty bottle of bourbon. Eyes shut, his head rested on the top of the sofa back, his shaggy dark hair tousled as though he’d been running his fingers through it.

For a long moment, she stood watching him, studying his face. Rugged. Tanned. Late-day whiskers dotted his chiseled cheeks. A chin that was a little sharp. A little bump on his nose that suggested it’d been broken in the past. But it was his full lips that drew her gaze every time. They looked made for the perfect kiss.

Her heart rate ratcheted up so hard, the pulse in her neck made it hard to swallow. The front of her robe popped with each hard stroke of her heart.

Yeah, she had it bad for this man.

The next time he kissed her—if there was a next time—he’d find a receptive woman on his hands.

Chapter Eight

She was standing right there. He always felt her presence when she was in the same room with him, but tonight, the scent of lavender had washed over him when she’d entered. Shampoo or soap, he assumed. Didn’t matter. Lavender was now his new favorite aroma.

He waited for her to say something. He played opossum, like she’d done this afternoon. Oh, yes, he’d known she was awake when he’d found her after his four-wheeler ride. He didn’t know why she pretended to sleep. In the end, it didn’t matter. But he let her believe she’d fooled him.

And two could play this game. He could pretend she wasn’t standing in the same room as long as he didn’t open his eyes, because as soon as he did, he knew his gaze would give away everything.

The desire he felt for her. Just her. No one else.

The emotional hit he took every time he looked at her.

The boredom of days when he didn’t talk to her.

Not a day went by that he didn’t have something he wanted to tell her, be it a story about his horse, or a bird he saw or joke he’d heard. Any excuse that would let him hear her voice.

The bottle in his fingers moved. He opened his eyes to an angelic vision. Porchia leaning over him with her hand on the bottle. Her blond hair, still damp from the shower, hung like a curtain around her beautiful face.

“Hi,” she said with a smile. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

He released the bottle into her grasp. “You can wake me anytime, darling.”

“Mind?” She indicated the bottle by lifting it. More than half of the bourbon was gone. Hadn’t that been a fresh bottle he’d opened?

“What’s mine’s yours.”

She was a little burry around the edges. And she seemed a little shaky. Hmm. Maybe he was more tired than he thought.

Porchia straightened, tilted the bottle opening to her lips and took a drink. That was the sexiest thing he’d ever seen. His cock must have agreed as it woke suddenly from its nap. If she noticed the tent forming in his jeans, she didn’t mention it.

“Shower’s all yours,” she said. Then, with a lift of an eyebrow, she teased, “And there’s plenty of cold water, should you need that.” Her gaze fell to his lap, which only made him harder. Then she took another draw off the bottle and he groaned.

“Damn, woman. You’re killing me.”

She frowned with confusion.

“You smell great and you can toss back bourbon like a pro. Every man’s dream.”
Including his.

He shoved off the couch to stand. He might have wobbled a little, but Porchia didn’t rush over to help him and he appreciated that.

“You okay?” she asked. “I think you might have had a little too much hooch.”

“I’m fine. Just tired.”

“Uh-huh. The shower’s slick. Be careful.”

He leered at her. “Want to come hold my hand? Or better yet, wash my, um, back?”

She laughed again. “When I do, I’d rather you were sober enough to remember it. Now go. If I hear a crash, I’ll check on you.”

He grinned. “Yes, ma’am.” He started toward the shower and said over his shoulder, “I would have remembered.”

And he would have. There wasn’t enough booze in the world to wipe out a memory like that.

What stood out in his memory was her comment
when I do
. Not
if
, but
when
. He smiled. He’d loosened a brick in the wall she had around her heart and he had every intention of continuing to pick at the mortar until enough bricks fell to leave an opening large enough for him.

Until then…he turned the cold tap to full and climbed in.

The cabin was quiet as he made his way down the hall to the bedroom. He wasn’t sure where he should sleep. They’d agreed to share the bed and then Porchia had gone all I’ll-sleep-on-the-sofa on him.

She wasn’t on the sofa. He checked. That meant she was in the bed…his bed. But did that mean she wanted him in there too? Or was she expecting him to take the couch?