The Valentine’s Day Disaster (2 page)

She knew all six feet two inches of him. Those angular lips had once kissed her. Those muscled arms had once held her. Those sharp eyes had drilled through her more times than she could count.

His chestnut-­colored hair was longer than it had been in high school. It lay in tousled waves, and her fingers itched to comb through the thick, lush locks. Underneath his open black leather jacket, a black, waffle-­weave, button-­down thermal shirt stretched across a chest that was broader, sturdier, than she remembered. Faded Levi’s sat low on his hips and a pair of black motorcycle boots shod his feet.

“Josh Langtree,” she whispered.

He gave her a front cover of
Sports Illustrated
smile. “You remembered.”

As if she could forget the first guy who’d ever made love to her. A guy who was now a NASCAR star. Her head spun dizzily and she realized she was holding her breath.

Breathe.

But she wasn’t the only one who recognized him. Immediately, the eleven bachelors bailed off stage, crowding around Josh, pounding him on the back, bumping fists, slapping high-­fives, hooting and hollering and doing all that testosterone-­dripping stuff men did when adulating a returning conqueror.

“Oh, brother,” she muttered under her breath.

“Yo!” Jana clapped her hands. “Hate to break up the bro-­fest, but we’re on the clock here. You can worship at his feet later.” Making wide shooing motions, she herded the men back up on stage.

Leaving Sesty alone with Josh.

“Zesty Sesty,” he drawled. “Twice as beautiful and sexier than ever.”

Instantly, Sesty’s cheeks burned hot as a pancake griddle. The old words he used to tease her with.
Zesty Sesty
.

“You’re back in town,” she said, because she didn’t know what else to say.

“I am.”

“Wh-­Wh-­What . . .”
Oh, for godsakes, spit it out.
“What are you doing here?”

“Came home to recover after my accident. Maybe you heard about it?”

There was a note in his tone—­part hopeful, part sad, part braggy, part lonely—­that yanked at something inside her.

Of course she’d heard about it. The spectacular crash had been on TV and was the talk of the town for a good week. In fact, she’d watched horrified until they pulled him from the wreckage and he jumped to his feet, arms clasped over his head in a victory-­over-­death gesture that had made her mad. His dangerous antics had been the very thing that broke them up. She’d been unable to tolerate the fear that came with loving a daredevil.

For the first time, she noticed the fresh scar at the hollow of his throat. His injuries had been bad enough to require a tracheotomy? That conflicted with what she’d seen on TV and heard in media reports. Her stomach contracted and a sick feeling spread over her. What had happened?

“It’s not really an accident when you choose to drive a car at two hundred miles an hour,” she popped off, fear taking possession of her tongue, and saying something snarky when more than anything she wanted to wrap her arms around him and tell him how happy she was that he survived. “Death wish might be a better word.”

“Actually.” His grin ribbed her. “That’s two words.”

“It’s still foolhardy any way you slice it. Grown men speeding around a track trying to prove who has the most testosterone.”

“Ten years and you still can’t let it go, can you?”

The men on stage were calling to him, throwing out a hundred questions about NASCAR. Great. Just great. She was swiftly losing control. Which always happened when Josh Langtree was around.

She straightened. “I meant what are you doing here at our dress rehearsal?”

“Judge Blackthorne sent me.”

“Why would Judge Blackthorne send you to me?”

He lowered his eyelids. “Helping you is part of my community ser­vice commitment.”

“Community ser­vice?” She wet her lips. “What did you do?”

“Long story. The upshot is you’re stuck with me for forty hours. The judge said you’re in need of hands and feet.”

It took a ­couple of heartbeats for her to absorb this. Josh Langtree was not only back in town, but he was at her ser­vice? Just when she was in desperate need of a sexy bachelor. It seemed perfect, but it felt like a trap.

He held his palms out wide. “So here I am. Hands and feet. What can I do for you?”

She hesitated only a second and then blurted, “Strip off your shirt.”

Chapter Two

S
TRIP
OFF YOUR SHIRT.

If they had been all alone in the conference center, Sesty’s words would have sounded like Ravel’s
Bolero
to Josh’s ears and he would have popped the buttons off his shirt in a mad rush to get naked for her.

Under the circumstances, however . . .

He used his hand as a stop sign. “Oh no. I’m here to help tote and carry, not star in this little dog and pony show.”

“We’re short a bachelor. You’ve got community ser­vice to work out. Looks like you don’t have much of a choice. Or maybe I should call Judge Blackthorne.” Her grin made a clean threat. Not a tolerant grin; not a teasing grin; not even a pissed off grin, just taking a stand and meaning it.

Damn but she looked so damn sexy with those Queen-­of-­the-­Nile cheekbones and lush full lips. Not overtly, like she was trying too hard, but an innate inner sexiness that she wasn’t even aware of. Girl-­next-­door stuff. On the strength of that grin, he had an urge to sell his home in Houston and move back to Twilight for good.

Except he’d shaken the dust off his tires and zoomed away from this sleepy burg a long time ago. Even coming here to recover felt like he was moving in reverse.

“You’ve got a cruel streak, Snow. Anyone ever tell you that?”

“Shirt.” She snapped her fingers at him. “Off.”

Momentarily, he thought about refusing. She’d always been a little bossy. Not that he minded. He liked a woman who knew her own mind.

She appraised him with cool indigo eyes, daring him to chicken out. Fine. If that’s how she wanted to play it, he would embarrass the living fire out of her. Slowly, he slipped out of his leather jacket, dropped it onto one of the auditorium seats, and then reached for the top button of his shirt.

Her eyes were hooked on his fingers, tracking his every move.

The V-­neck sweater she wore, red as Valentine’s Day, clung to her magnificent breasts and revealed just a hint of superb cleavage. Low-­rise, snug-­fitting black-­denim jeans hugged curvy hips. Her hair was caught back with a brown leather strap, but wild tendrils of honey blond strands had escaped to float around her face. Brick. Freaking. House.

A refrain from an old song, “You Dropped a Bomb on Me,” ran through his head. Boom! He could almost smell gunpowder.

He lowered his eyelids, shot her a smoldering stare, and flicked open the second button of his shirt.

She licked her lips, swallowed visibly, but she did not glance away.

That was his Sesty. Brave as hell, even if she didn’t think it of herself.

Too damn bad they were in a roomful of ­people. A decade had passed since the last time he’d seen her, but it could have been ten minutes. She looked exactly the same. Correction, she looked even better than she had at seventeen—­filled out in all the right places, flawless skin, go-­getter set to her shoulders. Time had been very generous to Sesty Snow.

He reached the last button and his shirt gaped open. He worked out with weights three times a week. A racecar driver’s life might seem sedentary, but the sport required a high level of fitness. You had to be able to react quickly, both mentally and physically. A sharp mind required a sharp body.

The doctors told him that if he hadn’t been in such great physical shape, he wouldn’t have pulled through the complications following the crash, after he had an anaphylactic reaction to a drug he didn’t know he was allergic to. Somehow, his publicist managed to keep that out of the media.

The heated sheen in her eyes made all his time at the gym worth the effort. Josh shrugged out of the shirt and tossed it to her.

She caught it one-­handed, her eyes growing to the size of Oreos and her cheeks blooming the color of pink cotton candy.

She’d always blushed easily, and he’d bet his right thumb she was seriously regretting that “strip off your shirt” line.

He couldn’t help puffing out his chest.
You asked for it baby, you got it.

Sesty closed her eyes but then opened them quickly. The blush was fading, but her pupils were still as big as quarters.

He flexed a bicep. “What do you think?”

“You’ll do.” She tried to appear unimpressed, but the pulse at the hollow of her throat was pumping like a piston.

“Even with my bum knee?”

“You hide it well enough.”

“Thanks. I’ve been working on it. Takes time.”

“How long have you been back in Twilight?” she asked, restlessly drumming her fingers against that smart little chin. God, he’d forgotten how cute she was.

­“Couple of days.” Josh flicked his gaze to her fingers.

“This is the first time you’ve been home since you left? Why are you back now?”

“My doctor told me to get away from the city. Relax. Heal.”

“Tall order for you. Exchanging excitement and action for peace and quiet.”

He shrugged like it was water off his back, but he knew that she saw straight through him. Sesty had always seen through his bravado in a way no one else ever had. It was weird being back home with the woman who knew him better than he knew himself.

“It must be tough.” Sympathy softened her face. “Sitting on the sidelines while the NASCAR season starts up without you.”

“The show must go on,” he murmured.

“You’ll soon be back in the game,” she assured him.

“I’m not sure I want to be.”

“What?” Her eyes widened in disbelief. “Why not?”

“A fella comes that close to dying, it changes the way he thinks about things.”

She raised a hand to her throat. “I hadn’t realized your accident was that severe. I saw you hop from the wreckage—­”

“You watched the race?” Damn, why did he have to so sound so eager?

“No,” she admitted. “I caught the replay on the news. You were the talk of Twilight.”

“Ah yeah, hometown boy does good, and then it all goes horribly wrong.”

“What happened? Or do you hate talking about it?”

Yes, he hated talking about it. The wreck had not been his finest hour. His cocky self-­confidence had gotten the better of him. His crew chief, Hal Penser was feeding him moves through the headset, but his instincts had told him that Hal’s advice was wrong. If he wanted to win, he had to do the exact opposite maneuver than the one his advisor suggested. And his plan would have worked too, except he hadn’t counted on the car in front of him throwing a tire at exactly the wrong moment.

But hey, if he’d listened to his crew chief, he wouldn’t have had a prayer of winning the race. Then again he would not have crashed so spectacularly either.
Gotta take some risks to achieve great glory
, was what he told Hal when the crew chief came to see him in the hospital. Hal shot back that dead men didn’t have much use for glory.

“What do you want from me now?” he asked, letting Sesty’s question lie there unanswered. “The shirt’s off.

“Um . . . um . . .” She moistened her lips again, her pink tongue flicking out quickly, unintentionally provocative. Did she still taste like pears poached in white wine—­sweet, light, and intoxicating? “Get up on the stage with the others.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he drawled. Meandering to control the twinge in his right knee, he moved toward the stage without a backward glance, although he was pretty sure she was staring at his ass. He hadn’t realized how much he missed her until he saw her again.

None of that, Langtree.

He had enough problems without adding Sesty to the mix. Never mind that his mouth burned to taste her again and his fingers tingled at the thought of combing through that silky thicket of honey blond hair.

What was going on here? Two months ago, a convenient few weeks after his accident, his fiancée had left him for his best friend. He had to hand it to her. Miley sure had perfect timing. She really knew how to kick a man when he was on the ground.

Yep. Josh was finished with love. From now on he was a lone wolf. Sex, oh sure. He’d still have plenty of that, but love? No more. It was not worth the pain. Which meant not lusting after his high school sweetheart. Because Sesty wasn’t the type of woman you could simply have sex with and then just walk away. He’d done it once and it had about killed him.

Josh reached the end of the line of men standing on stage, took his place next to the firefighter in his turn-­out gear and pivoted on his heel to face forward. Sesty was addressing the first bachelor, directing him where to stand during the auction, but Josh didn’t miss the fact that she kept throwing furtive glances his way.

He wasn’t in this alone. She felt it too. The heat. The sizzle. That old magic. He throttled up his grin. They had been damned good together.

But hey, things changed. Right? He wasn’t the same cocky kid who sped away from Twilight with stars in his eyes and big dreams on his mind. He was certain she’d changed too.

He studied her impeccable profile. That fluffy sweater was soft and inviting, and it had slipped down her shoulder a little, revealing a bit of bra strap.

Black.

She was wearing a black bra. Looking at her made him ache in all the right places.

Or wrong places, depending on how you looked at it.

Why was it they had broken up in the first place? Oh yeah, she said she needed a man she could count on, not a daredevil intent on getting himself killed.

Had she found what she was looking for? He shifted his gaze to her left hand. No ring on that third finger.

Since his family had moved from Twilight nine years ago, he hadn’t been back to town, didn’t really keep up with any of his old high school friends. He had no idea what she’d been up to, but suddenly he had a desperate need to find out.

Ice it, Langtree. You’ve got no chance with her. You don’t want a chance with her. Remember?

Yeah, that sounded good, but his body wasn’t all that interested in walking away. In fact, just watching her had him growing embarrassingly hard.

Sesty trotted them through their paces, insisting each bachelor prove he wouldn’t stumble or fumble come auction day. She was so fierce, so intent, her eyes blazing with the fire of her job. The woman loved what she did for a living. He could see it on her.

When rehearsal was over and Sesty had dismissed the bachelors, Josh was surprised to discover that the last thing he wanted to do was leave. When Judge Blackthorne handed down his community ser­vice sentence, he felt doomed, but that was before he knew Sesty was in charge of this shindig.

Zesty Sesty. He sure missed teasing her.

And looking at her.

Everyone else filed from the building, including Sesty’s funky-­looking assistant. Sesty was busy collecting her things. He eased down off the stage and ambled toward her, his pulse picking up the closer he got. He had not expected to feel like this, as if he was seventeen all over again.

“You wanna grab something to drink?” he asked, surprised at how breathless he sounded.

“I’m not thirsty,” she said primly, her slender shoulders going as stiff as her upper lip.

“A bite to eat, then?”

“Not hungry either.” Her stomach growled. Loudly.

Josh lowered his head. “That’s not what your belly says.”

She pressed a hand to her solar plexus. “I’m fine.”

“When did you last eat?”

“I had breakfast.” Her nose wrinkled. “I think.”

“You don’t know whether you ate or not?”

“I’ve got a lot on my mind.” She waved a dismissive hand. “I can’t remember inconsequential details.”

“Like food.”

“I’m not going to die if I skip a meal or two.”

“Maybe not,” he said, “but you look sensational. Woman like you . . .” He shook his head. “You’re not built to be a skinny-­mini. Don’t fight nature. Forget the strict diets and just eat good healthy food.”

“Thanks for your unsolicited advice on my eating habits. I’m not trying to lose weight. I’ve been too busy to think about food.” She didn’t glance up from the tablet computer she was frantically using one-­finger keyboarding to tap notes into.

“I can see why Judge Blackthorne sent me over here. You definitely need some help. Gotta stop lighting the candles at both ends or you’ll flame out.” He took the tablet from her hand.

“Hey! What are you doing?”

“Taking you to lunch.”

“I can’t, Josh, I’ve got too much too do,” she protested. “Please give me my iPad back.”

He held the device out of her reach. “And you can’t do anything well without fueling your body.”

“I’ll grab something from a vending machine. Eat on the go. I do it all the time.”

“That’s junk, not fuel. Besides, sitting down to a meal will help you relax.”

“Not if I’m sitting across from
you,
” she mumbled.

“Ah-­ha.” He chuckled. She as good as admitted he knocked her off-­kilter.

“No ah-­ha. There’s not an ah-­ha here.” She glared.

“You’re confessing that I stir you up.”

She snorted indelicately. “No. You haven’t stirred me up in over a decade.”

He tipped his chin up. “But once upon a time?”

“Check your ego at the door, Langtree. We were an item for about ten minutes in high school. You didn’t make
that
big of an impression on me.”

“That’s not how I remember it,” he said, lowering his voice. “As I recall, you walked into a wall on my first day when I transferred to Twilight High because you were too busy staring at me to watch where you were going.”

“I did not!” she denied. The pink flush was back, spreading up her long, slender neck. He’d rattled her cage.

“And when my parents hired you to tutor me in English—­”

“I was dismayed with you, not impressed.”

“But later . . . you were impressed.”

“I barely remember.”

“We dated for six months.”

“Ten minutes in the grand scheme of life, and that’s being generous.”

“If you want your tablet back you have to come to lunch with me.” He waggled the minicomputer over her head.

“That’s blackmail.”

“So it is.”

“All right, if I do go eat lunch with you, then you have to spend the rest of the afternoon helping me build the sets for the bachelor auction.”