“Nice to meet you both,” he said, looking exclusively at Eden. The asshole gave her a long, slow once-over. “Really nice. Don’t be a stranger, okay? Every Tuesday is ladies’ night. Since you’re new to town, your first drink is on me.”
“Aw. That is so sweet of you. I swear, Swain, everyone here is so friendly.”
If the guy got any friendlier, Swain was going to punch him in the teeth. He shifted so he stood beside Eden, his arm around her waist, hand resting low on her hip. “You bring out the friendly in people, choux.” He could be sweet, too. “Nice to meet you, man,” he tossed to Jeb as he led Eden away. “C’mon, boys. Time to take this party down the road.”
In the parking lot, they spent a couple minutes on logistics, and then Kenny and Dobie peeled off and headed to Kenny’s car. They planned to make a pit stop before coming over to the house. He waited until Eden settled herself in the passenger seat before starting the Bronco. “That went really well,” she said.
“Hmm.” Her skin still glowed. Whatever she’d used caught the parking-lot lights and turned her to a shimmering, ethereal enticement.
She looked over at him. “What’s hmm?”
He held his tongue until they were on the road. “You might want to hold back a bit on the friendly.”
Her laugh sounded intimate in the dark car. “Was I too friendly with you, Swain?”
“Not with me.” Even he heard the irritation in the quick words. He took a stabilizing breath. “Be as friendly as you like with me. You’re supposed to be friendly with me. We’re engaged. Stop being so damn friendly with every other man in the place. You don’t need to flash your tits and shake your ass at the whole bar. Especially if I’m not close by.”
He heard her shift in her seat and felt, without even looking over, the heat of her stare searing his profile. “Swain, I have tits. I have an ass. Thanks to this cover Buchanan and Malone cooked up, I get to dress like some kind of…of…Hazzard County hooker, so they’re pretty well on display no matter what I do. And that’s the whole point of this”—she gestured at herself—“isn’t it? According to you, I’m”—she used her fingers to put air quotes around the words—“‘the bait,’ right?”
All valid arguments, but as a guy, he knew what he was talking about. “I’m just saying…”
“Right?” she prompted again.
“Yes. Okay, fine.” Thank God it was dark, because he felt heat creeping up his neck. “You’re the bait, but—”
“But nothing.” She slashed a hand through the space between them. “You were right about the wardrobe. I concede that. You were right. I was wrong. I apologize for being a guindée about it. I’m supposed to attract attention. These clothes and the tits and ass they’re semi-covering help accomplish that. Am I leaning into it some? Yes. Of course I am. I’m supposed to come across as the kind of girl who doesn’t want her fiancée to feel too comfortable about his chances of closing the deal. I’m supposed to be making you work for it—the dress, the wedding, the honeymoon in Jamaica.”
Shit. He had to backpedal before he made a bigger fool of himself than he’d already managed. “We’re honeymooning in Jamaica?”
“I mentioned it to Lou Ann and Junior. I thought it was a good choice because it’s expensive, and also…” She mimed smoking a joint. “Jamaica.”
“It’s perfect. Look”—he glanced at her, relieved to see she wasn’t staring at him like he’d lost his mind—“you did an amazing job tonight, but just keep in mind that you’re in a pub. People are getting their drink on all around. Maybe I go to the bar, or to the bathroom, or to shoot pool, and some cowboy with a few too many beers in him gets the idea you’re sending him a message with the smile, the laugh, and yeah, the tits and the ass. He might decide to take you up on it. I can’t protect you if I’m not close by.”
There. Point made. She just needed to be a little more—
“Protect me? In case you’ve forgotten, cooyon, I’m a fully trained law enforcement officer. If some cowboy with a few too many beers in him gets the idea I’m sending him a message and decides to take me up on it, I will drop him like a bag of cement. I don’t need your protection.”
Dammit. He’d walked into that one. “I know you’re fully trained, choux, but—”
“No. No buts, or you’re going to get a personal demonstration of how fully trained I am the minute you step out of this car.”
“Hey, I’m not saying you’re not capable of defending yourself, but can we agree it would be better if it didn’t come to that?”
“Agreed. Same goes for you, though.”
He nodded. “I’ve talked my way out of more tight fixes than I’ve fought my way out of, and I’d just as soon keep that going. Can we also agree that, as partners, whatever moves we make, we should be making together?”
“Ideally, yes.”
Foot heavy on the gas, he sent the Bronco scrambling up the driveway. It pitched to a stop by the porch. “Great. So, here’s what I think I’m asking”—not saying, asking, because he really didn’t want to get his ass kicked tonight—“when one of us isn’t around, the other should be in, like, a holding pattern. Not doing any fancy solo flying, just kind of keeping things level.”
“That sounds reasonable.”
“Well, choux”—he tried a grin on her—“I’m nothing if not reasonable.”
She laughed. “Swain, you are many things, but reasonable isn’t even in the top five.”
With that, she swung out of the Bronco and walked to the porch. He hung back, watching her long legs take the steps, watching the porch light turn her skimpy top into a shadow sheet and the body beneath into a silhouette of mouthwatering perfection. The show ended when she stepped through the door, and his lungs emptied on a slow, resigned breath.