Better. Her lips curved into a small, unexpectedly self-conscious smile before she looked at her feet. Her hair cascaded forward to curtain her face as she ran the toe of her sandal along some invisible scuff on the floor. “It’s nothing.”
“Your hair looks good like that—all long and loose.” The rest of her looked good, too, especially when she glanced up in surprise and he caught the blush on her cheeks.
“See now, was that so hard? You look really nice, too, by the way.” She pivoted, swept her hair to the front, and presented him with her back. “Can you help me with the catch?”
Help? Doubtful, unless her definition of “help” involved tugging the dress off, bracing her against the nearest wall, and fucking her onto her tiptoes until she pounded the plaster with both fists in an orgasmic frenzy.
Deal with the matter at hand, and then get the hell out of here.
Right. He got up and crossed to where she stood. A narrow chain dangled from one shoulder of the dress. A small hook at the end fastened into an equally small loop at the other shoulder. Her flowery scent engulfed him as he leaned in to grasp the chain and the clasp. Hooking the loop was like trying to thread a needle. His fingers felt huge and clumsy. He managed to snag the damn thing, but at the same moment she shifted from one foot to the other, inadvertently brushing her ass against the front of his trousers. His dick jumped, and he fumbled the clasp.
“Dammit, Reckless.” He took a stabilizing breath and backed up an inch. “Be still.”
“Sorry,” she murmured and lowered her head, offering him a long, uninterrupted view of bare skin, from the nape of her neck where an as-yet-undetermined tattoo flirted from beneath the sweep of her hair all the way down to where the wing tattoo played peek-a-boo with the plunge of her dress.
He lifted the chain again and attempted to line the hook up with the loop. He had maybe one more shot at this before he lost all control and—“Got it.” Thank Christ. He eased away. The garment fell into place—more or less. The whole thing looked precarious as hell. “Done. We’re outta here.”
It took her a few more moments to gather up her purse, a second, smaller purse that went in the first, and her guitar. He waited by the door, watching her zip back and forth with surprising nimbleness in the heels, and then relieved her of the guitar when she walked past him on the way out. A pointed look from him reminded her to lock the door, and then they were off.
In the five-minute commute back to the Inn, she managed to make him sweat for a whole new reason. She had the guitar case wedged between them, her big purse at her feet, and the smaller bag in her lap. From there she produced a succession of sharp-looking pencil-type things and used them on her eyes. He had visions of one bad bump sending them to the ER, but she greeted his suggestion she hold off on the makeover until the vehicle had come to a full and complete stop with an unperturbed, “Please. I grew up putting makeup on in a car. It’s called multi-tasking.”
“It’s called asking for a corneal abrasion,” he grumbled as he pulled into the parking lot and stopped by the front entrance.
“I’m touched by your concern, but”—she capped the tube of black stuff she’d brushed on her lashes and dropped it into her bag—“I’m done. How do I look?”
Her eyes gleamed like polished aquamarines against black velvet. She batted her lashes and pursed her lips in a deliberately flirtatious pose. The rational part of him realized she intended to be funny, but another part of him wanted to put her right back in his lap and take up where they’d left off three days ago. Some of the impulse must have shown in his face, because her eyes widened.
“Right at this moment? You look like you’re asking for trouble.”
Despite the air conditioning, the atmosphere in the truck turned still and thick. “Maybe I like trouble?”
“Be careful what you wish for.”
Sarah Whelan yanked the passenger door open just then, stalling his heart with a surge of adrenaline and scaring a little squeak out of Roxy. “Thank God you’re back! If we don’t get some entertainment going pronto, this reception is in big trouble.”
Roxy handed her the guitar case and scooted out of the truck. Before she shut the door, she muttered, “Careful has never been my calling card.”
…
Performing always gave Roxy a natural high. She had no need to join the toast Junior and Lou Ann offered up as a thanks for playing them an “amazing” version of “One Man Band” for their first dance. She kept the chorus going from the sidelines as the wedding party went shot-for-shot while belting out Hank Williams, Jr.’s “Family Tradition.” She declined the fireball Jeb Rawley poured to seal the deal on his agreement to pay her two hundred dollars a night to play at the pub on Wednesdays and Fridays. There seemed to be only one temptation she couldn’t turn away from.
West.
More specifically, watching Lou Ann’s three out-of-town bridesmaids—very blond, very busty, very available cousins from Beaver Dam—take turns slow-dancing him over the boards while she strummed away like the hired help. Junior, Tyler, Josh, Shaun, and the rest of the groomsmen plied him with drinks between bridesmaids, but West wasn’t putting up much of a fight on either front. The bridesmaid of the moment rested her impressive bosom against his chest and toyed with the hair at the back of his neck while they swayed together directly in
front of her. Correction. He wasn’t putting up any fight.
By the time Kenny showed and relieved her of her entertainment duties, West had disappeared, and she’d lost track of the bridesmaids. Everyone else gave her a big round of applause. Better to just be thankful people liked her performance, enjoy the rest of the reception, and put West Donovan out of her mind. Baiting him had started as a warped attempt to get the upper hand, but the ego blow she sustained every time he rejected her turned the whole thing into an idiotic act of self-punishment.
She’d had enough punishment. She was due for some fun.
When a slightly inebriated Sarah Whelan planted a smacking kiss on her cheek, she laughed and shared a hug with the grateful woman. She exchanged fist-bumps with two awestruck little fairy princess flower girls named Hope and Faith and an enthusiastic handshake with their mother after Roxy agreed to give the girls guitar lessons at the two-for-one rate of twenty-five dollars an hour. When Ed Pinkerton invited her outside to have a smoke with the old guys, she got right on that. Dobie wanted to dance? Hell yeah, she danced. She kicked off her shoes and did the Electric Slide like a pro. Then she got Fancy with a cute firefighter named Cooper before Junior cut in and they whip/nae-nae’d the crap out of everyone. Someone yelled, “Jager shots!” and most of the room migrated to the bar. It seemed like the ideal exit for her. She wound her way to the table where she’d stowed Gib, her purse, and shoes. Placing a hand on the back of a chair for balance, she leaned forward and slid her foot into a sandal.
“Leaving already?” West’s voice flowed over her, a little thicker than normal. She craned her neck to find him behind her. Battened down Officer Donovan with his crisp uniform and cool stare always put a flutter in chest, but disheveled West with his hot gaze and loose collar threatened to melt her into a big, brainless puddle of hormones. Reminding herself she had the wanton fingers of three horny bridesmaids to thank for his sexily unkempt hair didn’t quite combat the allure of him leaning against the wall with his jacket hooked over his shoulder, his tie hanging, and his shirtsleeves rolled.
“My work here is done.” She slipped her other shoe on and then turned to face him.
He scanned the bar. “Looks like the party’s just getting started.”