“Let’s take things one step at a time, Major. Get the all-clear from the doctor and then we’ll talk.” Harding clapped him on the shoulder again. “Have a good evening.”
“Yes, sir. You too. Give my best to Mrs. Harding.”
Crap, Michael thought as he watched Harding pull out of the lot. So much for his “I doubt we’ll have to out-and-out lie to anyone” assurance to Chloe. He walked to his car, while his mind raced to find a graceful way out of the invitation. There wasn’t one unless Chloe scored a new assignment before Saturday night. Barring a “breakup,” they’d be sitting in the Harding’s backyard, chowing down on burgers and bullshit while they convinced Mrs. Harding they’d fallen in love at first sight. He got into his Cherokee, and fought an urge to thunk his head on the steering wheel.
During the drive home he considered how to position the invitation to Chloe. She might be a little on the wild side, definitely unconventional, and maybe even a bit evasive, but basically a what-you-see-is-what-you-get kind of girl. She lacked a natural talent for subterfuge. Spending an evening with the Hardings under false pretenses didn’t sit well with him, and it wouldn’t sit well with her either. Still, she’d agreed to his one and only request, so…
But even if she cooperated, could they pull off a convincing couple in love? Lust, sure. No need to put on an act. The chemistry between them was all too real. But love?
He liked women. He admired women. He’d seen more than his fair share of action with the opposite sex, but he’d never been can’t-live-without-you, want-to-spend-the-rest-of-my-life-with-you in love. Could he fake the head-over-heels thing well enough to fool a couple who had recently celebrated their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary? Could Chloe?
…
Chloe dragged a hot pink, oversize duffel bag into Michael’s guest bedroom, parked it beside its twin, and opened the closet. Inside she found a vacuum cleaner and two skeletons—in the form of a pair of pressed dress uniforms. A panicked voice in her head snapped, What the fuck are you doing getting involved with a marine? You have no job, no car, you’re in a town you barely know, and you’re moving in with a guy who’s pledged his soul to Uncle Sam. For a woman who doesn’t want to repeat her parents’ mistakes, you’re doing a hell of an impression.
She shut the closet, sank to the bed, and rested her forehead on her knees. Deep breaths helped bring some weight back into her light head and calm her skittering pulse. She wasn’t “getting involved” with a member of the armed forces. She wasn’t “moving in.” There were precious few rules in her life, but those two were hard and fast. She was just…hanging out for a while.
Yeah right. You like this guy. You’re attracted to him in a way you haven’t experienced since…ever. You’ve already let that attraction override caution and good judgment twice, and now you two are playing house. How long before you’re sharing his bed and forgetting all your hard-and-fast rules?
Okay, fine, the attraction couldn’t be denied, but whatever happened with Michael would be purely physical. She wouldn’t forget her rules because this situation was temporary. Four short weeks. Sooner, with a little luck.
Trouble was, she hadn’t exactly been a luck magnet lately. That had to change. Resolved, she dropped to her knees, unzipped a duffel bag, and dug around until she found what she was looking for. The black, patent-leather heels she’d bought a year ago to wear to her interview with Helping Hands.
There she’d been, fresh from filing for divorce, facing down the death of the white-picket fence fantasy she’d secretly nurtured throughout her bumpy childhood, and Helping Hands had held out the prospect of an immediate escape from the mess she’d made of her life. Travel. Excitement. Carefree assignments where she could do some good and then move on. She’d had more riding on the interview than merely a job. A fresh start and a tangible commitment to make her home within her own heart and find happiness there—to stop needing someone else to make her feel whole.
The shoes may or may not have made a difference, but her interview with Lynne couldn’t have gone better. Within a week, she’d been
winging her way to Sedona to start her first assignment, and she’d never looked back.
She slipped the lucky shoes on. The four-inch heels gave her height and confidence. They made her feel like she was going places without even taking a step. Maybe they looked a little odd with her cutoffs and tank top, but what the hell. She wasn’t walking the red carpet, just trying to rustle up some luck.
A few quick strides brought her back to the living room. Decorative pillows, a throw, and various doodads she’d hauled over from her apartment infused some much-needed color and texture in the otherwise dull, functional room.
The carpet, however, bore the signs of her trips back and forth. She braved the dreaded guest room closet, retrieved the vacuum, and grabbed her MP3 player while she was at it. Soon she was singing about good girls and blurred lines while sucking up the telltale trail of debris running from the guest room, down the hall, through the living room and to the front door.
Very domestic chore. Sure you haven’t turned into your mother, or worse, started building a white-picket fence around Michael’s apartment?
Absolutely not. Now shut up. Determined to drown out the useless, negative thoughts, she cranked the volume up.
…
Michael walked up the stairs to his apartment intensely aware he and Chloe had just over twenty-four hours to become the perfect couple. Step one, sit down and discuss the situation. Devise a strategy over dinner. Yeah, that sounded good. Logical. He stuck his key into his lock, realized it was already unlocked and made a mental note to warn her not to leave the apartment unsecured if she was there alone. He turned the knob and walked in. “Lucy, I’m home.”
Then he blinked. His formerly orderly, somewhat sparse apartment brimmed with enough colorful crap to fill a swap meet. He recognized some of it from his brief but memorable visit to her apartment—the square pillows, the fuzzy throw, an abundance of candles. Where the hell was she planning to put all this stuff?
Chloe stood in the midst of the disarray, with her back to him, pushing a vacuum. Her hair cascaded over her shoulders. She wore mile-high shiny black pumps that made his throat go dry, a thin, white tank top, and the tightest, tiniest Daisy Dukes imaginable. Oblivious to his presence, she shook her booty and sang off-key to a song streaming into ear buds connected to a player clipped to her hip pocket. All thoughts of a calm discussion flew right out of his head. The only thoughts left involved lots of noise, vigorous energy, the creative use of a few of those otherwise pointless pillows…and deserved a triple-X rating. He also realized he’d forgotten to stop and buy condoms.
She turned, and, in the midst of a mesmerizing hip shake and a painfully flat high note he nevertheless recognized as, “Bad Romance,” she noticed him standing there. She froze and then smiled self-consciously. A second later the roar of the vacuum ceased. Into the silence, she shouted, “Hey, roomie.” She ran a hand through her curls and shook them out. “Jeez, is it four thirty already? This day totally flew by.”
The volume of her voice told him she had the Gaga cranked to eleven. Did he have a stupid look on his face? Felt like maybe yes. He pointed to his ear.
She pulled her earphones out and laughed as she brought them together and tucked them under the strap of her tank top. “Sorry. Kind of a loud homecoming, huh?”
“I’ve flown choppers that made less noise,” he admitted.
That pulled another laugh from her as she tugged the vacuum cleaner cord and yanked it from the wall socket. “Are you telling me I sing like a rusty engine?”
The reply on the tip of his tongue dissolved when she bent over and started winding the cord around the vacuum’s holster. The shorts rode up so high they might as well have been a scarf. His heart stuttered to a stop and then kicked in at triple time as his eyes took a slow tour up her ankles, her slender calves, and toned thighs, to the half-moons visible below the wash-frayed edge of her cutoffs. His tongue itched to trace those lush swells.