Wicked Games (McCade Brothers 1.50)

Stacy glared at her assistant. “Ha. Ha. Are those signature pages ready?”

“Here.”

She took the stack of flagged papers and the pen Mandy handed her. The weight of her sister’s hand on her knee drew her gaze away from the pile. Kylie stared at her with sympathetic eyes. “I’m not laughing. I just want you to be happy, and Ian made you happy. You two just”—she held her hands up and laced her fingers together—“you fit each other.” She dropped her hands to her lap. “Think about what I’ve said, okay?”

Stacy forced her lips into a noncommittal smile and got busy signing. She could think about her reasons for the breakup until she fried every last one of the hundred billion brain cells in her head, but nothing changed. Despite Kylie’s belief to the contrary, they actually didn’t fit. She’d spent almost a year ignoring the little warnings her mind had tried to send her heart. Hello, he’s a cop, and you’re an ex-stripper, not to mention your hometown’s poster child for authority issues. Anything wrong with this picture?

She signed the last flagged page with a flourish, put the pen on the stack, and handed everything back to Mandy.

“Did something else happen between you two?” Kylie asked. “Besides the whole moving in together discussion?”

Damn. God might as well have given them one mind to share, because Kylie read hers so easily. “No,” she said quickly, and flipped her hair behind her shoulder. “Not really.”

Hell yes, something had happened. One rare, wide-open Saturday after she’d surprised him in the shower with a deliciously dirty morning scrub-down, Ian had told her to “put on something pretty” and get ready for the best burgers and dogs she’d ever tasted. She’d thought he planned a drive to one of the casual little restaurants along the Pacific Coast Highway, but no…he’d driven them to a sweet, postcard-perfect Southern California neighborhood, parked in the driveway of a sweet, postcard-perfect house, and introduced her to his sweet, postcard-perfect parents, and a good portion of the neighbors who were gathered for a barbecue. She felt like a trespasser on the wrong set. Instead of Vegas Vixens, she’d stumbled into a modern-day Leave It to Beaver.

“Which is it, ‘No’ or ‘Not really’?”

“I missed my single, carefree days, okay? I liked being able to do whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted.” She flipped her hair again and shrugged. “Call me selfish, but I’m not the kind of girl who likes to spend her Saturdays at a boring backyard barbecue just to please some man.”

“Me either,” piped Mandy. “Besides, a backyard barbecue is a cheap date. He should take you out to nice restaurants.”

Kylie shook her head and stared out the window. “I know it’s not about a backyard barbecue.”

It was, in a way. She’d had the time of her life, sitting between Ian’s father and another neighbor, listening to them reminisce about their boys’ obnoxious misadventures in suburbia. But somewhere around the time his mom had glanced across the table and smiled at them, Stacy had realized she belonged in this close-knit group of family and friends about as much as a hooker at High Mass. In their minds, “wild behavior” meant TP-ing old Mrs. Cranston’s Continental, or swiping a bottle of vodka from the liquor cabinet, drinking the whole thing, and puking in the next-door neighbor’s hot tub.

Kylie turned back to her, eyes serious, lips unsmiling. “Ian loves you. Yes, relationships require compromise, but—”

“Compromise isn’t my strong suit, Ky. You know that.”

She needed to end this conversation, immediately, because she couldn’t use the words “Ian” and “love” in a sentence without bursting into tears. She’d never been able to, which was one of the reasons she’d never told him how she felt.

“You’re running scared from the love of your life, and you’re going to regret it.”

Doubtful. She prided herself on being a no-regrets kind of girl. But that afternoon at Ian’s parents’ house, she’d suddenly realized some of her choices had the power to affect other people in ways she hadn’t anticipated—and that they hadn’t signed up for. Would Ian find it hard to face his family and friends when it came out that his girlfriend had her own signature pole-dance move? Maybe, whispered a tiny, insidious voice at the back of her mind, which is why he asked you to move in with him instead of marrying him. He wanted an escape hatch, because he still had doubts. Well, she’d sprung the latch on his escape hatch, and damn him, he’d sprinted through without a single look back.

“Ian Ford is not the love of my life”—God, she hoped that was true—“and I sure as hell wasn’t his. From what I can tell, he’s over me. He broke the bounce-back record. And you know what?” She flipped her hair out of her face. “I’m over him, too.” A part of her still couldn’t believe he hadn’t called, texted, shown up drunk on her doorstep…nothing.

“That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard you say.” Kylie poked her again with the pitchfork, then jerked the damn thing out of reach when she grabbed for it. “Be glad I don’t smack you over the head. The only reason I haven’t is because I know every word you’ve uttered since we got in the

car has been a big, fat lie.”

“Says Kylie, the amazing human lie detector?”

“You keep flipping your hair. I don’t know if you think the move distracts people from the bull coming out of your mouth, or what, but you’ve done it since you were a kid. Mom and I always joked that we knew you were lying when your hair started flying.”

The comment coaxed another snort from Mandy. This one Stacy ignored.

“You’re nuts, just like Mom. I can’t believe I never realized this before.” She crossed her arms over her chest and sank back into her seat, not really caring if she looked like the pouty little brat she’d once been. She preferred pouting to picking through the dangerously sharp remains of her shattered heart.

Tonight she fully intended to party like a rock star, dance her ass off, and get Detective Ian-freaking-Ford out of her head.

Chapter Two

Ian closed his eyes and let the hot spray of the shower rain down on the top of his head. Maybe it would pound some resolve into him, because he was uncomfortably close to chucking his “wait Stacy out” plan, tracking her down, screwing her brains out, and, somewhere in the process, telling her he refused to allow her emotional baggage to sink their relationship. Unfortunately, if he did that, he might as well hand his balls over in a pretty pink gift bag.

Irritated to find his thoughts traversing this same well-worn trail for the billionth time since their breakup, he grabbed a bottle of liquid soap from the recessed tile shower shelf and squirted some into his hand. The smell of Stacy’s fancy soap filled the small space. Nice going, stud. Wrong bottle. The scent provoked memories, just to mess with his head. One fine Saturday morning she’d stood right there in his shower and washed him from head to toe, with some un-fucking-forgettable detours in between, because when it came to their bodies, Stacy was game for anything.

She’d always been more comfortable with the physical part of their relationship. The boundaries she’d enforced applied almost exclusively to their emotions, which she liked to pretend didn’t exist. Pretended to the extent he’d always had to say the words for her. They’d gotten into a game where, each night before they drifted off to sleep, he’d say, “I love you.” She’d snuggle against him, maybe fiddle with the silver chain of the St. Michael pendant his grandfather had given him when he’d graduated from the police academy, or, if she was feeling especially feisty, cup his balls. But she’d remained exasperatingly silent. After a beat or two, he’d pitch his voice up a couple octaves and say, “I love you too, Ian, more than anything.” She’d always laugh and kiss him, but dammit, she’d never say the words.