Claim My Baby (Crescent Cove 2)

“You can hold on to me again if you like.” His hopeful smile was in direct contrast to the noise Oliver made in his throat. I couldn’t define it precisely, but it reminded me of a possessive, irate cat. Part growl, part grunt, all alpha male.

Jeez, I really did need to get laid. I was obsessed with manly attributes.

“Kind offer, but I think the time for concern has passed,” Oliver told Lumberjack, as if he had any right to speak for me.

“Says you,” I muttered.

The plane was rocking. Lovely.

“Now that is likely a bit of turbulence. There are storms in—”

I covered my ears and blocked Oliver out. “La-la-la, can’t hear you.” I figured that childish gesture would be enough to make him retreat into whatever he’d been doing on his tablet.

Instead, he wrapped his arm around me and tugged me closer, tucking my head under his chin. My seat belt impeded movement, but we made it work somehow.

“Better?” The word rumbled through his chest and straight into mine.

My response was something akin to “ughkmph.”

That damn cologne again. Was it a hormone-provoker or something? And I really was cold, and he so was not. His chest was so solid, as was his grip around my shoulders. I wanted to cuddle in and stay a while.

Not because it was Oliver. Of course not. Just because I was nervous and chilly and overwhelmed.

He was also slightly hot. Only slightly. Truth be told, his twin was better looking. The other girls at the diner had conducted a poll once, minus Ally’s input. Even pre-wedding, she’d been Seth’s best friend and hardly impartial. Every one of the other women had said Oliver was the hotter of the two, on account of his suits and general air of imperviousness. Like he was a king and any woman would love a chance to sit on his lap.

Me? I’d picked Seth. He was friendlier. More approachable. Less likely to have an object d’art stuck up his bum.

Right now, though, I was having no problem with any part of Oliver. And that whole lap-sitting thing? It might’ve happened if these seats had been a tad wider.

“You’re shaking. Where’s your coat?” Oliver tugged at the sleeve of my thin sweater. “This is hardly capable of keeping you warm.”

It took me a moment or seven to gather my wits enough to speak. If I’d had a few more muscles in my throat, I probably would’ve purred.

“Going to Vegas,” I mumbled, fighting the urge to press my nose into his neck. There were nice gestures and then there was using them as an opportunity to cross the line.

I had boundaries. Not now. But in general.

“Your point? You’re in New York now. Or you were when you got on this plane.”

“Didn’t want to pack it. All I needed was a couple of pretty dresses, strappy heels, and maybe a bathing suit—gah!” I reared up, banging the top of my head against his glacier of a chin. We both groaned, and the sound coming from him was far sexier than it should’ve been.

That did it. I was finally caving and buying a bullet when I returned home. Obviously, something had taken over my libido and all rationality had flown out the window. Release had to be the answer.

Either that or a lobotomy.

I rubbed my head, staring at his tie so I didn’t have to meet his eyes. Dark as shrapnel, fiery like burning coal. “Sorry. I just realized I forgot my bathing suit. Dammit. Darn it.” I sighed. “Should’ve brought the jar with me. Now I’ll have to keep notes.”

“At least half of what you say makes no sense. I’m unsure if I’m the only one who misunderstands you, or if you’re just generally incomprehensible.”

Lumberjack leaned closer. “I ain’t got the foggiest either, friend.”

Oliver smiled tightly. “Thank you for the corroboration.”

“I keep a swear jar; you know, like Seth and Ally do.”

Oliver rolled his eyes. “That infernal nonsense. Yes.”

“You think swearing around a youngster is proper?”