Seducing the Bridesmaid

Normally he wouldn’t have. He’d have smiled at the saleswoman, flirted a little bit, and extracted himself. But on the heels of his dark thoughts, he hadn’t been able to manage even that. He didn’t really want to talk about those, though. “Every man has his moments of being caught flat-footed.”

She gave him a look that said she saw right through him, and he could only hope it wasn’t the truth. He couldn’t stand the thought of Regan knowing his story and thinking less of him. Or worse, pitying him. He didn’t need her pity and he sure as fuck didn’t need her approval.

But that was his problem—not hers. And they had developed a fragile truce this morning that he wasn’t willing to break for the sake of his issues.

So he sat back and watched Regan pick through the shoe selection. She gave it a surprising amount of concentration, examining and discarding shoe after shoe. When she caught him watching, she actually blushed. “Sorry this is taking so long, but I can’t pick just anything if Christine’s ankle is screwed up. We need comfortable and stylish. And if this is all I can do to help, then I’m going to do it right.”

“By all means.” He motioned at her to continue. In reality, he didn’t mind waiting. It was a welcome change from the resort and the hectic schedule of activities. That said, he was enjoying this week far more than he’d expected to—and he couldn’t help but admit that was mostly because of the woman in front of him.

Then he registered what she’d just said. Brock crossed his arms and leaned back in the chair. “This is important.”

She didn’t look up. “So important Julie sent you instead of calling me herself.”

Holy shit. If he didn’t know better, he’d say Regan’s feelings were hurt. She set another pair of shoes aside while he considered that. If he were pettier, he’d push at her about this, maybe tease her about her fear of the woods, but he didn’t want to. She’d been actually afraid yesterday, and she was actually hurt this morning. Instead of poking at her, he wanted to comfort her.

The woman had obviously broken his mind. That was the only explanation.

“Sometimes in the middle of a chaotic event—”

“Oh God, Scarlett. You don’t have to explain. I get it. I’m just having a pity party.” She gave him a surprisingly soft smile. “I’m fine, but thanks for trying to make me feel better.”

That smile hit him in the gut, and he could barely choke out the words, “No problem, darlin’.”

About thirty minutes later—time he desperately needed to get a hold of himself—she held up a pair. “These will work.” They looked a bit like gladiator sandals—if gladiators had been into rhinestones—with a crisscross strap over the toes. The heel was solely straps that must lace up the calf. Regan dropped them into their box. “Even if Christine’s ankle is swollen, these will fit. And they shouldn’t hurt her more than she’s already hurting.”

“I think they’re perfect.”

“Obviously. I picked them.” She laughed and handed him the box, followed by three others.

He frowned, ready to focus on anything but how good trying to comfort her had made him feel. “How do you know Sophie’s size?” It made sense for her to know her friends’, but she’d just met Colton’s little sister.

“Oh please. Give me a little credit. She’s an eight dress and I’ll eat my Jimmy Choos if she’s not a seven and a half in shoes.”

“You amaze me.”

“Well, duh. That’s because I’m amazing.” She led the way to the register. “We’ll take these, please.”

Brock stepped up and reached for his wallet. “I got it.”

She shot him a look. “That’s not necessary.”

“It has nothing to do with being necessary and everything to do with my wanting to help. You picked the shoes. Let me pay for them.”

For a long moment, it looked like she was going to argue. Then she finally sighed. “Knock yourself out.”

The sales woman’s fingers brushed Brock’s a little longer than strictly necessary as he took the bags, and he practically shoved Regan out the door in front of him in his effort to get the hell out of there.

She couldn’t stop laughing as he held the truck door open for her. “Oh my God, the look on your face. You’d think she was a whole lot scarier than a woman who looks like she’d love to make you cookies.”

“Very funny.”

“It is. You’re a panty-dropper. You can’t be surprised when women throw themselves at you.”

He shut the door and rounded the front of the truck, trying to formulate his answer. She was right. He had women come on to him with some regularity. It had never bothered him before.

But then, he’d never been called a panty-dropper by the one woman he couldn’t get out of his head before, either. He didn’t want other women looking at him—he wanted Regan looking at him.

It didn’t make any damn sense.

Brock climbed into the truck and stared at the steering wheel. “I haven’t left a trail of broken hearts behind me.”

She raised her eyebrows. “You don’t have to justify yourself to me.”

Maybe not, but he wanted her to understand. “I had some wild times back in my twenties—maybe more than my fair share—but I haven’t been part of that lifestyle for years now. I don’t sleep around. I don’t drink more than a few beers here and there. I haven’t—” He cut himself off before he could blurt out that he hadn’t been with anyone in months. Not until Regan.

The amusement fled her face. “I’m not your mommy. I don’t care if you were with a different woman every night for the last ten years.”

>

But the fucked-up thing was that he wanted her to care. Because if she didn’t care about any women he’d been with it was because she didn’t care about him, and hell if that truth didn’t stick in his throat.

Brock threw the truck into gear and pulled out of the parking lot, a slow simmering frustration making him grip the wheel too tight. He wanted. Christ, but he wanted.

Regan made a strange noise. “Okay, that was a lie.” She rushed on before he could question her. “I do care. I hate that I do, but I care if you banged your way through an army of sluts.” She took a shuddering breath. “I’m…I’m glad you haven’t.”

He jerked the wheel into the first side street he saw, driving down it until there was no risk of someone walking by casually. He slammed the truck into park and turned to her. “I haven’t touched anyone in months. And I’m glad that you care.” Then he hauled her across the seat and into his lap.

Chapter Ten

Regan didn’t know what possessed her to open her mouth and spill, but she’d taken one look at the vulnerability on Brock’s face and all her walls came crashing down. This man, a man who seemed to actually see her, had just bared a part of himself. She couldn’t let her smart-ass comment stand. It wasn’t fair.

Having him haul ass down a side street and yank her into his lap was just icing on the cake.

She straddled him, shivering when he ran his hands up the outside of her thighs. Brock had the look of a man who was drowning and didn’t give a damn. He pulled her closer and kissed her neck. “I’ve never given a fuck about women’s clothing, but I can’t stop obsessing about your goddamn shoes.”

“That’s good, because I’ve been dreaming about your stupid laugh lines.” She cupped the back of his head and moaned as he fitted her hips perfectly against his so that his cock pressed against her center. “Also, this. I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about this.”

“Mmmm. Me, too.” He let go of her hip to cup her breast. “Has the running helped?”

A breathless laugh escaped her. “No. Not even a little bit.”