Wild Kisses (Wildwood 2)

Pearl was the grandmother who’d raised Trace off and on while his mother had been dying of cancer and his father had been hopped up on painkillers.

“I am.” His gaze held on Avery’s face, then slowly skimmed downward, taking in the dress and heels she’d borrowed from Delaney for the night.

When she’d been standing next to her sister in front of the mirror at the house Delaney shared with Ethan, Avery had felt mildly uncomfortable. The dress was too bright, too short, too sexy. Delaney had turned red trying to convince Avery she’d never looked better, but it was Ethan’s shock at Avery’s transformation that had convinced her to wear it—because Avery saw this as a transformative point in her life. She couldn’t go back, didn’t even want to go back. Which only left forward. And she knew from too much experience that if you kept doing the same thing you’ve always done, you kept getting the same results you’ve always gotten. This year, Avery wanted different results.

But now, feeling Trace’s eyes on the exposed skin of her shoulders, the deep V in the halter neckline, the swell of her breasts beneath the chiffon . . . every inch of her body tingled with heat.

“Whoa. You look”—he shook his head, his gaze still scanning hungrily—“stunning.”

He said the last almost breathlessly, and the sight of the big, strong, always-in-control Trace Hutton so wildly affected by the simple sight of her opened floodgates on her desire. Fire flashed through her body, from the top of her head to the base of her feet, pooling in key areas that made her restless. Made her crave.

“That dress is perfect on her, isn’t it?” Phoebe asked. She continued to Avery, “You’ve never looked more beautiful.”

“She’s certainly perfect,” Trace murmured, his eyes hot and dazed and making sparks fly in every cell of her body. With his attention holding on her four-inch sparkling heels, complete with glittering straps that wrapped multiple times around her ankles, he asked absently, “How’d the tasting go?”

“The tasting was a fabulous success,” Phoebe said, beaming. “Avery’s got a big new contract to prove it, and another half-dozen people interested in booking events.”

Phoebe stepped out of the kitchen, and the door swung closed behind her. And even though staff dotted the kitchen, a familiar and intimate cocoon settled around Avery and Trace again, making her stomach coil.

Trace met her gaze again, his expression something intense and serious and borderline predatory. “Well, congratulations, Cream Puff.”

God, that voice, as smooth as the $300 bottles of wine pouring throughout the Mulligan mansion tonight. Low and deep and so sexy, it shuddered through her, creating a fiery friction. And that stupidly adorable pet name just added another layer of intimacy to the moment.

But even as turned on as she was, Avery was also annoyed that he would act like this now, after all but ignoring her at the job site for the last few days. Days during which she’d realized just how ridiculous it was to fantasize about him in the first place. He may as well be living on an alternate plane of reality when it came to their sexual compatibility. He wasn’t right for her. He was too confident, too experienced, too smokin’ hot. He belonged exactly where he, evidently, already lived—surrounded by light, fun, young, hot chicks he was rumored to hook up with when it suited him.

Avery had spent enough years living her life based on the terms of a man who lived the way it suited him.

Maybe someday she’d be one of those light, fun, young, hot chicks who could pick up a guy on a whim. Someone who could live freely, for the moment, for pleasure. Maybe once she got her shit together. She definitely didn’t believe in forever, or even love, anymore.

Now lust, that was a completely different story. At twenty-five, she was feeling her sexual prime coming around, and Trace Hutton had awakened a whole new part of Avery she could only describe as raw lust. The fact that he hadn’t seemed to notice her as anything other than an employer or friend hadn’t bothered her all that much until he’d gone and opened that what-if door by sucking on her fingers. Now she couldn’t seem to think about anything else. That or how an affair between them would surely be a Pandora’s box. Which only frustrated her all over again. But at least she’d let go of her anger toward David.

She acknowledged Trace’s congratulatory remark with a light, “Thanks.” She’d gotten so good at pulling up that nothing-ruffles-me attitude on a moment’s notice over the years. “How’d the inspection go today?”

He hesitated, giving her a blank stare for an extended second that revealed his mind was somewhere else. Then the casual, easygoing Trace she knew was back. “Oh, uh, good. Yeah. Inspector signed off. No problems. I’m going to start on some finish work upstairs tomorrow since the appliances won’t be here for a bit.”

He stepped closer and leaned his hip against the counter. Shifting too close, he tilted his head, those eyes sharp and searching her face. “Hey,” he said, voice soft, brows pulled into a concerned frown. “What’s wrong?”

A moment of gut-piercing fear that he could see inside her, that she gave off some clue as to what she was thinking, hit her like ice water. But she gave him a what-do-you-mean? shake of her head and a smile. “I just got a contract that will replace all my shabby hand equipment. Everything’s great.”

“Then why do you look like the motor on your KitchenAid finally gave out?”

Her stomach fluttered.

Deny. Deny. Deny.

She laughed him off. “This is a big job. I’m just working out logistics in my head.”

She turned toward him and met his gaze head on, shoulders back. If living in the army for eight years had taught her anything, it was how to be tough when she wanted to lean on someone. And, man, what she would give to lean on Trace right now. But she couldn’t. She couldn’t lean on anyone. Everyone lied. And lies hurt.

“I’d better get home. I still have a lot of work to do before I can hit the pillow. And tomorrow’s another early day.”

She started to step past him, but with a simple tilt of his wrist, Trace wrapped his big, warm hand gently around her bicep and stopped her at his side. Avery’s breath caught. His warmth embraced her. His scent, clean with a hint of very masculine spice, filled her head. Something deep in her body whipped up that craving again. A craving unique to Trace.

He bent his head so close she felt the soft wisps of his black hair brush her temple. Her heartbeat quickened. She couldn’t think straight.

“Avery,” he said, voice soft but imploring. “I screwed up the other night. I’m really sorry, and I really want things to go back to the way they were with us.”

Surprise leaped in her chest, and Avery turned to gauge his expression. His closeness hit her first. Just an inch away. So close, she could see how many colors of blue filled his irises, the curve of his long, spiky lashes, every hair making up his day-old beard.