Hot in Hellcat Canyon (22 page)

He slipped back away from her, his hands sliding along the length of her back, claiming her, a sort of possession.

She peeled herself away from the truck and dragged her shorts up, buttoning them swiftly.

He watched. His eyes were still dazed and dark. She wanted to lick that little bead of sweat that was traveling from his clavicle down the seam that divided those gorgeous sections of muscle on his torso.

So she moved up against him and did just that.

And his hand came up to cup her head. He stroked her hair, threading his fingers through it. She turned her face up to him, and he kissed her. Gently. Her mouth felt a little bruised, which she didn’t mind. It felt amazing in a cathartic way. She suspected he felt that way, too. They’d gone at each other ferociously.

“I
can
do it when I’m lying down, too,” he murmured against her mouth, “and at a leisurely pace.”

She laughed. “Your thighs are probably sore, J. T., but I think you need to hold me up for a moment. I am replete.”

He obliged and wrapped his arms around her tightly. “My
thighs
are probably sore? You think I’m that out of shape?”

“Not really. I just don’t think any gym has a thigh workout quite like that.”

“If it did, no membership would lapse ever again.”

She laughed. He kissed the damp little hollow beneath her ear. She could feel his heart thumping against her cheek.

And then he loosened his arms and retied her halter top as if he were buckling her in for safety.

She pulled away from him and then turned around again and leaned back against the lovely hot, damp wall of his chest, blankly, blissfully replete. He smelled amazing—sweaty and musky and male, with a hint of soap. The air was cooling and releasing the whole bouquet of mountain smells.

“I think we could bottle how tonight smells, and call it Sex on a Truck,” she said dreamily.

He gave a short laugh. He said nothing for a time.

He was either still recovering, or lost in thoughts of his own.

“Can I have your phone number?” he said, suddenly. Almost diffidently.

She gave a short laugh. “We’re doing things all out of order, you and I.”

“Maybe we’re a little rusty at . . . whatever this is.”

“Yeah,” she said.

They were quiet a moment, both of them feeling a little awkward. Because it was true, neither of them really knew what this was, only that they liked it. And maybe they even feared it a little.

And then he fished out his phone and wordlessly handed it to her.

And like a shy girl who had just met a cute guy in a party, she wordlessly took it and typed her number into it.

“Thanks,” he said.

She handed him her phone and he did the same thing.

And then she stood back. And that need overtook her: to get some space, to process what this was.

Then she stood on her toes and gave him a swift kiss on the cheek and had already taken about five steps away from him before he could say another word.

“I think I’m going to walk home now,” she told him, in case that wasn’t clear.

“Got what you came for, eh?” He was teasing.

“You know it.” Who was this saucy person who had a quick answer for everything? It was the real her, that was who.

“You sure you don’t want a ride?”

“Just had one, thanks.”

He smiled crookedly. “If you can still walk, then I didn’t do my job right.”

She turned around and walked backward. “Well, that gives you something to aspire to, doesn’t it? Wouldn’t want you to get
complacent
.”

“
Dammmmmn
,” he murmured, with great admiration.

The first time he’d willingly said that word in that way in years.

She tossed him a saucy smile over her shoulder.

J. T. smiled to himself. He’d rather see her home, make sure she was tucked safely behind her own locked door. But he suspected she needed a little time and space.

And he could give that to her.

He was aware as he watched her go of a shortness of breath that was less about the rigors of Sex on a Truck. Funny. It was more like one of those damn cupids at the Angel’s Nest shooting him straight in the heart with an arrow.

CHAPTER 12

B
ritt got the text around the middle of the lunch rush at the Misty Cat, which meant a half dozen people, including Casey Carson, heard her squeak, then saw her clap a hand over her mouth.

I was wondering if you were free for dinner at Maison Vert this week? Any night is good for me.

J. T. M.

“I have to sit down,” she said faintly.

To Giorgio’s great, glowering disapproval, she took a precious empty stool in front of the grill at the counter and sat down, just like a paying customer.

“Oh my goodness, honey, are you all right?” Sherrie noticed her immediately. A motionless Britt during the lunch rush was like the earth ceasing its rotation.

She held out her phone mutely.

Sherrie and Casey craned their heads to read the text.

They both promptly made similar squeaking sounds.

“Oh my goodness gracious God in heaven.” Sherrie clapped a dramatic hand over her heart. “Is that text really from John Tennessee McCord?”

Britt nodded.

She was vaguely aware she was wearing a huge stupid smile.

Which faded.

Doing it on a table and against a truck was one thing. Dinner at a white-tablecloth restaurant seemed to be another thing altogether.

She considered that she might have stepped into a riptide.

Though maybe he just wanted to sample cuisine outside of the Misty Cat. As excellent as Glennburgers were, one could hardly blame the man.

Her heart was hammering painfully.

“
And
he fixed my porch,” she said. As if they were all following her own internal conversation.

“GET. OUT.” Casey was agog.

Glenn exchanged an “I told you so” glance with his wife that Britt didn’t quite understand.

“He just showed up and fixed your porch? When you weren’t there? For no reason at all?” Casey said this as though she were collecting clues to a mystery.

“It needed fixing, was the reason,” Britt said shortly.

Casey studied her with a tipped head, and her knowing, wicked little expression told Britt that she knew exactly what the reason was.

Britt couldn’t help but grin that same grin right back at her.

“Okay.” Casey took charge. “You have to pick a night where you don’t have to work the next day. Because, you know.”

Britt did know. Warmth swept through her whole body at the merest suggestion of what she and John Tennessee McCord could do with a whole night together.

“I’ll do your hair and makeup. For free,” Casey said briskly.

Britt was astounded. “Casey, that’s just . . . what a sweet offer! Are you sure? I’ve practically forgotten how to do makeup.”

“I can tell, sweetie.”

Britt laughed.

“And do you have anything to wear?” Casey was on the case.

“Not really, no. Maybe I’ll stop in at . . .”

She thought yearningly of that white halter dress in the window of Kayla Benoit’s boutique. Maybe she could bring in her coupon and make puppy dog eyes at Kayla. Things were going her way lately. Why shouldn’t she get the dress, too?

“Not really, but I’ll figure it out,” she told Casey.

She didn’t work tomorrow morning. She
did
work the rest of the week in the morning.

And, really she had no shame. She wanted what she wanted.

She texted J. T. back:

Is tonight too soon?

His reply chimed in:

Ten minutes from now wouldn’t be too soon.

The man really
was
an Olympic-caliber flirt. And he knew what he wanted. She had to hand it to him. He was confident enough, or mature enough, to be completely direct. There was a surprising amount of comfort in that.

She texted back:

I’m off at two.

Her phone chimed in:

I’ll pick you up six thirty.

And then she moved her butt off the stool in case Giorgio’s glower burned a hole in the back of her head before her date.

A
t ten minutes after two Britt hovered on the sidewalk outside of Kayla Benoit’s boutique, still shiny with lunch-hour sweat and redolent of the diner smells that made her cat sniff her so happily when she came in the door for the day. The halter-necked sheath was still in the window worn by a nearly flat chested, featureless mannequin. Lucky mannequin. White eyelet over silk acetate. Simple, gorgeous, expensive, taunting. It had been there for so long it ought to be sporting cobwebs. Kayla was pretty meticulous about that sort of thing, though. The dress was spotless.

Britt took a deep breath and pushed open the door and stepped inside Kayla’s fragrant, elegant boutique. There wasn’t another soul in there currently.

Kayla was rearranging one of the racks by color. She whirled about and her face lit up.

“Britt! What brings you by?” Kayla Benoit sounded pleased but faintly concerned. As if Britt might have taken a blow to the head and staggered into her boutique by mistake. She was fully aware that Britt’s budget didn’t extend to most of her merchandise.

“Hi Kayla. How’s it going? I find that I . . . need a dress.”

Kayla paused, her pretty brow furrowed faintly. “Are you getting married?” she wondered.

“No.”

“You pregnant?” was her second guess.

Britt looked down at herself, then back up at Kayla.

“Well,
no
, you don’t look it, but you strike me as the sort who likes to plan ahead,” Kayla said, answering that unspoken question.

“I am that type,” Britt admitted. Surprised and a little flattered that Kayla had been deciding what she might be like. She was realizing lately that people all over town were probably drawing all kinds of conclusions about her. Funny, she’d thought she was so inscrutable. And funnier still, she didn’t really mind. It made her feel more as though she belonged.

“Okay, I give up, Britt,” Kayla said brightly. “What kind of fabulous dress can we find for you?”

“Truthfully . . . well, I’m going on a date.”

Kayla’s brow furrowed a little. As if she were rifling through all the men in town that Britt might actually consent to date. Men who would warrant a special dress, no less.

And then her face went all but neon with realization.

“With John Tennessee McCord?” Her voice was a hush.

“He asked me out to
dinner
.” Britt whispered this, too. As if they spoke at the volumes the news warranted they’d violate the neighborhood noise ordinances.

“Oh my God oh my God
oh my God.”
Kayla was practically bouncing on the toes of her peep-toed pumps. She was touchingly thrilled, just like Sherrie and Casey, and it warmed Britt’s heart clean through.

“At Maison Vert.” Britt pronounced this with the gravity it deserved.

Kayla froze.

“Britt . . .” she said portentously. “That place has
white tablecloths
. And candles. Holy crap.”

“I know. It’s a real date.”

“I mean, we all thought you and he were probably doing it, but if he’s taking you
there . . .
”

We all?
Was there some kind of Hellcat Canyon phone tree Britt didn’t know about during which her sex life was discussed?

She decided to neither confirm nor deny this. People weren’t stupid, and Britt wasn’t coy, and she supposed she and J. T. had been shooting off sparks.

“I’ve got a black dress. But it’s old and the fabric is starting to pill. And it would take me some time just to blow the dust and cat hair off it.”

“So yeah, you can’t wear that,” Kayla agreed. “That would just be sad. And you can’t wear one of your umpteen camisole-and-shorts ensembles.”

Britt gave a startled laugh.

“Sorry, it’s my curse.” Kayla sighed. “I can’t help it. You don’t
know
how I suffer, Britt. I notice what
everyone
is wearing and my mind is constantly giving them all makeovers, and in this town it’s exhausting. Practically everyone needs one. You
do
have a good sense of color.”

“Thanks.” She’d take a compliment where she could get it. “You know . . . I think I’d look good in white,” she tried, tentatively. And she shot a sidelong speaking glance at that dress in the window.

Kayla became a lot more cagey and a little sad.

“I know where you’re going with this, sweetie, and oh, I wish I could, I really do, but that dress costs a lot. And I have margins to meet.”

“I
do
have a coupon . . . that one you sent out in the mail . . .”

“That will take it down to the high two figures,” Kayla said succinctly.

Aargh. Still too high. At least for her budget.

So
this
was how Kayla managed to stay in business. She wasn’t a patsy. Britt both admired it and rued it greatly in the moment.

She was pretty sure Kayla would be immune to her puppy-dog eyes.

“Let’s take a look at the sale rack,” Kayla said briskly, “and see if we can’t make something work. We’ll make you look
gorgeous
, I promise.”

The sale rack usually comprised rejected bridesmaid gowns.

They both pivoted sharply when the bell on the door jingled. A gust of air fluttered up the white dress on its stand portentously.

Casey Carson was standing there.

She closed the door behind her, and stood motionless in the doorway.

All was shocked silence.

“Casey,” Kayla said coolly.

“Kayla,” Casey said primly.

And that was the last word anyone said for about half a minute.

Britt half expected the soundtrack from
The Good, the Bad and the Ugly
to play over the sound system, but no.

It was Lady Gaga. “Bad Romance,” which she thought was rather ill timed.

“You said if I wanted to use my discount, Kayla, I needed to come into the store.” Casey sounded ever-so-slightly defiant.