One Hot Summer (12 page)

She arched an eyebrow at him. “Depends on if I see any sugar daddies who could handle the likes of women such as myself.” Then she smacked her own ass, her eyes skimming the crowd as though she was assessing the crop of sugar daddies in the room.

He caught himself admiring the way her purple skirt hugged her moneymaker just right, and turned away, scowling. “I thought we were here for the burgers, not so you could snag yourself a man.”

She angled into his line of sight again, a triumphant smile playing on her lips. “I swear on the wig of Dolly Parton that I'll never tire of the way you frown when you're annoyed at me. Your eyes practically glow red. It's my favorite look of yours.”

The only person he was annoyed at presently was himself. “I see a table opening up on the far side. Let's snag it.” He grabbed her hand, tugging her behind him as he wove through the crowd.

“This place doesn't look like it specializes in burgers. Most people are eating plates of roast beef.”

“That's brisket.” At the small round table near the dance floor he pulled out a chair and ushered her onto it.

“Maybe we should try the brisket instead of burgers.”

He braced a hand on the table and curled down over her, getting close to her ear so she could hear him over the music. “Let me give you a phrase to practice sayin' while I go put our order in at the food window. Here it is: ‘You were right. I was wrong.'” He clapped a hand on her shoulder. “You work on that while I'm gone.”

She twisted in her chair to face him, her knees straddling his leg. “And inflate your ego even more? I don't think so.”

“I'm trying to be helpful. You're gonna be sayin' that a lot to me this summer, so you might as well get used to it tonight.”

“How about this line instead? ‘Kiss my moneymaker, Micah Garrity.'”

He leaned in even closer, ready with a zinger about how he'd never agree to be her sugar daddy when his focus snagged on her lips.

Hellfire.

The seconds ticked away while he tried to remember what snarky comeback had been on the tip of his tongue. The trouble was, thinking about his tongue got him thinking about her tongue. This burger quest had been a mistake of epic proportions.

He peeled away from her.

There he went again, straddling the line between wanting to throw his arms up and walk away and pulling her right up against him and kissing her senseless. Absolutely infuriating that he was having so much trouble keeping his desire in check.

“That's two staring contests you've lost to me tonight,” she said, preening. “Guess I'll just call you Bubba now, because there's a new alpha around these parts and her name is Remedy Lane. Kiss that, Chief!”

No doubt about it, if he survived this night without throwing Remedy over his shoulder and dragging her off to his house, caveman-style, it was going to be some kind of miracle.

*   *   *

Thank goodness there was a line at the food window, because Remedy needed the time to get a grip. What had gotten into her tonight? One minute she was reveling in her ability to irritate Micah, and the next she was flat out flirting with him. And not just flirting but also touching him too much, wondering what his lips would feel like against hers. She wanted him in a major way. And that just wouldn't do.

From this point forward, she'd be distant and polite. She'd chow down her burger in a most unsexy way, insist on paying him back for her meal, and demand to be returned to her car. In fact, she didn't even have to sit and make small talk with him while they waited for their food to arrive. She could dance. She wanted to fit in in Texas, and that would never happen by sitting at a sticky bar table watching the world happen all around her.

As if in answer to her dilemma, the final notes of a guitar-heavy dance tune faded and the band called everyone onto the dance floor to learn a line dance called the Cowboy Charleston. She'd never heard of it, but the way the crowd turned electric at the announcement piqued Remedy's interest. So she figured,
When in Rome …

She slipped off her chair and joined a line of women at the back of the dance floor. A quick survey of footwear confirmed her duck-out-of-water status. She was the only woman not wearing cowboy boots. She hoped her open-toed three-inch Valentinos wouldn't prevent her from boogying down to the Cowboy Charleston—or get her feet maimed by a boot-wearing dancer with two left feet.

Note to self: Buy some boots, stat. She could only guess what her friends in L.A. would have to say about that.

A perky young waitress wearing a white cowboy hat hustled to the front of the dance floor and ran through a quick tutorial on the steps. Remedy could only see the waitress's hat bobbing above the crowd and couldn't hear a thing except the ladies in front of her gabbing about Miranda Lambert's latest hit, but when the music started she concentrated on following the legs of the women around her, getting into the rhythm. For the most part, she turned at the right time, managed not to kick anybody or get kicked herself, and even shook her moneymaker when the choreography demanded.

On a turn, Micah caught her eye. He was sitting at their table and the only word she could think to describe the way he was watching her was
hungry
. That was some trick the bar's warmly lit atmosphere was playing on her eyes. He was probably glowering. He probably hated that she was enjoying herself independent of his company. She smiled brighter, shook her ass harder, and put on a show.

When the song ended, the band segued seamlessly into another dance-ready song, though most people were freestyling instead of line dancing anymore. After darting a glance at her table to see if the food had yet arrived, which it hadn't, she stayed on the floor. She glommed onto a group of friendly-looking women about her age and managed to enjoy herself despite Micah's unwavering gaze for another couple songs.

In no time the waitress in the white cowboy hat was back, this time to teach them the Darlin' Mambo. As the first notes of the song reverberated through the room, a hand curved on her waist and the scent of maleness hit her nose. Micah.

“Enjoying yourself?” he rumbled into her ear.

“I am.”

“I haven't seen any sugar daddies throwing dollar bills at you yet.”

She turned to face him, to watch those lips curving in amusement. He did not release his hand from her waist or back up to give her space.

“Imagine my disappointment,” she said. Could he hear the flustered quality of her words? Could he guess at how his nearness was affecting her, despite her valiant effort to ignore her reaction?

He nodded toward their table. “The food's here. And these burgers are too good to eat cold.”

She forced herself to break away from him and leave him to trail her to their table, where two towering burgers and two frosty pints of beer sat waiting. “It's about time. I'm starving.”

It was a good thing that the band was so loud, because Remedy's reaction to her first bite of her burger was downright orgasmic. The bun was warm and squishy, the lettuce, pickles, and onions crisp. Salt and smoke and spice exploded in her mouth. She raised her left hand heavenward in a hallelujah act of praise as she chewed and swallowed. This place was, indeed, burger nirvana.

Micah folded his arms over his chest and leaned his chair back. “I'm ready.”

She was too impatient for her next bite to talk. “For what?”

“Go on. Say it.”

She closed her eyes to block him out so she could concentrate on the flavor tsunami happening in her mouth, making him wait for her answer until she'd taken her time enjoying that second perfect bite. “You were right. This is the best burger I've ever eaten. But—”

“No buts. It's the best burger, period.”

This was true, but she wasn't about to miss an opportunity to harass him. “But how can I be sure it's the best, period? I'll never know if it's better than Petey's because I was kidnapped before I had a chance to make a comparison.”

She silently congratulated herself at coming up with such an inspired word as
kidnapped
on the spur of the moment like that.

Sure enough, he choked around his bite of food. “Kidnapped?”

“That's my story and I'm sticking to it.”

Keeping one bemused eye on her, he gulped his beer. “No comment.”

That was a lazy way out of their back-and-forth, but Remedy didn't mind. The silence made it easier to keep chowing down. Not that slowing down was a realistic option. Frankly, she was afraid to set the burger on her plate lest the entire messy creation fall apart.

As a rousing, banjo-heavy two-step played out before them, Micah polished off the last of his food, though Remedy followed him shortly. That had to be some kind of speed-eating record.

“You're a fast eater like me,” he said.

“Some things are too damn good to go slow.” She didn't realize the flirty innuendo until the words were out of her mouth. Her face flushed hot.

Micah drank some beer, then cleared his throat. “Now that the beast has been fed—”

“Did you just call me a beast?”

“You keep calling me Alpha Bubba, whatever that means, so I figure it's open season on nicknames. Would you rather I call you a virgin librarian?”

Not so much. She'd rather be a beast any day of the week. “As you were saying, now that the beast has been fed…”

He shifted his body toward hers, his knee rubbing up against hers. “I've got a question.”

The urge to set her hand on his knee was a strong one. Instead, she gripped her beer and let the chilled glass cool her overheated thoughts. “Let me guess. You want to know how my parents chose the name Remedy? Everybody asks me that.”

“No. You grew up in the real Hollywood, if I recall, so a crazy Californian name makes perfect sense.”

“Is it about my life growing up in Hollywood?” she said.

“Not unless there's anything noteworthy about growing up there that you're inclined to mention.”

Her whole upbringing and parentage were considered noteworthy to most people, but Micah had a deep mistrust of rich people and she had no interest in introducing her privileged childhood and celebrity status into the conversation now that she and Micah were finally getting along. “Nope.”

“Okay then. Here's my question. Why wedding planning?”

Her parents asked her that all the time, and her answer was always the same. “Why not?”

He scratched the back of his neck, then adjusted his ball cap. “I've gotten the feeling that you're not some gushy romantic type, so your job doesn't make a lot of sense. You're stubborn and you like to get your own way, as you've demonstrated abundantly to me, but planning a wedding puts you at the mercy of whoever hired you. Which has me curious. Why wedding planning?”

He was right. Where he was concerned, she'd been absolutely stubborn. But the role she played in her job was different with the brides and grooms who hired her. “You're right. I'm not a hopeless romantic, and I'm definitely stubborn. I fell into wedding planning from corporate event planning because weddings are even more of a challenge. The bride and groom, their parents, all those complex family dynamics, and working with a budget and with hotels and vendors. The list of challenges goes on and on.

“Every wedding is a gauntlet of negotiations and complicated problem solving. And when I do it right, when I solve the puzzle and all the pieces click into place, I've masterminded the most memorable day of a couple's lives. It's extraordinary work.”

He nodded. “You make it sound extraordinary. You also make yourself sound like a megalomaniac, masterminding the most important day of someone's life,” he said with a smile and a wink, which she returned.

“That's it. You've discovered my secret. I'm drunk on my own power.”

“I knew it.” He produced a toothpick from God-knows-where and positioned it between his lips. “Your turn. Ask me a question.”

“All right. What's up with you and toothpicks?”

His wolfish smile carried all the way up to his eyes. “I like having something for my tongue to play with.”

Clearly, it was a canned reply, meant to ruffle feathers—and it certainly did tonight. A coil of desire tightened inside her, hot and low-down. She fought to keep her cool demeanor, though her pulse raced. She bet all the ladies giggled and blushed when he let that line roll out in that lazy drawl of his, but Remedy decided to take his words as a challenge. If he was going to flirt with her, then she could beat him at that game, too.

She took a sip of beer, then licked her bottom lip, nice and slow. “Have you considered getting your lip pierced so your tongue has a more permanent plaything?”

With a slow blink, the playful spark in his gaze turned dark, covetous, the same heavy-lidded gaze as he'd looked at her with while she danced. He lifted his beer to his lips. She watched the roll of his Adam's apple with his swallow, trying not to squirm in discomfort though the silence that stretched between them was thick with implication.

She wasn't supposed to be flirting with her nemesis. She wasn't supposed to be thinking about his lips or that gorgeous, hard body. She wasn't supposed to be wondering what it would be like to be his tongue's permanent plaything, but the lid was off that Pandora's box and there was no replacing it now.

She tore her gaze from him and let out a long, slow exhale. A familiar face near the door caught her attention. The shock of it made her gasp.

She pressed her hands to the table and whipped her attention back to Micah. “I can't believe she's here. Do you know who that is?”

He craned his neck to follow Remedy's line of sight. “Of course. Ty Briscoe's daughter and her husband. Carina and James Decker. Most people consider them royalty round here.”

Carina was dressed casually in dark jeans and a flowing white cotton top. Her blond hair was pulled back with a red headband. Her husband, whom Remedy only knew by name, ran the stables at the resort. By the look of him tonight, he fit his cowboy reputation from head to toe. Not in the way all strapping Texas men like Micah exuded a cowboy essence, but in a bona fide horse-wrangling, bowlegged, sun-kissed tan kind of way.