Sexy and Funny, Hilarious Erotic Romance Bundle (27 page)

He laughed. “We love who we love, and we have little choice in the matter.”

“We always have choices.”

He drummed on the counter top. “Dinner tonight? Shall I swing by at closing and pick you up?”

“I don’t know. Your life is not like my life. You have a stalker. It’s been fun, but we had our day, and I know I’m not the girl for you.”

The white-haired woman came up to the counter, no books in her hand.

“Anything I can help you find, ma’am?”

She turned to Dalton, taking a really good look at him, then turned back to me. “What would Dottie say?” she asked me.

He said, “Who’s Dottie? I don’t have my Beaverdale-to-English handbook.”

Damn it, the woman was right. I was refusing Dalton because I worried I wasn’t good enough for him. But I was the only one of me, an original, and that was way more than just good enough.

I tilted my chin, showing my sexy, vulnerable neck to Dalton. Rubbing my index finger along my lower lip, I said, “Dottie would tell me to act like I’m really busy, but offer to rearrange some things at great sacrifice so I can see you for dinner tonight. But you may not pick me up from work. I need to change into something more charming.”

“I like the sound of that,” he said, backing away. “Seven o’clock? I remember where you live, in that cute little house.”

“Perfect.”

“Perfect,” the other woman repeated after me.

Dalton backed up to the door and opened it without taking his eyes off me.

“Wear something casual,” he said. “Jeans or whatever.”

“Casual. Okay.”

He slipped out, waved through the glass door, then walked away.

I started breathing again. How long had I been holding my breath?

“Dottie would be proud,” the woman said.

I didn’t know whether to hug her or kick her out of the store, so I just nodded and dumped the pens and pencils out of the tin to give them a good sorting.

Eyes wide open
, I told myself, though it was probably too late.

Here’s how nervous I was about my date with Mr. Sexytrousers Dalton Deangelo: I sat in a pile of clothes, inside my walk-in closet, and bawled.

Shayla got home from an early shift at the restaurant and came running up the stairs to my room, asking, “Is somebody torturing a small mammal in here?”

“Small? No, not small.” I picked up a pair of sky-blue jeans and tossed them at her. I’d sent her enough text messages that she was well-aware of my imminent date and emotional disaster. I wailed, “Why did you let me buy these? One wash and they’re shrunk to hell. And the worst part is, they weren’t even on sale.” (More sobs, plus additional sniveling.) “Just take my credit card and freeze it in a block of ice, then grab the slipcover off the sofa and cut a neck hole in it, because that’s what I’m wearing tonight.”

She crossed her arms, no pity in her golden-brown eyes at all. “Poor Peaches. She has a date with a hot actor.” She frowned at the bright blue jeans and picked them up. “Of course these don’t fit you. They’re mine. I was wondering where these were.”

“Don’t mess with my head! You’re the one who threw out the scale, and now I’ve gained twenty pounds, haven’t I?”

She grinned. “Wearing your fancy underwear, I see. Planning to show him your peaches up close?”

I pulled a dress off a hanger and clutched it to my chest. The pricey lingerie set had been a splurge on my last birthday, and I’d never actually worn the silky cream-colored bra and panties with the contrasting black lace. They looked and smelled lovely in my underwear drawer, but I’d finally cut off the tags that afternoon.

“A woman’s fancy underwear is just for her,” I said.

Shayla crouched down next to me in the jumbled closet and rubbed her palms up and down my bare shins. “This isn’t this morning’s shave. You’re going to sleep with him tonight.”

I pushed her away from me, laughing. “I’m not the fun one.”

She raised one immaculately-groomed dark eyebrow as if to say,
we’ll see about that
.

Shayla started looking through the clothes on the floor around me. “You know, I’ll have to re-name my vibrator,” she said. “Since you’re dating the real Drake Cheshire, I can’t be riding his choo-choo train to O-town.”

“Does your sex toy really need a name?”

“What would you suggest?”

I got to my feet and dried my eyes. “How about a title? Like… The Assassin. Because he gets in and does the job.”

She swatted my butt playfully. “Damn, girl. They should hire you to do their marketing.”

“I’m awesome at everything but my own life.”

“Let’s get you dressed before the second act of your pity party.”

She started rooting through my closet, setting aside things to try on.

We managed to find
my
bright blue jeans, which were a similar shade to my roommate’s, but a few sizes larger. Fastening the button, I wondered if I hadn’t lost a pound or two. What a good feeling it is to pull on slightly loose pants! Relaxed clothes are a gift that keeps on giving all day.*

*Sweatpants don’t count.

The doorbell rang right on time, and I was surprised to find a middle-aged man with a brown mustache standing at my front door. It wasn’t until I spotted the ponytail that I recognized him from two nights before.

“Vern,” he said, offering his hand to shake. “I’m Dalton’s driver and butler.”

“Butler!” I turned and looked at Shayla, who just shrugged.

I hadn’t realized butlers actually existed, outside of period dramas on BBC, but here was one in the flesh.

“Mr. Deangelo was running late with dinner preparations,” Vern said. “He sent me to fetch you.”

“Fetch me?” I turned and looked at Shayla, who managed another shrug.

Vern turned around and started walking back down to the car. He wore black pants and a white shirt, and from behind he looked a lot like a woman, with broad hips. Vern’s body shape had absolutely nothing to do with my situation, but my mind latched onto it as relief from feeling nervous about the date. I followed him out to the car, got into the back seat, folded my hands on my lap, and thought about Vern the Butler.

Was there a Mrs. Vern who loved him exactly how he was, wide hips and all? Why did I notice other people’s body shapes in a critical manner when I had such a chip on my shoulder about everyone noticing mine? Was there a school for training butlers, or some standard examination they had to pass to call themselves a butler? Could women become butlers?

Vern guided the long, black car away from the heart of town, away from the two best restaurants in town.

I looked around for the button that would lower the panel between me and Vern, but the toggle that seemed like the logical controller simply adjusted the angle of my plush leather seat.

Mystery ride, it was.

The scenery outside changed from town to fields and farmhouses, then just fields.

I sent a text message to Shayla:
If you don’t hear from me in one hour, Vern the Butler has abducted me for his own nefarious purposes. We’re heading north on Springer Road, so start looking for my body parts in that direction.

Five minutes later, Shayla messaged me back:
How special! I’m glad you’re wearing nice underwear!

Me:
I hate you.

Shayla replied with a string of emoticons implying a series of adventurous sex acts, involving vegetables.

The car bumped and jostled me as we turned onto a dirt road, and I lost my signal as we entered the dense trees.

We were headed toward Dragonfly Lake, as best I could tell. I’d been there a number of times growing up, mostly to ride full-sized horses with a friend who lived on a nearby farm. It was a pretty lake, pristine and blue, but there was nothing out there but a campground, and certainly not any restaurants.

My heart fluttered, and I regretted making those jokes about Vern murdering me, because they did not seem so funny now.

The car stopped moving, and I seized my opportunity to escape. I flung the door open and jumped out, ready to run.

My eyes were drawn by a silver cylinder glinting in the sun. An Airstream camping trailer, sleek and bullet-shaped, sat near the edge of the still lake. The trailer’s silver aluminum siding acted as a funhouse mirror, reflecting the surrounding trees and blue sky.

The scent of charcoal briquettes hung in the air, and Dalton Deangelo stood over a barbecue, silver tongs in one hand and a plate of marinated, herb-flecked steaks in the other. He waved at someone—not me—and the car pulled away immediately, turning around and leaving by the road we’d just traveled in on.

A dragonfly buzzed down from the sky, zipped around my head once, and disappeared on gossamer wings. I shuddered, because dragonflies creep me out, with their enormous bodies and their crazy-ass, in-air mating rituals. Blergh.

“Do you like steaks?” Dalton asked as I approached.

“Do horses poop in parades?”

“I’m a city boy, Peaches. Is that a yes?”

He set down the plate of meat and tongs to give me a hug. “Mmm, good to see you,” he said. “I’ll ask you again. Do you like steaks?”

“Yes, I like steaks. I’m not that fussy.”

He leaned down to kiss me, but I nervously turned my head to the side and he caught my cheek.

“Of course you’re not fussy,” he said. “You’re here with me, aren’t you?” He gave me one of his charming winks. Between his green eyes, so bright in the setting sun, plus the cute dimple in his square chin, and the washboard stomach I could feel through our clothes, I melted.

Forget dinner
, I thought.
Take me now. Take me on the wildflower-strewn grass, with revolting dragonflies air-humping all around us. Put your tongue in my mouth and your hand in my…

“Nice lake,” he said.

I thought for a second he meant the lake forming in my panties, and started blushing.

“Oh, that lake,” I said.

“Don’t be nervous.” He kissed my forehead. “You’ll make me nervous, and I’ll ruin this dinner and all my other plans. Fair warning, most of my plans are about getting you naked.”

“Good thing I wore nice underwear.”

He pulled at the top of my blouse and peeked down. “Forget dinner.”

I swatted his hand away and re-fastened the top button of my pink blouse. “Mr. Grabby Hands.”

He reached down my back and found plenty to grab onto. His fingers dug into the globes of my ass, gently pulling me against his body—his hard, yummy-smelling, irresistible body. My ladyflower received the signal and blossomed in anticipation.

He growled near my ear, “Tell me if I’m moving too fast.”

“I’ve been here less than a minute and you’ve checked out the tits and now you’re frisking my ass for concealed cameras or something. I don’t know, is that too fast?”

He moved his hands to a more respectable spot on my lower back. “Noted.”

“I used to ride horses around here,” I said, pulling away from his embrace. With one hand still on one of his muscular arms, I rubbed my other palm against the fabric of his polo shirt. He wore jeans, but the shirt had a waffle-like texture and was the purest white. Not appropriate for camping, really.

His muscles reminded me of the horses, and now I couldn’t stop thinking about the thrill of riding, and the smell of their sweat after a good run.

“Horses, you say? I can make some calls,” he offered. “Vern’s just over the hill in a cabin, and there’s a land line there. We can rustle up some horses, if you’d like.”

“Not on my account! It’s nice just to be here.” I looked out over the lake, at a bird with long legs stalking the shore. “Is that a heron?”

“You’re the local. You tell me.”

“Oh, definitely a heron.” I squinted at the bird. “That’s a Knock-Kneed Beige-Spotted Heron.”

“I think you made that up.” He took my hand in his and grinned at me. “Shall we go for a little wander before dinner? Or can you think of some other way to work up our appetite?”

I let out a nervous laugh, high and ringing, echoing over the lake.

“A wander sounds perfect.”

We set off for a stroll along the lake’s shoreline, stopping whenever we found round, flat stones suitable for skipping.

Dalton was really competitive about the stone-skipping, getting excited every time one of his stones went farther than mine (which was pretty much every time, given those beefcake arms of his.)

We walked past the heron, who calmly watched us, probably wondering why a couple of noisy, pink birds were walking around
his
lake and fighting each other for perfect flat stones only to throw them into the water.

We talked a bit, including me telling Dalton about the summer we came out to the lake with my family and found the water black with tadpoles. Shayla was with us at the picnic that day, and insisted that since we’d worn our swimsuits and brought blow-up toys, we absolutely had to go into the water. We’d both grimaced as we stepped into the teeming lakeside, stepping slowly so the tadpoles wouldn’t be crushed under our feet.

Once I was in to my knees, my father called out asking if the water was warm from all the tadpole pee. Tadpoles, like the frogs they turn into, are amphibians and thus their pee is not warm, but on that day, the mere suggestion was enough to turn the water warm via my imagination.

Shayla was already treading water, out beyond the shore, so I had to keep going. I checked the elastic fit on the legs of my swimsuit to reassure myself that tadpoles wouldn’t get in there and wiggle into the new opening I’d recently discovered, and I pushed ahead through the squirming water.

I don’t know how long we were in the water that day, or what we did on our floating toys, because all that stuck in my mind was the tadpoles. Even as I stood on the shore telling Dalton, I could still feel the slippery squirming of them against my legs.

He rubbed his arms after I finished the story. “You gave me goosebumps,” he said. “And the worst part is, I don’t think I can go in this lake again until I get a tight-fitting Speedo to protect myself.”

“I’ll go shopping for Speedos with you, and you can model a few pairs for me.”

He pretended to be shocked, his mouth dropping open. “You are a cheeky one. Thanks for the offer, but Vern does all my clothes shopping for me.”