Three Little Words

By MAGGIE WELLS

LYRICAL PRESS

An imprint of Kensington Publishing Corp.

KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.

http://www.kensingtonbooks.com/

For my darling husband, Bill. I wasn’t expecting a fifteen-year fling, but I’m still glad I picked you up. Thanks for being easy.

I have no words, no creativity, and no motivation without the support of my Super Cool Party People. Special thanks to Julie Doner. You are indeed my everything, and so much more than Andy Gibb ever imagined.

I never would have the courage to try without the unflagging support of my family and friends. Special thanks to Renee for using my favorite word—YES—and to Marci for her hard work in whipping this story into shape.

Most of all, I want thank you, dear readers, for the gift of your time.

You are the best!

The line at the bar wasn’t long, but she needed a drink—a real drink—and she needed it fast. Jo twirled her empty champagne flute and tapped her toe as the DJ made a cringe-worthy segue between Louis Armstrong and Pink. A pang of regret tweaked her stomach when she spotted her eldest brother, Tony, leading his baby girl from the dance floor, but that was nothing new. She’d suffered so many pangs in her life they’d become a part of her autonomic system. Breathe in, breathe out,
pang
. Blink, sniffle, sneeze,
pang
. Go to bed alone—again—
pang
!

At the tender age of twenty-six, her niece had managed to accomplish everything Jo never had. Kaylin had a career, a home of her own, and a man she loved so much she actually glowed. Literally glowed. Jo hadn’t known such a glow since her mother stopped slathering her sunburns in Noxzema.

Radiant happiness was enough to drive a woman to drink.

Three groomsmen bellied up to the bar and jockeyed for position in front of the pretty blond bartender. Their voices rose as they trumped each other’s orders. Each successive suggestion was an obvious attempt to prove the issuer was more worldly, and therefore manly, than the last. The misguided boys must have believed their ability to chug grain alcohol might make or break their chance at ending the evening in the poor girl’s bed. The bartender eyed them with hardly-contained disdain. The posturing little pricks didn’t notice. Jo couldn’t help but smile when the girl rolled her eyes and went back to stacking glassware.

What little buzz Jo had managed to eke out of two glasses of table wine and a flute of champagne began to wane. She considered goosing one of the guys to shock him into gear, but then another tuxedo-clad man, murmuring quiet excuses, slipped in front of her. The groomsmen jumped when the newcomer gripped their padded shoulders.

“Three beers for these guys, please. Give them the imported stuff.” Casually, he stuffed a twenty-dollar bill into the pitcher serving as a tip jar. “Having fun, fellas?”

The groomsmen replied in the affirmative, but their cheeks glowed pink. Bravado squelched, they grabbed their beers and beat a hasty retreat. The hero of the hour turned to face Jo. Recognition kicked in. Saliva pooled in her mouth and a tingle of awareness prickled the fine hairs at her nape. Her savior was none other than the father of the groom. It took a fraction of a second for her brain to source the pertinent facts Kaylin had imparted on Ben’s father. Gregory. Greg. Divorced, devoted dad, and hot as Hades on a summer day. Confronted with him now, Jo was happy to confirm the acute case of the bright shinies hadn’t skewed her niece’s powers of observation. Gregory Stark was all that and more.

He’d sneaked glances at her all through the ceremony. Now, he grinned right at her. “Good to know I’ve still got it.”

His dark eyes glinted with amusement. She wasn’t sure if he was referring to his ability to circumvent a bar line, or the fact that she’d been unable to resist returning every one of the furtive glances he’d tossed her way. Jo decided to play it neutral.

Rolling her parched tongue up off the carpet, she nodded the approbation he was obviously seeking. “Effective.”

No lie. He was the most attractive man she’d laid eyes on in forever. Which made perfect sense in a bizarre Karmic way. Of course she had to meet this man after she’d poked a nail through her last pair of control-top pantyhose.

Still, there was no reason she couldn’t catalog every bit of him for later use. With a practiced eye, she gauged him to be a few years older than her. Her guess put him somewhere in his mid-fifties. Unlike most men, he hadn’t packed on any extra cushioning for the slide into the AARP years. He was tall and lean, his movements as taut and compelling as the lines bracketing his eyes and those sculpted lips. His jaw was smooth and shiny, clean-shaven, but the shadow of a heavy beard loomed below the surface. Jo wanted to know what else he kept hidden under the slick exterior.

He’d been seated in the front pew at the ceremony beside his ex-wife and her husband. Jo wondered what he’d done to earn ex status. For the life of her, she couldn’t imagine any woman willingly giving this man up for the paunchy redhead who’d taken his place.

He nodded toward the array of bottles behind the bar. “Champagne?”

“God, no.” The response was automatic. She hated champagne. Pure desperation forced her to resort to the glass poured for the toasts because the dinner wine was long gone. Now he was offering her more. The sparkling wine seemed an apt choice for him. He looked like Cary Grant, what with the wings of silver in his dark hair, the crinkly brown eyes sparkling with mischief, and the tuxedo. Maybe he was offering her champagne because Cary Grant would offer her champagne. Cary would call her “darling.” Would Gregory Stark call her “darling?”

Something tugged at her fingers. She stared in rapt fascination as he removed the forgotten flute from her hand and placed it on the bar. “Oh. No. No more champagne.” She managed a weak twitch of her lips. “Thank you.”

A proprietary hand landed in the small of her back. Jo surrendered to the gentle pressure, closing her eyes and imagining the pads of his fingers to be electrodes. Sparks sizzled along her spine. He spread his fingers wide as he drew alongside her at the bar. Arousal swept through her like a hot flash. Unlike those endless minutes of core meltdown, this heat wasn’t something to be endured. His touch was a treat to be savored. She opened her eyes and found him staring at her, his lips parted and his eyes shining bright.

“What’ll it be, then?”

“Tequila. Three shots.”

The answer popped out before her brain engaged. It was a ghost from her past. A remnant of the reckless youth she’d left buried under a pile of soul-crushing responsibility.

“Whoa. Three?” He craned his neck and scanned the room. “Maybe I should get one of the younger guys back.”

Once upon a time, three was her magic number. The key to managing everything life had thrown at her. Good and bad. The magic of three stopped being effective not long after she’d turned thirty—a bitter disappointment she’d never managed to reconcile with herself. Turns out, fate had her number in another way.

Well, screw fate. She’d played the good girl long enough. Emboldened by the wine and the heat of his hand scorching her back, she looked him square in the eye. “I have no use for boys,
thankyouverymuch
. Don’t worry. It’s okay if you can’t keep up. I won’t think less of you.”

He laughed. Not a chuckle or a chortle, but a deep, rumbling, full-throated guffaw that wrapped itself around her and drew her closer still. Or maybe he pulled her in with his hand. Either way, she was within sniffing distance, so she took a hit. Pure man. No flowery cologne masked the warm and musky mix of soap, shaving cream, and some kind of whiskey. Thank God.

“Set ’em up,” he told the bartender.

The girl lined six tiny glasses along the side rail. Pale amber liquid dribbled onto the bar when she moved from glass to glass. She piled wedges of lime on a napkin and plunked a saltcellar beside it. The furrow of concentration between the bartender’s over-tweezed eyebrows smoothed when Greg shoved another bill into the tip jar.

His hand fell away from Jo’s back as they moved to the side of the bar. She kept her gaze purposefully averted, trying not to pout over the loss. She raised one of the shot glasses in silent salute then downed the tequila without benefit of salt and lime.

The alcohol blazed a trail of fire in her throat. Jo gave her head a toss to soothe the burn. The frank admiration in her companion’s gaze made her pussy tingle with arousal. Her body’s response to this gorgeous stranger startled her. Deep in her heart, she feared she was past all desire.

He leaned in closer. “What’s your name?”

The answer leapt to her tongue, but she bit it back. For one night, this night with this man, she didn’t want to be sad old Aunt Jo. She wanted to be the woman she’d been back in the days before she had to be seated with one of her cousins to round out a table. She wanted to be the girl who thought she had all the time in the world.

Fixing Kaylin’s new father-in-law with a bold stare, she raised a challenging eyebrow. “Jose.”

“As in Cuervo?”

“Exactly.” When he opened his mouth again, she held up one hand and dredged up the name she used in those wild days of time and tequila. “But you can call me Josie.”

He blinked once then cocked his head, studying her for one long moment. He reached for a glass. The wry twist of his lips told her he was certain she’d given him a fake name, but he didn’t seem to care too terribly much. He eyed her over the rim of the tiny glass. “Nice to meet you, Josie. I’m Greg.”

Silver cufflinks flashed as he tossed the shot back. He chased the booze with a low growl. A golden drop clung to his upper lip. Jo wiped it away with the pad of her thumb but froze as she pulled away. They stared at one another, arrested by her sheer audacity. Mortification set the tips of her ears on fire. She tried to finish her retreat, but he captured her wrist.

“Thank you.” He gave her a gentle squeeze. “Tell me, Josie, are you a pussycat?”

Jo laughed. And, damn, it felt good. She was flirting with a handsome man, and he was flirting back with enthusiasm. Quite a rush for a woman long out of practice. She swallowed the lump in her throat and lowered her gaze along with her wayward hand, wondering if her rusty skills were obvious.

“Uh-uh. Don’t try to play shy with me now,” he admonished. When she didn’t respond, he leaned close. His breath stirred her hair and tickled her ear. “You’re the most intriguing woman here, and you damn well know it.”

Pleasure ran warm and thick in her veins. Jo closed her eyes, giving herself over to the vague pain of her nipples tightening and the quickening of her pulse. “Do I?”

“I noticed you in the church.”

A shiver tripped along her spine. She tipped her head, surrendering to the moist caress of his breath. “You did?”

“I couldn’t stop looking at you.”

Though she’d noticed, the bold confession still stunned her. In the way of women too used to being invisible, she’d denied the tingle of knowledge. Hard to believe a man so handsome might find her attractive. For too long she’d played the part of plain old Aunt Jo.

“I can’t stop looking at you now.” The husky admission pried her eyes open. “I had to find you.”

The urgency in his tone gave her the boost she needed. Oh, how she wanted to be Josie with the tequila shots once more. With him. For him. Flashing a sly glance, she reached for a second tiny glass. “And now you have.”

He snatched a glass from the bar and touched the rim to hers. His gaze bore into her, unwavering and intense. “And now I have.”

The tequila left a trail of fire hot enough to make her shiver. Her hand trembled. She curled her fingers snug around the empty glass and placed it carefully on the bar. The burning sensation eased as the warmth of the alcohol sped through her bloodstream. Floating on a silvery cloud of agave-induced happiness, she glanced up just in time to get hit square between the eyes by a blast from the past.