Tight (2 page)

Finally, it was quieter, away from the madness of the casino.

I couldn’t believe it was only Friday. I got off early, our bank manager unhappy with the request, yet unable to bitch too loudly, seeing as I was the only FA at our small town chain. FA is fancy country talk for Financial Advisor. In a big city I’d manage large portfolios, dispense stock advice, buy and sell quotients like Ben Affleck in
Boiler Room
. But in our small town? An hour from Atlanta, where Sunday sermons focus on rain prayers, and where the average household income lay right on the forty-five thousand dollar mark? My days were spent selling mutual funds, life insurance, and doing the I’m-not-qualified-for-this job of will creation and estate planning. Nothing that couldn’t wait till Monday morning, when my raw feet and hung over self would crack open the doors of Smith Bank & Trust at the ungodly hour of 7:30 AM.

I picked up my right foot and examined the damage done by my stilettos. Stilettos that were uglier by the minute, trotting their pretty selves straight into my trashcan at their current rate of travel. Too bad I didn’t pack many other options. Fancy shoes took up a very small corner of my closet. Sensible black grandma heels dominated the rest of said closet floor. Paired with my tan nylons, they helped to complete the too-sexy-for-a-date vibe that I rocked ninety percent of the year. Maybe I couldn’t pull off the cute strappy heels, sexpot in a minidress look. Maybe that ability set sail at age thirty. Maybe, at thirty-two, I should invest in some ballet flats and sundresses. I saw a lot of the minivan moms with that look. And they looked comfortable. They certainly didn’t have the fire engine red feet that were currently screaming a slow death beneath my fingertips. I gingerly pushed on the bubble on my back heel. Uck. I could almost hear liquid squishing in it.

White fuzziness. It was thrust in my line of vision, interrupting my new fascination with the chipped polish on my big toe. I focused on the white, fluffy soft slippers coming into view. Thick ones, where you’d sink an inch into a pillow top bed of comfort, a brand I’d never heard of embroidered along the top. I looked from the shoes, up a tan arm, my eyes tripping and already drooling over clean nails, a strong hand, a Rolex ten times more authentic than mine, a muscular forearm, rolled sleeves, a jaw I’d nibble to death, and a face that competed with easy superiority against any celebrity I had previously strummed myself off to in recent memory.

He smiled, a rueful grin that may have just burst my heart. I worked my jaw, trying to formulate speech, glancing back and forth from the slippers to his face.

“Would you like these?” His voice. Sandpaper over the hull of a yacht. A combination of roughness and polish.

I swallowed. “The slippers?” Of course the slippers. What else would he be talking about?

A surprised look crossed his face. “You’re Southern. From ... Alabama?”

“Florida. Just south of the Georgia border.” I winced. I couldn’t hide the drawl; it dragged through my words with such ownership, as if the Southern notes were fused through every syllable.

He nodded slowly, still holding out the slippers. His other hand moved, reaching across. “I’m Brett.”

I should stand. It would be the polite thing to do. Stand and shake his hand. But I didn’t. I didn’t think my feet could handle it. I just reached out, shook his hand with a firm grip, like my daddy taught me, and met his eyes. “Riley.”

I didn’t know what about that exchange he found funny, but his mouth widened, and I got another devastating look at his teeth. God, I’d love for him to nibble my skin. Tease my neck, take the other, more sensitive parts of my body and wreak havoc on them. I shivered at the thought and pulled my eyes from his. Took the slippers from his hands. “You carry around slippers?”

“I saw your hobble across the casino. It caught my eye. I wandered out, wanted to make sure a man didn’t take advantage of your ill state.”

“By what? Swooping to my rescue with ridiculously comfortable slippers?”

If possible, his grin widened. “Yes. You should probably avoid me from this point forward.”

Having no intelligent response, I pretended to distract myself from the conversation, working the soft cotton over my injured feet and sighing with relief when they were on. “Where did you get these?”

He tilted his head to the right. “The store next door. They carry matching robes if you’d like to complete the look.”

I laughed. “No, I’m good.”

“I would have offered to carry you, but it didn’t seem appropriate. When I saw that you had sat down ... How far do you have to go?”

“My room.” I waved a hand dismissively in the direction of our room. “Coral Towers.”

He frowned. “A bit of a hike.”

“It was.” I wiggled my toes. “A lot better now. Please sit down.” I gestured to the seat next to me. Pulled open my purse and dug through the chips there, saw him, out of my peripheral, remain standing.
Okay
. I collected all of the green chips I could find. Six total. Sixty bucks’ worth. I closed my purse and held out the handful, watched Brett eye my closed fist. “Go on, open your hand,” I urged.

He did, wincing when I dropped the chips into his palm. He frowned, rolling them over in his palm and holding them back out to me.

“They’re for the slippers.” I clasped the top flap of my purse, ignoring the insistent press of his fist in my personal space. I batted off his hand. “Take it.”

“I don’t want your money.”

“I don’t want your charity. Please.”

“It’s not charity.” Stubbornness entered his voice, and I fought the urge to smile.

“It’s giving me something for nothing ... that’s charity.”

“I’ve had the pleasure of your company.”

I sniffed in a manner that would, most certainly, make my grandmother roll over in her grave. “For five minutes? Please.”

“Then let me accompany you the rest of the way to your room. Just to make sure you arrive safely.”

I sighed. A big dramatic one—one that gave no hint to the fact that I hadn’t got laid in almost two years, hadn’t been on a date in almost half that time, and had
never
looked into a face as gorgeous as this man’s. “Just to the door?”

His mouth twitched. “Just to the door. Then you will have properly compensated me for the slippers and will be forced to accept your hard-earned chips back.”

“They weren’t that hard-earned,” I grumbled, heaving to my feet, suddenly aware of the height at which my yep-definitely-too-old-to-wear-this minidress had risen. I worked it back down, looking up a moment too early and catching his eyes on my legs. My hands froze, his eyes catching my own. He should have brushed it off, looked away, but instead he held my gaze and grinned, a slow, sexy smile that grabbed ahold of my arousal lever and pushed that baby all the way up.
Damn
. This man and his fuzzy slippers, his bad boy smile and roaring confidence ... I didn’t belong anywhere within miles of him. My blistered feet and I were way too vulnerable for the train wreck to which we were headed. Because I knew what would happen when we got through the long walk to my room. All he would have to do is tilt his head, grin that naughty smile, and my ass would tumble over itself in a haste to do anything and everything he wanted.

I reached up and accepted his outstretched hand. He smiled down at me, our heights thrown off by my lack of heels.
Oops, my shoes
. I crouched, scooping up my heels, my eyes suddenly friendly to their sparkling straps, their impossible heights that I was naïve to think I could handle. I gripped his hand and shuffled forward, the soft pat of the slippers quiet on the tile floor.

“Feel free to lean on me,” he said, looking down on me with a smile. “And if you need to be carried...”

“I’ll be fine.” I grinned. “Promise.”

He tugged gently, and we moved, through the shops, my hand foreign in another hand, and I released his arm and gripped his bicep instead, marveling at the strength, fighting the urge to squeeze and test the hard muscle.

“Are you here alone?”

I glanced over, our hands separated eight paces back, when the contact had become awkward. “No. There are six of us. Bachelorette party.”

I might have been mistaken, but I felt as if he stumbled slightly, a hitch in his step. “Yours?”

The three martinis from dinner made that question much more humorous than it should’ve been, and I giggled. “
Me
? No.”

“A boyfriend?” We arrived in the lobby, and he reached out, placing a firm hand on my arm, making sure I made the journey down the short bank of steps without incident.

I shook my head. “No.” I looked over. “Is there a Mrs. Brett?”

He chewed on his bottom lip as he met my eyes, the first bit of indecision that I’d seen on his face. And damn, it was a hot look. He should rock indecision more often. The bite of white teeth combined with a tight jaw, rough stubble paired with intense eyes. “I wouldn’t be escorting you if I was attached.”

I looked away from his face, breaking the connection before I tackled him to the ground and had my Southern way with him. We reached the elevators and stopped, his finger pressing the button.

Silence. Awkward silence. I shifted in the slippers, trying to look anywhere but in his general direction. I should be better at this. I was thirty-two for God’s sake, not a fifteen-year-old girl with her date to the prom. “Are you here on business?”

He grinned, his head shaking, his hand gesturing for me to go ahead when the elevator doors opened. “No. I’m with a few friends. Blowing off some steam.”

I pressed the button for the eighth floor, leaning back against the wall, putting as much distance between us as possible. He took my lead, settling against the opposite wall, his stance relaxed, the lines of his dress shirt falling perfectly over dark jeans. I raised my eyebrows, my mouth curving into a smile. “Blowing off some steam?”

Our conversation was interrupted, a hand shooting in and catching the closing doors, the action stalling and then reversing their close. Three men stepped on. Not really men. What appeared to be twenty-year-old boys, the smell of alcohol pressing into the car with them, their glassy eyes and curses preceding their entry. I saw Brett’s eyes darken, the space between us suddenly full.

“What floor?” I asked when the doors closed and their attention hadn’t moved, no button pressed, the elevator already starting an ascent.

Mistake. Their eyes moved as one, locking on me, and the man closest to me stumbled, moving into my comfort zone. “What floor are
you
going to?” he slurred, the question causing encouraging laughter from his friends, one who cast a quick look in Brett’s direction.

“Leave her alone.” The tightness in Brett’s voice surprised me, and I looked up to his face, caught off guard by the hard line of his jaw, the heat in his stare, his eyes on the men and not on mine. I wanted to reassure him, not that we were friendly enough that I would assume his protection. But it seemed—from the stiffness of his body, his push off the wall and onto the balls of his feet, the iron in his tone—that he was ready to fight, to defend, to do all the unnecessary things that this bevy of boys was not looking for.

The doors slid open, and I squeezed through the men, their steps slow to move, Brett’s arm knocking them back, grumbled curses following the action, a cowardly shout of rebellion sent out right as the doors closed. We stood in the empty landing.

“Are you okay?” His eyes were dark, face tight. I glanced down and saw his fists clenched.

I laughed, pressed a light hand on his chest. “I’m fine. They were drunk. It would have been fine.”

He gripped my forearms, walked me three steps backward, until I was against the wall, and he was close enough to kiss, his face tilted down to me. “Don’t assume that. Never assume that.”

Then he closed the gap, his fingers tightening on my arms, squeezing so there was almost pain, his mouth possessive and rough at first contact but melting instantly, his hands loosening, running up my forearms until they reached my shoulders, then past that to cup my face. A sound came from me, something between a sigh and a moan, and he caught it on his tongue, our mouths molding into a fire of hot debate, the fight of our tongues one that turned into a dance of seduction—him pushing, me pulling, the press of his body getting tighter and tighter to mine, until I was on my toes, and the weight of him pressed me against the wall.