Getting Hotter

  Dedication

  This one’s for the talented, supportive and amazingly entertaining Vivian Arend. Thanks for putting up with me, Viv!

  Chapter One

  “C’mon, girl, don’t be hatin’. Just gimme your digits. I promise you won’t regret it.”

  Miranda Breslin slammed a bottle of Coors on the counter and flashed a polite smile at the very young, very cocky guy who’d been hitting on her for the past twenty minutes. “Sorry, not interested,” she shouted over the techno beat blaring out of the club’s speakers.

  Her persistent suitor rested his elbows on the counter and leaned in close. “Aw, don’t be like that, girl.”

  Thanks to the seizure-inducing strobe lights zigging and zagging from every direction, she could only make out bits and pieces of the guy’s appearance—African-American, shaved head, impressive body. But great abs aside, the guy couldn’t have been a day older than twenty-one, and his vocabulary was abysmal. Her six-year-old twins spoke more eloquently than this dude.

  “Enjoy the rest of your night,” she said. And then she promptly extricated herself from the situation, untying her short black apron as she moved away.

  She was due for a break, but when she saw the crowd gathered at the other end of the counter, she stifled a groan. Alex, the other bartender on duty, clearly had his hands full with a group of inebriated women decked out in shiny clubbing outfits.

  When he noticed her retying her apron, he gave a firm shake of the head. “I’ve got this, hon!” he yelled over the deafening music. “Take your break!”

  Sidling up to him, she moved her lips close to his ear and said, “You sure you can handle this rush?”

  Alex gestured for her to go, his unruffled expression telling her he’d be fine. No surprise—absolutely nothing fazed the guy. She’d only been working at OMG for four months, not long enough to get overly chummy with any of the other bartenders, but she did have a soft spot for Alex, with his spiky blond hair and perpetual laugher.

  Rounding the counter, she stepped into the throng of bodies filling every square inch of the dark nightclub. There was a small employee break room past the restrooms, but getting there required some effort. Since it was Friday night, the club was packed, and she had to push and wiggle her way through the crowd like she was playing an annoying game of Twister. By the time she made it to the back, she was sweaty, annoyed and reeking of the awful cologne one of the men out there must have bathed in.

  She’d just neared the break room when someone grabbed her from behind.

  “Where you rushing off to, girl? I thought we were connecting.”

  Miranda’s shoulders stiffened. She slapped the intrusive hand off her arm and turned to scowl at the guy from the bar. “I told you, I’m not interested.”

  “But I am,” he protested, the glazed look in his eyes leaving nothing ambiguous about his level of sobriety.

  His gaze rested on the cleavage spilling from her low-cut red tank, then traveled down the length of her legs, bare beneath her black miniskirt. The tank-skirt combo was her “uniform”, and as the intoxicated guy leered at her, she mentally composed a letter to the club’s owner stating all the reasons why female employees should not be asked to dress like ho-bags.

  “C’mon, just gimme your digits,” he pleaded.

  Jeez, again with the digits? This kid was relentless. Might be time to dust off the old Erin Brockovich speech.

  “Look,” she said through clenched teeth, “I’m not—”

  A raspy male voice cut in. “Beat it, buddy.”

  One second the flirty kid was in front of her, the next he was gone, scurrying away like he was being chased by the cops.

  Miranda didn’t need to turn around to know who was standing behind her. While other women might have been overflowing with gratitude, she was just mildly irritated.

  “I’m not going to say thank you,” she grumbled. “I already told you I can take care of myself.”

  Seth Masterson stepped into view, his metallic gray eyes filled with that mocking glint she’d come to expect. “I know you can.”

  She arched her brows. “Yeah? So then why’d you interfere?”

  He shrugged. “My way got rid of that moron quicker.”

  Despite herself, Miranda found it hard not to laugh. Yep, Seth’s “way” was extremely efficient. All he had to do was level some poor dude with that lethal stare of his, and—poof—the unwanted admirer disappeared. Seth had been pulling this same magician’s act for more than three months now, scaring off any man who dared to flirt with her. What started out as a quick stop-by a couple times a week, just to “check how she was doing”, had become almost a nightly routine. Now when she worked a shift, she was surprised if Seth didn’t show up.

  Any other woman might have swooned from all the attention, but Miranda wasn’t one of them. Having her own personal bouncer was more aggravating than comforting. Oh no, Seth Masterson didn’t provide her with even an ounce of comfort. If anything, he achieved the opposite effect, unsettling her with his commanding presence. He had bad boy radiating from every sexy, muscular inch of him, from the perpetual beard growth on his face, to his scruffy dark hair, to the piercing gray eyes that were forever undressing her.

  “Like I said, I could’ve handled it. Now if you’ll excuse me, it’s time for my dinner break.” She brushed past him and strode into the break room.

  Seth, of course, followed her right in. One thing she’d discovered about him? He didn’t play by any rules, a trait she found ironic considering he was in the military, where rules were a way of life.

  Sighing, she walked over to the small fridge across the room. She grabbed a bottle of water, uncapped it, and chugged half as she headed for the ratty plaid couch that had seen better days.

  Seth lingered near the door, watching her with disapproval. “Dinner is a bottle of water?”

  “Dinner was fish sticks and French fries three hours ago. I won’t be hungry for a couple more hours.” She stretched out her legs and stared up at the cracked plaster ceiling, letting out an aggravated breath. “Why do you keep coming by, Seth? You don’t need to check up on me every frickin’ night.”

  “I’m not here to check up on you.”

  “Oh really? So Missy called off her guard dog?”

  “Nope. Mom’s still insisting I keep an eye on you.”

  She held back a groan. She loved her former boss to death, but Missy Masterson, God bless her soul, had no idea what she’d unleashed when she’d asked her son to keep tabs on Miranda.

  At first, she’d appreciated the gesture—the move from Vegas to California had been jarring, and it was always difficult to adapt to a new city, especially when you didn’t know a single person there. But now that she was more settled, she no longer needed Seth Masterson to hold her hand.

  In fact, that was the last thing she wanted. Because another discovery she’d made about the man? When he touched her, she turned into a pile of hot, gooey mush.

  “Well, tell Missy that while I appreciate everything she’s done, I’m doing just fine.”

  Miranda took another sip of water, then set the bottle on the table by the couch and bent down to unlace her black sneakers. The club owner might demand the female staff display whatever T&A they could, but he didn’t begrudge them comfortable footwear. Still, she’d only been tending bar for three hours and already her feet were killing her.

  As she kicked off her shoes and began to massage her right foot, she saw Seth’s gray eyes following the movements of her hands. His expression took on that smoldering gleam, and then he left his perch by the door and approached the couch. His strides were long, predatory.

  “Not doing as fine as you claim, huh?” he taunted.

  She rolled her eyes. “My feet hurt
. My life, on the other hand, is just fine.”

  The couch cushions bounced as he flopped down beside her. Instantly, the familiar scent of him wafted in her direction. Aftershave, a hint of pine and the faint traces of smoke. Of course he was a smoker. A bad boy had to have his vices, after all.

  She dug her thumbs into the arch of her foot, knowing the ache in her feet didn’t bode well for the rest of the night. She had four hours left in her shift. Four hours of running up and down that bar catering to the Friday-night crowds. And tomorrow she’d be in the dance studio from morning until late afternoon. Her poor feet were definitely going to revolt if she kept this up.

  “What’s wrong?”

  Seth’s voice interrupted her thoughts. She glanced over, frowning. “Nothing’s wrong.”

  “You just groaned. A weary, life-sucks-ass type of groan.”

  She blinked. “I did?” When he nodded in confirmation, she let out a sigh. “I was just thinking how I have to be at the studio at ten in the morning tomorrow and how much my feet are going to hate me for it. Tending bar all night and then standing en pointe all day is no piece of cake.”

  “No, I imagine it isn’t.”

  He sounded genuine, not a hint of condescension in his voice, and Miranda’s eyebrows rose. “Really? You’re not going to roll your eyes and tell me I know nothing about real pain? You know, ’cause I’m not a badass SEAL like you?”

  “Trust me, babe, I’ve got nothing but the utmost admiration for dancers. Once when I was a kid, I sat there watching my mom soak her feet after three back-to-back performances.” Seth blanched. “To this day I’m confident in saying that what her feet looked like that night is comparable to any battle wound I’ve come across.”

  Miranda burst out laughing. She didn’t doubt it. People often had an idealistic view of dancers as beautiful, magical creatures, but one look at a dancer’s feet and that bubble of perfection was liable to burst. Calluses, blisters, cracked toenails, red, flaking skin…hardly beautiful or magical.

  For a moment it surprised her that Seth knew what actually lay behind the curtain, until she remembered that he’d pretty much grown up backstage at the iconic Paradis Theater on the Vegas Strip. His mother had been the star of the show for twenty years before retiring, and now worked as the head choreographer. Missy also happened to be Miranda’s mentor and staunchest supporter; for a girl who’d grown up without a mom, Miranda had been utterly grateful to have someone like Missy in her life. After Miranda’s grandmother died and left her that small inheritance, Missy was the one who encouraged her to buy the dance school in San Diego, and it was the best decision she’d ever made.

  “I should get back to work.” She leaned forward to slip into her sneakers, only to jump when she felt Seth’s hand on her arm.

  Her breath caught. She found herself going still. It had been so very easy to shrug out of that young guy’s grip in the hall, but here, with Seth, she couldn’t bring herself to push him away.

  “How long are we going to fight it, Miranda?” His voice was rough, his expression darkening with what she could only describe as sinful challenge.

  She gulped. Ignored the flashes of heat rippling over her flesh. “Fight what?” she asked, feigning ignorance.

  He laughed, slow and deep. “You’re really gonna pretend it’s not there? The chemistry between us?”

  “We don’t have chemistry.”

  And yep, she was a filthy liar. She and Seth Masterson had so much chemistry they could open their own laboratory. Or teach a college science seminar. Or—

  He cut into her thoughts once more. “I’ve been very patient up until now. Pretending not to notice the way your nipples get hard whenever I’m around. Acting like it’s the temperature that brings that red flush to your cheeks when we both know it’s pure sexual arousal setting your skin on fire. And don’t get me started on the way you look at me.” His voice grew even raspier. “Those big hazel eyes of yours eat me up like I’m a big, juicy steak, baby.”

  Nipples hardening? Check.

  Cheeks scorching? Check.

  Eating Seth Masterson up with her eyes? Well, she couldn’t tear her gaze from the sensual curve of his mouth or the strong line of his jaw, so yeah, might as well check that off too.

  Even though Seth must have noticed all three responses, Miranda decided to keep playing dumb. It was the only way to maintain some semblance of control over a conversation that had swiftly and unexpectedly gotten out of hand.

  “Big, juicy steak?” she echoed dryly. “Someone thinks highly of himself.”

  He just laughed. “We both know you’re attracted to me.”

  “Oh, we both know that, do we?”

  “And I’m attracted to you,” he said with a shrug. “But unlike you, I’m not gonna bat my eyelashes like a Disney princess and act like I don’t want to get you naked.”

  She swallowed again. Harder this time. Her mouth was so dry she felt like she was swallowing sand, but she didn’t dare reach for her water bottle because she knew Seth would comment and attribute her sudden thirst to the effect he had on her.

  “I have to get back to work.” Wiggling out of his grasp, she quickly stumbled to her feet.

  But Seth was equally quick. He stood up and caught her around the waist with one muscular arm. He didn’t yank her into him, just rested one hand on the small of her back and used the other to tip her chin up so she had no choice but to look at him.

  “Say the word, Miranda.”

  Her heart was beating so fast she could barely hear her own voice over the frantic hammering. “What word?”

  “Yes.”

  “Yes what?” she stammered.

  He gave that mocking chuckle of his. “That’s the word—yes. And I want you to say it. I want you to give me the green light so I can finally put my hands all over you the way I’ve been fantasizing about for months now.”

  “Seth…” It was meant to be a warning, but his name slipped out on a breathy whisper, sounding very much like an invitation.

  “Come on, baby, I’ve been such a good boy.” Those gray eyes gleamed with sex and danger. “Put us both out of our misery.”

  She stared into those stormy-silver depths, feeling her resolve crumbling. Losing herself in his seductive spell. God, it had been so long since she’d had sex. So long.

  Seth aimlessly stroked her lower back. “Miranda…” He trailed off, moistening his bottom lip with the sexy drag of his tongue, and then he leaned in close so that his lips hovered over her ear. “I want to fuck you.”

  A shiver ran through her. Oh crap. Oh no, no, no. She was not allowed to get turned on.

  Too late.

  Okay, she was beyond turned on. The pressure between her legs was unbearable, her nipples so hard they could cut glass, her breathing completely off-kilter.

  Enough. She couldn’t keep letting herself respond to this man. Seth was a bad boy to the core. He did what he wanted, when he wanted. He had no sense of decency, no filter that monitored the sarcastic or overtly sexual remarks that came out of his mouth. He wore all black and smoked cigarettes and never shaved. In other words—he was trouble.

  And sure, that air of danger he radiated would have turned her on when she was a teenager, but guess what, it was the last thing she wanted nowadays. She’d already thrown her life away for one dangerous bad boy—and she’d gotten knocked up at eighteen as a reward.

  The memory of Trent was all it took to banish her rising desire.

  Squaring her shoulders, she pushed his hand off her waist and took a step backward. “What you want makes no difference,” she said quietly. “I won’t get involved with you, Seth.”

  Resignation fluttered across his face. “What’s your reason this time?”

  She set her jaw defiantly. “Same one it always is. I’m a mom.”

  When he blanched slightly at the M-word, she let out a wry laugh. Oh, for Pete’s sake, why hadn’t she just led with that instead of letting this conversation drag on for far longer
than necessary?

  In the four months she’d known Seth, he hadn’t shown the slightest interest in her kids, and if the subject did happen to come up, he usually donned a blank look and acted indifferent to everything she said. She didn’t know why, but for Seth, children seemed to be on par with root canals and canine fashion shows, both of which he’d expressed extreme dislike for.

  “I don’t have time to fool around with you,” she went on. “Or anyone, for that matter. Between raising two six-year-olds, working five days a week at the studio and part-time here at the bar, I barely have time to read the paper, let alone have sex.”

  To her aggravation, Seth grinned. “That just proves how much you need me.”

  “Oh really?”

  “If reading a newspaper takes priority over having sex, then clearly you’ve never had your world rocked.”

  “I don’t need any rocking in my world. I get motion sickness.” She laced up her sneakers, then headed for the door.

  He trailed after her. “Fine, I’ll let this go. If that’s what you want.”

  “It is.” A rush of relief flooded her belly. Thank God. Fighting off Seth’s advances the past few months had been much harder than she’d ever admit.

  “Don’t look so happy.” He smirked. “I meant I’d let it go for tonight.”

  Crap. She should’ve known it wouldn’t be that easy.

  Seth blocked her path before she could open the door, running a hand through his messy hair. His hair was short, but definitely not the military cut every man in San Diego seemed to have. Black locks often fell onto his forehead and curled behind his ears, and she couldn’t count the number of times her fingers had tingled with the urge to smooth back those unruly strands.

  “When’s your next shift?” he asked.

  “Monday.”

  “Eight to close?”

  It didn’t surprise her that he knew the exact time of her shift. God knew he came to the club often enough.

  “Hey, I have an idea,” she said with a big fake smile. “Maybe you can go somewhere else on Monday. The Tavern or the Sand Bar, maybe Hot Zone—ooh, there’s this new club on 4th that you might like. I heard it attracts a lot of loose young women looking for a good time…”