Tempting Little Tease (Blackwell-Lyon Book 4), Page 4

  The question pulls me back to the moment. “One, what are you talking about? And two, how come I’m not seeing chocolate on your side of the car?”

  “That’s your vice. Mine’s popcorn. I could live on the stuff. Remember when we used to go to the movies almost every weekend? Saturday and Sunday, and we’d usually stay for more than one show?”

  I chuckle as the memory comes back to me. Brody and I wanted to sit together so that we could share snarky comments—a habit which irritates me now, and for which I now apologize to anyone who ever sat near us. Since Sam didn’t like the way Brody slathered on butter and dry cheese topping, she sat on my other side, and we shared a bucket.

  “Do you still go to movies?” she asks.

  “Not as much. But who does these days, what with streaming and HDTV.”

  “I do,” she admits. “There’s too much clutter if you watch a movie in your own house. And I don’t mean clothes and junk strewn about. Mind clutter. But if you go into a theater, you’re away from home, and the dark engulfs you…” She trails off with a shrug. “You lose yourself for a while, and you come out with a whole new perspective.”

  I consider that, nodding slowly. “You may be right.”

  “I am,” she assures me. “If I have a problem—work or personal—I always seem to come out of the theater with a solution.”

  That leads into a discussion of our favorite streaming shows, including a currently popular one that has a time travel element. That, of course, spins us off in an entirely new direction, and by the time we hit Johnson City and make the turn toward Fredericksburg, we’ve spent over an hour in non-stop conversation about shows and time travel and what we’d do if we met our selves in another time.

  “You have to steer clear,” I say, because I am a die-hard Back To The Future fan. “You can’t risk messing something up.”

  “No, no. Do that, and you’re blowing a huge opportunity to sit yourself down and explain what’s what. I mean, how incredible would that be? To be able to share what you’ve learned with your younger self and completely avoid some of your worst mistakes.”

  “For example?” I prod.

  “That hideous perm I got in eleventh grade is high on the list,” she says. “That and Reginald Thorne.”

  “This weekend’s Reg? That’s his last name? Thorne?”

  “That’s him.” She shifts in her seat, then reaches into the popcorn bag. “Why? Do you know him?”

  “No. Just thinking about his last name. He’s not the devil, is he?”

  When she grins, I know she gets the reference to The Omen. “Well, I think so. But I doubt he’s going to cause Armageddon. He’s really not that important.”

  “Glad to hear it. I’m not sure I’m the kind of guy who can make the devil jealous.”

  “Oh, you most definitely are.” This time, there is no denying the sensual tone in her voice, and the pleasant rush I’ve been feeling simply from our nonstop, easy conversation takes a turn toward something hotter … and dangerous.

  I shoot her a sideways glance, but she only smiles innocently. “I have to think so, remember. You’re my beloved fiancé.”

  “Right,” I say, hoping she can’t tell that I’m rattled. Of course she was playing a role. And what the hell is wrong with me that I assumed she was marching straight into the forbidden zone?

  Cayden. That’s what’s wrong with me. And damn the man for putting ideas into my head. Or, more accurately, for dragging to the forefront ideas that I’d been trying to suppress.

  “Here,” she says, and it takes me a second to realize that she’s pointing at the turn.

  “Are you sure? We’re still about ten miles outside of Fredericksburg.”

  “I’m sure,” she says. “Turn.”

  I do, executing such a sharp turn that she leans toward me, her hand going to my thigh as she steadies herself. And I force myself not to think about how much more sense it would make for her to have steadied herself with the console between us.

  She stays like that until I have us back in the proper lane. Then she slowly moves her hand to her lap. And, damn me, I not only regret the loss of contact, I mentally chastise myself for not pressing my hand on top of hers and holding her firmly in place.

  After all, we’re almost there. Maybe it’s time to get into character.

  I should point that out, I think. But when I speak, all I say is, “So where is this place, anyway?”

  “It’s called the Lavender Inn and Resort, and it’s sort of behind the city.” She has the map up on her phone and she uses two fingers too zoom in. “We’re definitely going the right way. But it looks like we could have gone through Fredericksburg, too, then turned after the city. We’d sort of be backtracking, though. This way’s faster.”

  I almost suggest that we take the long way so that we can scope out Fredericksburg’s Main Street. That, of course, is my excuse. In reality, I’m enjoying the drive far too much to want it to end soon. That’s selfish, though. This is her best friend’s wedding, and I know she’s looking forward to getting to the resort and seeing the bride.

  After about fifteen minutes of driving past vineyards and fields of wildflowers, we arrive at the resort. From the street, we can see only the stone fence and iron gate opening onto a private drive. We follow it, and when we crest a small hill, we can see the entire resort spread out below us.

  There’s a pale blue Victorian mansion front and center, with a gravel parking area in front and beautiful flowerbeds. “That’s the main house,” Sam says. She’s pulled a brochure out of her tote and is comparing the photos to the vista spread out before us. “That’s where our room is. We’re in the Luckenbach Suite.”

  “And see over there?” She points, and I see several smaller buildings. “The converted carriage house is the bridal suite. And the row of stables on the other side of the pool? Those have been converted into suites as well.”

  “And the other buildings?”

  “Not sure. Probably conference rooms? And I think there’s a gym and spa facilities. It’s nice, don’t you think?”

  “Very. Thanks for handing me an unexpected, free vacation.”

  “Well, not really free. You have a job to do.”

  “Being your smitten fiancé? That’s not a job. It’s a perk.”

  I hadn’t intended to say that, and I’m about to call back the words, but before I get the chance, she smiles. Then very softly says, “I’m really glad to hear that.”

  It’s one of those moments when you’re not really sure what to do next. When nothing seems quite right and even the passage of time feels surreal. Then someone behind me honks, the world crashes back into normalcy, and I realize I’m still stopped in the road at the top of the hill.

  I wave an apology, then move slowly toward the main house, mindful of the ducks waddling toward us from a small pond on our right.

  As I pull into the parking area, we can see three women talking on the wrap-around porch. “That’s Cherry,” Sam says, pointing to the curly-haired blonde in the middle.

  I kill the engine. “You really didn’t know that Thorne’s her cousin?”

  She shrugs. “Is that so hard to believe? I have no idea who your cousins are.”

  “But we’re not dating.”

  “Right.” She clears her throat as she glances back toward Cherry. “Good point. Although, you are smitten with me. As of right now,” she adds, tossing me a casual smile.

  “I am,” I agree. “Which is why I will unload the luggage so you can go say hi to your friend.”

  “I have the best fake fiancé ever.” She bends toward me, kisses my cheek, then slips out of the car so quickly I barely have time to register the way my cheek tingles from the lingering warmth.

  Job perk, my ass. This is going to be torture.

  But when I watch her laughing as she hugs her friend, I know that it’s a torture I’ll happily endure. Sam should enjoy her friend’s special day, and if I weren’t here as a buffer between her and the T
horne in her side, I know she’d be on edge.

  I’ve pulled out her bag and am reaching for mine when I hear footsteps. I look up to see a guy in black jeans, a pristine white Henley with a Lavender Inn monogram, and a scruffy blond beard. He looks like an out-of-work model, and I assume he’s just working here until Hollywood comes calling.

  “I’ll help with that,” he says.

  “Thanks. I check in through there?” I point to what I assume is the main entrance.

  “Yup.”

  “Terrific. So if you can handle the bags, I’ll meet you at reception.” I take out my wallet and offer him a ten-spot.

  He shakes his head, then starts laughing. “That’s what I get for being helpful. I’m not the bellman. I saw you drive up with Sam.” He extends his hand to me, all smiles and charm. “I’m Reg.”

  Chapter Five

  My eyes dart to Sam, who’s shooting me a What The Fuck look, which pretty much sums up exactly how I feel.

  “Sorry,” Thorne says, obviously clueing in to our nonverbal communication. “I didn’t mean for us to get off on the wrong foot.”

  “No, it’s fine. I was just in the wrong mindset.” I point to the monogram. “The shirt.”

  “Oh, hell.” His fingers trace the words. “I didn’t even think about that. My fault.”

  “No worries,” I assure him.

  “You’ll have one, too, once you get to your room. Anyway, great meeting you. I’ll let you two get checked in. Tell Sam I’ll say hi to her later.”

  “Will do,” I assure him, silently congratulating his decision to postpone that greeting, especially since Sam hasn’t made the slightest move this direction.

  He claps me on the shoulder, then heads off. The moment he disappears around the side of the building, Sam hurries to my side.

  “I’m so sorry,” she says, stooping to pick up her bag.

  I stop her, reaching for the handle. “I got this. I told you.”

  She makes a face. “That was before. Now I want to get off the porch and into our room as soon as possible. And then I want you to tell me every single word he said.”

  I quash an absurd spurt of jealousy, then grab both suitcases over her protests and lead the way into the Inn. We’ve just reached the ramp onto the porch when a swarthy teen in the same Henley—this one with Matt embroidered over the logo—introduces himself as the guest liaison. He takes our names, and tells us that we’re all checked in. He gives us the keys to the Luckenbach Suite, assures us a bellman will be right behind with the luggage, and leads us to our room.

  It’s easy enough to find. The house is three stories, with four suites on the main floor, along with a sitting area, kitchen and dining area. Two more suites are on the second floor, and the third is set up as a media room.

  Since we’re in one of the first floor suites, we only hear rather than see Matt’s description of the other floors. “I’m happy to give you the full tour,” he tells us, but I assure him that we’ll explore on our own. I want to check out our room. And I want to have some time to put on my game face.

  Sam, I can tell, just wants to get someplace where we can talk.

  Being an agreeable sort, Matt leads us into our suite, and as I jolt to a stunned stop, I hear Sam gasp. “Wow,” she whispers, and Matt beams, as pleased as if he’d designed and decorated it himself.

  The suite is huge, and we’ve stepped into a sitting room appointed with period furniture and drapes. Matt pulls the drapes aside, letting in more light and revealing a set of French doors, beyond which I can see a small garden.

  “Your private entrance,” Matt says. “There’s a gate in the garden’s left wall that opens onto the pool area. So you can come and go this way without going through the house.”

  We check out the fragrant garden, then peek at the sparkling pool, and I regret not bringing trunks. Then again, I could get equally behind a beer or margarita while sitting by the pool in shorts. Especially if that activity involves watching Sam.

  When we go back inside, Matt shows us the tiny service area. “Just coffee and a small fridge for water, juice, wine. Whatever. But you have full access to the house kitchen, and of course we serve breakfast and dinner, along with a light lunch and snacks.”

  He shows us the master bathroom next, entering off the sitting area. It’s equipped with a steam shower that features wall jets as well as a rain-style shower head. A huge clawfoot tub, that is more than adequate for two, serves as the focal point for the room. I wonder if we’ll get to test it out, then immediately chastise myself for letting my mind go that direction.

  We exit through the other door, this one leading directly into the master bedroom. Which, in fact, is the only bedroom. The bed is queen sized, surrounded by royal-style drapes, and made up with a lush spread and silk pillows in various shades of red. There are also two complimentary shirts, monogramed with the resort logo.

  The whole room screams decadence and sensuality, and I decide right then that it’s best not to look at Sam. As it is, it’s going to be awkward enough sharing a queen bed. I’d been expecting a king. And a sofa bed. Or at least a couch.

  But while the sitting room furniture is lovely, it’s also period. Which means it really wasn’t made for sleeping.

  Which means we’re sharing a bed.

  I considered that both a perk … and a potentially dangerous situation.

  “Well,” Matt says with his bright guest services smile, “I think that’s everything. The resort is fully occupied by the wedding party and guests, so your group has the run of the place. There’s an itinerary for the weekend on the desk in the sitting area. And I imagine your cases are already waiting in the hall. I’ll roll them inside on my way out. And please, enjoy your stay.”

  I hand him the tip I’d tried to give to Reg, and Sam and I wait until we hear the door shut behind him. Then I turn to Sam and let out a low whistle. “I don’t know about you, but I’m a little intimidated.” I’ve been all over the world, but most of that travel was courtesy of the military. I’m not embarrassed to say I’ve never stayed in any place quite this luxurious.

  Thankfully, Sam laughs. “No kidding, right?”

  “We’ll have to make a point to enjoy it.”

  She lifts her chin so that she’s looking me straight in the eye. “I’m one hundred percent behind that plan.”

  There’s not a damn thing suggestive about her words, but once again, they ricochet through me, an unexpected sensual assault.

  She takes a step back, then moves into the living area. I follow, watching as she heads to her luggage. “I saw you guys talking,” she says as she casually rolls the case toward the bedroom.

  It’s clear she’s referring to Thorne, not Matt, and unwelcome pinpricks of jealousy poke at me. “I thought he worked here. The shirt.”

  She nods, as if acknowledging the reasonableness of my mistake. “So you didn’t talk about anything else?”

  “He said he’d tell you hi later. And I didn’t get a devil vibe at all. Honestly, he seems like a nice enough guy.” I get that she’s upset at being tossed over for another woman, but maybe they simply weren’t right for each other.

  She crosses her arm and cocks her head. “I didn’t realize you thought I was a shallow idiot.”

  Okay. That wasn’t the response I was expecting. “Hello? What did I do?”

  “Do you really think I’d go out with an obvious jerk just because he’s easy on the eyes? Of course he seems nice. That’s how devils suck you in.”

  I concede the point, wondering if I’ll get any hints of Reg’s devilish qualities over the course of the weekend. To be honest, I’d just as soon not see the guy again. But considering this entire performance is for his benefit, I know that won’t happen.

  “How’s Cherry?” I ask, mostly to shift the subject away from The Ex.

  “Nervous. Excited. But Peach and Daisy are keeping her calm, I think.” She lifts her hard shell suitcase onto the bed and unzips it.

  “Peach and
Daisy?” I ask, sitting on the end of the bed and watching as she withdraws summery dresses, shorts, and—yes—lacy underwear and bras.

  What I don’t see her unpack is any sort of nightgown or pajamas. And, of course, that sets my imagination spiraling.

  “They’re her sisters,” Sam says, her words having no connection whatsoever to the movie in my head.

  “What? Who?”

  “Peach and Daisy.” She pauses on the way to the dresser, a tantalizing pile of panties in her hands. “You asked who the other girls with Cherry were.”

  “Right. Sorry. Mind wandering.”

  Her brows do a little dip and rise routine that I can’t interpret, but then she continues as if there was nothing awkward about her lingerie or my inappropriate thoughts. “Don’t get any of them started on the names. They’ve embraced them now, but as kids they did nothing but complain about their parents.”

  “Have you met the groom?”

  “Not yet. I told you we’re besties, but we moved apart after college. We still keep in touch and talk all the time, though. And for years we’ve been taking at least one vacation together.” She frowns. “I guess that’ll change now, won’t it?”

  “Jealous?”

  “Of her getting married? Of course not. It’s not like I’m ready to settle down. I mean, I still haven’t figured out what I want to be when I grow up.”

  Considering I thought she was deeply entrenched in the world of computer games, that surprises me, but before I can ask, she continues.

  “I guess I’m just bummed that he’ll get Cherry’s time now instead of me.” She lifts her shoulder philosophically. “But I guess that’s life.”

  “I guess it is. I felt the same way after Brody and Karen got together.”

  “Me, too.”

  “But in the long run it didn’t really change our friendship.”

  “No, you guys are still incredibly close. And so are me and Bro, too.” She sighs, then shakes her head. “I still can’t believe Karen’s gone. She was like a sister. And Brody—god, he was so damn broken. I didn’t have a clue what to do for him.”