“You want me to buy drinks for fifty friggin’ people?”
He didn’t flinch.
“You want to marry my sister?”
“I’ll dance to this tune until Valentine’s Day, Book, but once she says ‘I do’ the ‘want-to-marry-my-sister?’ shite ends, and I’m no longer your wench.”
Booker smiled and popped the door. “I count six long weeks between now and February fourteenth. Lead the way, wench.”
He had a woman to claim.
…
“Sounds like you’ve got the whole town packed into your apartment.”
Laurie pushed the phone to her ear to hear over the din of the party. She wasn’t about to let a little logistical challenge like Chelsea’s recent move to Maui for work keep them from ringing in the New Year together. “It’s a little bigger than I planned.” Behind her, a cork exploded out of a bottle, followed by an approving roar of appreciation. “And louder. But what the hell, it’s New Year’s Eve, and…hey—!”
She broke off as a helpful soul refilled her flute, and splashed a liberal amount of ice-cold Korbel down the front of her silver sequin top in the process. The white, silk shorts that ended high on her thighs fared better, thank God, because one errant spill and those suckers would be see-through. Her strappy, silver heels survived unscathed—though the same couldn’t be said for her protesting arches. As soon as the party ended, she planned to ditch the sandals.
Normally she might invite someone to help her work the kinks out. A strapping candidate with strong hands, who knew when to be gentle, when to be firm, and when to advance a foot rub to a full-body massage, but more and more lately only one man sprang to mind, and he was absolutely out of the question, as well as not in attendance, so… Her doorbell chimed, ringing through the chaos of music and laughter.
“Shit.” She plucked her top away from her chest and started toward her door even as the nearest guest pulled it open.
“Everything okay?” Chelsea asked.
“Nothing a trip to the dry cleaner won’t fix… Shit.”
“What now?”
Had she conjured him with one unguarded thought? Maybe, because a breath-stealing span of shoulders filled her doorframe. “I don’t believe this. Booker’s darkening my doorstep.”
“Ethan Booker? Sheriff Ethan Booker?”
“Yes, and yes.” Not in uniform, no, but otherwise looking as authoritative, and—damn her perverse hormones—hot as ever in a charcoal V-neck that did all kinds of justice to his shoulders and chest, and dark pants that did justice to everything else. The porch light found the sun-streaked strands in his thick brown hair and turned them copper.
“What do you think he wants?”
“No clue.”
Perverse or not, no red-blooded woman could deny Booker was an eyeful, but she ought to be used to it. She’d been looking her fill for a while. In the years since rookie Booker had first hauled her sorry ass home from Nido Beach, he’d worked his way up the ladder of command to sheriff, and she’d outgrown her juvenile rebellions. Mostly. She owned a business, paid taxes, and, aside from a few speeding tickets, abided by the laws like any upstanding member of society. Didn’t matter. Booker’s assessing stare always regressed her to teenaged troublemaker at the same time it sent her grown-up sex-drive surging.
She was no longer a wayward delinquent resorting to reckless behavior in a desperate search for the attention she didn’t get at home, but only a blind woman would miss the fact that he saw a shadow of that girl when he looked at her. And he looked at her a lot. As if he knew exactly what his quiet stare did to her. As if he was biding his time.
“Think he got a noise complaint?” Chelsea asked.
All her neighbors were here, so it seemed unlikely, but she raised her chin and channeled the defiance she defaulted to whenever Booker appeared. “So what if he did? It’s New Year’s Eve, for God’s sake.”
While she watched, those keen eyes scanned the room. For her.
Someone killed the music, and people started cheering.
Ten… The walls of her apartment shook as revelers broke into the countdown. “Ten lousy seconds and the party will be over anyway. What’s the point of barging in now, except to be a hard-ass?”
Nine… “Maybe he wants to wish you a happy New Year?”
Eight… “Yeah, right. From a jail cell.”
Seven… Booker’s attention locked on her. Her stomach took a free fall, as usual. She realized she was worrying the corner of her thumbnail and made herself cut it out.