I Bet You(25)

He blinks and follows my gaze. “Penelope?”

“You catch on fast.”

He stutters and mumbles something about “agent”, but I’m already gone and rushing to catch up with her.

The doorman greets me with a grin and pops out an umbrella since it’s started to rain. Big drops fall steadily on the hot concrete as I look up and down the street.

“Where did the girl in the white dress go?” I ask.

He points to the alley next to the hotel. “She darted down that way. There’s a free parking lot in the back.”

I know the one. With a sharp turn, I take off after her and see a flash of her skirt as she turns behind another building.

I call out her name, but the steady rain has morphed into a downpour and thunder rumbles in the sky.

I run down the alley and take the same right she did. Finally, she’s stopped next to her car.

“Penelope!” I call out and jog over to her, sidestepping puddles.

I reach her and she looks up at me, a frown on her face as she huddles in the rain that’s drenched her dress. I do my best to keep my eyes off the lace bra she has on underneath.

“What’s wrong?” I ask just as a strong wind blows. I take a step closer to her. Mississippi is known for its thunderstorms and sometimes a tornado or two, even in the fall.

“I’m soaked, for one, and I have a flat tire. Again!” Her lips compress as she glares down at the slumping car. “It was just a spare, and I kept meaning to get a new one, but I never had the time. Just a great ending to an already crappy day.”

With a brief look down, I see the dismal-looking spare. “Come on,” I say. “My car’s this way.” I nod my head toward the other side of the street where the covered parking is. I reach for her hand and clasp it firmly. “We’ll worry about your car later.”

A flash of indecision flicks across her face for half a second before she nods. She clutches her portfolio to her chest, and we take off running.

She nearly trips and I pause as she bends over and tries to adjust her heels.

Fuck that.

We’re only about twenty feet away from the covered parking lot, so I sweep her up and take off.

“What on earth are you doing?” she calls out over the downpour as I adjust her, cradling her in my arms. She isn’t a lightweight, but she’s light enough for me to run with. Her free hand that isn’t clutching her folder curls around my neck.

“Trying to keep you from breaking your neck,” I say back gruffly.

I look down at her, and I’m feeling…protective. Again. I’m a caveman when she’s around.

I dodge a mud puddle, and she slips a little until I hitch her up closer. “You’re going to kill us,” she yells out, and I laugh.

Hell, this is more fun than I’ve had in weeks.

We enter the parking garage, and I set her down on her feet. She sways back and forth a bit, and I steady her as she huffs out a little laugh. “That was exciting. No one’s ever run with me in their arms before. I’m not a small person.”

“You’re welcome.” I smirk, doing a futile job of trying to get the rain off my clothes.

We’re both soaked, and I watch as she uses her free hand to wipe the dampness from her face. She pushes her hair back off her forehead.

I take in her plastered hair and smeared mascara. I grin. “You look like a drowned raccoon.”

Her eyes drift over my damp clothes, lingering on the V-neck of my button-down. “You look like a wet…football player.”

I laugh and step closer, tilting her chin up. “Hey, who was that guy?”

Her lashes flutter against pale cheeks. “No one important.”

Uh-huh.

I open the passenger side of my truck and shove over books and a few practice jerseys. She gets inside and I help her with the seat belt even when she insists she can do it. “Just let me do it. This one gets stuck.”

“Okay.” She sighs, her hands folded in her lap.

I get the buckle done and look at her.

“Was it a date?” I ask, circling back to the mystery dude.

She smirks. “Hardly. He’s at least ten years older than me.”

A few ticks of silence stretch between us and I sigh. Her door is open and I’m standing in front of her. “I’m not starting this truck until I know who he is and why you were upset.”

Her eyes flash up at me. “Has anyone ever told you how stubborn you are?”

“So are you, babe.”

She stares down at her hands. “He’s a literary agent.”

I straighten my shoulders, coming to attention. “You’re writing a book?”

She nods. “I write about everything.”

“Well, if it’s anything like football, to even get an agent to meet with you is a big deal.”

Her shoulders slump. “My dad set up the meeting for me.” She shrugs. “I sent him some samples to read, and he called and asked to talk with me. I thought he was going to offer me a big deal with a signing bonus…” She pauses, and her hands twist in her lap. “He only came because he’s friends with my dad.” She swallows and shoots a rueful look at me. “He said my work has promise but isn’t for him. I want to write romance.”

My cock twitches, recalling her romance.

“I’m sorry.” I hold my hands out. “Not sorry that you want to write romance—that sounds great—but sorry he didn’t work out.”

She nods.

“There are other agents,” I tell her. “You just have to find the right one.” I lean over and my lips touch hers, an indulgent graze where my tongue licks her bottom lip. I straighten back up, taking in her scent, lemony and sweet.

We stare at each other until a horn blast makes us both start.

She swallows. “Thank you for the pep talk.”

Right. Back to business.

I shut her door and run around to my side, crawling in and cranking up the engine. I turn right out onto the main drag.

“My house is the other way,” she says.

I shoot her a long look. “I know. We’re going to Cadillac’s so I can teach you how to play pool.”

Her eyes flare. “Okay.”

I reach over and toss her two of my jerseys. “Here, these are clean. You can use one to dry off and put the other one on over your dress. I can see your nipples.”

She flushes.

“They’re pink,” I say tightly.

“Oh.”

I clear my throat. “As opposed to being, you know, another color.”

God. I’m an idiot.

She’s silent as she moves around in the cab, drying off. She takes a makeup mirror out of her purse and reapplies her lipstick then dabs at her eyes. From the depths of her bag, she finds a brush and lets her hair down. My senses tingle as she brushes it out, the smell of her permeating the small space. Finally, she’s satisfied with her appearance and takes the bigger jersey, puts her arms in, and slips it over her head.

“How’s this?” she asks, her voice uncertain.

I flick my eyes over at her and my heart stops. I swallow. Her hair is down and curling up around her face. A soft bloom tints her cheeks, and her lips are deep red.

I’d like to pull this truck over and fuck her long and hard—

“You’ll do,” I mutter.





Penelope



Cadillac’s is a tradition with Waylon students. A dimly lit laid-back place, the walls are lined with photographic memorabilia from old cars and Marilyn Monroe and James Dean headshots. There’s even a signed photo of Elvis on the wall, and it makes me laugh, recalling my ridiculous conversation with Connor. Some claim the original owner was a onetime movie agent who retired to Magnolia in his 60s. That was years ago and I don’t know who owns it now, but it’s a fun place to hang out in, a diner with a long bar and eating area, pool tables, and an arcade in the back with video games and bowling. The diner section is my favorite with its 50s-style car-shaped booths and jukebox.

Tonight’s crowd is starting to gather, lined up at the bar for the Sunday five-dollar steak and potato deal.

“I look ridiculous,” I say with a pout as I follow Ryker to the pool tables.

He also changed clothes, pulling from a gym bag he keeps in the car. As soon as we walked in, he hit the restroom and changed into athletic shorts, a Waylon shirt, and a ball cap. I admit, I’m a bit fascinated by the way his hair curls around his hat. It makes me want to whip it off and run my fingers through it.

“You look great,” he says rather grimly and then mumbles something else, but I can’t make it out.

“I can’t hear you,” I say, double-stepping to keep up with him in my heels. “Why are you being so surly?” He’s been this way since we walked in the place, and my gut tells me it’s because the first person we ran into at the door was Archer.

My eyes drift over to the section of seats where he is now, and sure enough, the asshole is watching us. Anger returns as I recall how scared he made me the other night. Our eyes meet and his are beady and watchful. I frown. I don’t know what his and Ryker’s deal is, but it makes the hair on my arms rise.

Ryker keeps trucking, his long legs stalking to the wall where the pool sticks are. He’s standing there, studying our choices, and I take the moment to appreciate his broad shoulders and the way they taper down to his perfect ass.

He tosses a look at me over his shoulder. “See something you like?”