“There’s nothing to hide, sweetheart. What you see is what you get.”
She curled her fingers under her chin. “Not so sure about that. Remember, I know you.”
How could he forget? She lit up any room she walked into. Men flocked around her, and women—well, he remembered the lethal stares. On top of that, they’d shared secrets before, almost made love. “It’s good to see you, Tina.” He’d never forgotten her, but the most important thing was getting her foot looked at. He started to get up.
“Are those assless chaps?”
“What?”
“The kind male strippers wear—absolutely love them.” She didn’t try to mask her enthusiasm as her gaze wandered over his hips and legs.
The girl had a way of making him feel uncomfortable in his own skin. Maybe that was why he had avoided her after the wedding. He’d experienced too much pain with women he cared about and wasn’t about to open himself up for another hard fall. If he were completely honest, the idea of getting close to Tina scared the shit out of him. “I’m not going to justify that ludicrous question with an answer. For the record, though, I rode today—that’s why I’m wearing leathers.” His lips twitched as he caught her mischievous grin. “Stay put while I get Doc.”
She nodded.
As he walked away, she squealed. Vincent turned around. “What happened?”
“If you weren’t wearing jeans, I’d get an eyeful of that cute ass.”
“Fuck,” he huffed out. Nothing was off-limits. He’d spent weeks with her when Lang and Lily were planning their wedding. They’d collaborated on the after party. “Better watch what comes out of that naughty mouth, Tina—you might get more than you expected.”
He stalked down the hallway, toward Doc’s bedroom. A filthy little mouth that tasted sweeter than anything he could remember. Drinks at the wedding turned into dancing, which turned into a series of shooters, which ended with kisses that left him wanting more. Relationships had a way of backfiring on Vincent. And after two failed marriages, he was trigger shy.
He knocked on Doc’s door.
“Better be good,” a gruff voice called.
“Need your medical expertise in the living room.”
The door opened and Doc stumbled into the hallway wearing boxers. “Brother down?” He rubbed his eyes.
“No. Remember Lily’s best friend?”
“That hot little piece of ass with the long black hair?”
“Yeah.” Vincent didn’t know why it bothered him to hear another man objectify Tina. “Found her in the parking lot; she sprained her ankle.”
“Let me grab my medical kit.”
“And a shirt,” Vincent suggested before he joined Tina again.
Fifteen minutes later, Tina’s foot was bandaged and elevated above her heart with an ice pack. “Will I live?” she asked with a hint of sarcasm.
Doc smiled at her, then eyed Vincent. “You will. I’m actually more concerned about my Brother here.”
“Why?” Tina asked.
“Shut up, Doc,” Vincent warned on a growl. The last thing he needed was for Doc to point out his obvious attraction to Tina.
Doc yawned and checked his watch. “Twelve thirty, I need to go back to sleep—I have an early morning appointment. Good night, Tina. If you require a chaperone, a couple of the old ladies are sleeping in the guest room at the end of the hallway.”
Vincent watched him leave, tempted to give him a solid kick in the ass for his comment. “Ready for a drink?”
“Sure.”
He loved her feisty personality. “Shots?” Preferably peppermint schnapps, what they shared at the wedding reception. Five or six of those and she was primed for sex. “Or something less potent?”
Acknowledgment of the shared memory spread across her beautiful features. “You won’t let a girl forget, will you, Vincent?”
Should he? He’d gotten as far as hiking her dress above her hips, two fingers inside her perfect little pussy, that night. A hint of her scent and taste had set him on a crash course for a full-blown relationship. Not the kind to fuck and run, Vincent controlled himself very carefully around females. Oh, he’d get the occasional blow job from a pass-around after he pounded too much beer or when testosterone flooded his system after a fight. A trade-off for not killing someone. A necessary outlet for a man driven by anger and suspicion.
“Something tells me you haven’t all on your own.”
She squirmed under the weight of his stare—wiggling her hips to get more comfortable. “Vodka cranberry,” she requested.
Tempted to laugh at her blatant attempt to deflect his comment, he walked across the expansive space to the kitchen, an open area with a double archway and long breakfast bar. The old ladies kept the fridge and liquor cabinet well stocked. He grabbed a tall glass and measured out two generous shots of vodka, then filled it with ice and juice. He chose a Budweiser for himself, then wandered back to the couch.