She got up again and snatched her box of badly written poems back. She placed them carefully on the swing. He couldn’t believe she’d kept them—it made his heart feel so fucking huge in his chest, he thought it was about to burst.
She straightened and lifted her chin to look at him. He remained seated and perfectly still, curious to see what was next.
Daff sucked in a deep, shuddering breath and dropped the coat she’d been wearing. It was too damned hot to wear a coat in late October, but she was making a gesture and it required a reveal.
His eyes drank her in . . . okay, maybe they didn’t so much drink as kind of hop from place to place. He clearly hadn’t been expecting saggy sweatpants, flip-flops, and a ratty old T-shirt.
“Spencer, I can’t say I truly know who I am. Not just yet,” she admitted softly. “I think I’m kind of a work in progress. I hate eggs, I hate jazz, I fucking hate bird-watching—it’s boring as hell. I like slouching around in my oldest, comfiest clothing. Sometimes I don’t wash my hair for days, and in winter I wear long skirts and yoga pants, like, all the time because I’m too lazy to shave my legs. I have no idea what the hell I want to do with the rest of my life, but I think maybe I kind of liked managing that stupid boutique, so maybe I’ll go to business school and study marketing or something. I enjoyed coming up with creative ways of appealing to customers. Who knows? I’ll go to college and work it out from there. I’m not perfect; I get zits and bloated and cranky as hell when I have PMS, and sometimes I don’t shave my armpits. I—”
He got up so quickly, she didn’t have time to react, and he had his arms wrapped around her and his mouth on hers in two seconds flat. Daff sighed and leaned in to his kiss, feeling like she’d just come home.
“You’re so fucking beautiful, Daff. And when you turn into a hairy yeti in winter, I’ll still think you’re gorgeous. Maybe—but probably not—I’ll pop your zits for you.” He grimaced comically. “Yeah, probably not, but I’ll yell my support from the other room if you feel the need to pop them yourself.”
“Spencer,” she whispered, snuggling her face into his neck. “My gesture. You’re ruining it.”
“Sorry. But not really sorry.”
She sighed.
“That’s supposed to be ‘sorry not sorry.’ I have much to teach you, grasshopper,” she intoned gravely, and he grinned. “Anyway, I was going to say, I can’t say I truly know who I am . . . but I do know that I like myself when I’m with you. And I think that’s because I’m not trying to be this perfect woman around you.”
“I don’t want a perfect woman, Daff, I want you—” He paused and then grimaced. “That sounded so much better in my head.”
“Spencer,” she said, grabbing his head in her hands and holding it steady so that she could look into his eyes. “I’ve been so miserable without you. I love you and I don’t really think I can live without you. So I want those strings.”
“Daff, we don’t have to rush into—”
“Strings, Spencer! They’re important, because I would prefer not to have to peel more skanks off you in the future. I want them to know you’re off-limits. That you’re mine and I’m yours.”
“Fine . . . but you’re going to have to allow me time to work on my own grand gesture, because I want to marry you, Daff, but I’m not fucking proposing to you on a porch full of your ex-boyfriends.”
She giggled.
“This shit is all headed for the charity shop tomorrow, you know that, right?” he warned her, and she nodded, finding herself quite unable to stop smiling. He caught her eyes and smiled back.
“I’ve been miserable without you, too, darling,” he said, and she melted at the sound of the endearment. “I never want to be without you again. So please. You have to be sure this is what you really want, Daff.”
“No take-backsies, Spencer. My life is too damned desolate without you.”
“Daff, it’s not just me, it’s also—”
“Charlie. I know, Spence,” she reassured, reaching up to cup the side of his face with her palm. She loved the feel of his stubble abrading her skin. “You guys are a package deal. As long as she’s clear that there’s going to be a lot of embarrassing kissing and stuff in her immediate vicinity.”
He grinned.
“I’ll make sure she understands that some things are just as inevitable as the tides.”
“Why are we still talking?” Daff asked, going onto her toes to steal a kiss. “I want to ravish your gorgeous bod, Carlisle. Stop delaying the inevitable.”
He growled and grabbed her ass and hauled her up against him. Confident in his strength, she hooked her arms around his neck and her legs around his waist while he supported her butt in his palms and ate her mouth.
“You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me, Spencer,” she breathed when they came up for air moments later. “And I’ve decided that I deserve you.”
He grinned shyly, that sweet smile that had so ensnared her heart, and anointed her lips with the gentlest of kisses.
“That’s my girl.”
EPILOGUE
“So last week was fun,” Sam Brand, who stood next to Lia for the bridal party picture, said into Lia’s ear, and she shot him an appalled look. How could he be bringing that up here at her sister’s wedding? Where anybody could hear him?
The ceremony had been beautiful, of course. Perfect and romantic, everything that Lia had hoped hers would be. Daisy and Mason’s vows—which they had written themselves—hadn’t left a dry eye in the crowd. Lia was happy for Daisy, but she couldn’t help but feel a stab of envy as well. If Clayton had been a better man—the right man— Lia could have been the one exchanging vows with a man who treasured her and loved her above all else. Instead, this was her sister’s wedding and Lia was saddled next to this man—who was interested in nothing but bedding her—for the duration. And he kept making excuses to touch her and breathe on her and brush against her and now he was speaking to her.
About something that he’d promised never to talk about again. The biggest—okay, maybe second biggest—mistake of Lia’s life.
“We’re not discussing this here,” she whispered from the side of her mouth. “Or ever again.”
“C’mon, Lia. I’m leaving tomorrow, and since Daisy and Mason are moving, it’s not likely you’ll ever see me again. I’m single, you’re single—”
“So help me, if you say ‘let’s mingle’—”
“Let me make you tingle,” he finished, ignoring her interruption. She gasped again, fighting back unwanted images of her stupid, drunken mistake the other night. It was completely uncharacteristic, and she was not going to repeat it. No matter how great he smelled right now, how enticing that roguish grin looked, or how mind-blowingly fantastic his body was beneath that tuxedo.
None of that mattered. Lia learned from her mistakes, and there were a lot of truly nice men here today. She glanced over at Sam Brand and caught him staring at her breasts and fought the urge to cover herself up with her hands. Lots of nice men here who were interested in more than just her boobies.
The photographer now wanted shots of just the bridal couple, and as the rest of them heaved relieved sighs and turned to walk away, Sam placed his palm in the small of her back, ostensibly to lead her through the departing group. She shuddered at the intimate warmth of his hand resting so close to her butt and tried to glare at him, but it was a bit demoralizing when you were trying to freeze a guy with a glare and he reacted by smiling.
“You’re so cute when you try to look stern, princess. You should get a pair of those half-rim glasses just so that you can glare at me over them. God, this is becoming a fully realized fetish,” he groaned in dawning self-recognition. “But I don’t even care. It’s hot. You’re hot. Let’s go somewhere and fuck.”
“You’re just so . . . ugh. The other night shouldn’t have happened,” she snapped, her voice low.
“The other night was awesome,” Sam recalled with a nostalgic smile. “I lost track—how many times did you come? Four times? Five? We could try for seven tonight. After all, I have to give you something to remember me by.”
“Mr. Brand . . .” He sighed, the first sign of annoyance he’d shown her.
“Sam. Or Brand. Just drop the ‘mister’—it’s weird when you’ve had my cock in your—”
“Oh, please stop.” She held up both hands and his mouth snapped shut. “I don’t usually sleep with strangers. It’s not who I am. I’m Dahlia McGregor. I teach Sunday school, volunteer at animal shelters, I want to be a kindergarten teacher, for crumb’s sake. I don’t have these kinds of conversations with men.”
“I get it,” he said, his voice placating. “You wanted to break out of your shell for a night. Be a bad girl. But here’s the deal, princess. I’m not a stranger anymore. So it’s okay for us to have one more night. And tomorrow I’m out of your life for good. And you can go back to being Miss Priss and teaching the homeless to play harpsichord or whatever the fuck it is you usually do in your boring suburban daily life. But why not take this one moment out of time and walk on the wild side? With me.”