Rick shook his head, holding his hands up. "This is totally Marley's call. I know she'll look beautiful no matter what she wears."
"Yeah, well if you are fine with your bride wearing combat boots and a toga down the aisle then I'll leave it alone."
Rick turned to me with his nervous smile. "Baby, your sister makes a good point."
I stood up and glared at Stevie. She mimicked my movements. We bent over the dining table towards each other with our fists clenched.
"Sometimes I think you're not a girl," she wailed at me.
"Sometimes I think you're too much of a girl," I wailed back.
We were joking of course, like we always did. I glanced around the table and I knew what everyone was thinking. Rick wanted to pull me into his lap. Adam was trying to come up with a smartass comment to make. Dillon was contemplating why the forks didn't all match. Billie was readying to stand up and add her two cents. My mother was the one who was going to break us up.
This was my family and I knew them like the back of my hand.
In the end, Van Morrison surprised all of us by jumping on the table, and nibbling my cake.
"Damn, Stevie, your pussy's eating my German Chocolate cake."
Rick encircled my waist and pulled me down to his lap. "That's my job."
I think the groans and moans and complaining that followed could be heard throughout the whole neighbourhood.
"What! I'm saying it because Marley and I always share desserts. What were you perverts thinking?"
Yep, I love that man.
Also available from Total-E-Bound Publishing:
Samantha Lytton: The Dimple of Doom
Lucy Woodhull
Excerpt
Chapter One
It's a Not-So-Wonderful Life
Accountants should not be so sexy.
It all started at the office Christmas party, as many terrible hangovers do.
My palms began to sweat at the sight of The Accountant walking in my direction. His shining eyes said, I wanna spread your sheet, his masterful gait said, Damn, I'm masterful, and his tantalising smirk said, I've read the Kama Sutra-all the way through.
I swallowed the lump of lust in my throat and twiddled with the tablecloth of the catered buffet table. My usual party plan involved making winsome eyes at the food, but tonight I salivated over more than just the pigs in a blanket.
"Potato ball?" he asked. Sam Turner, aka The Accountant, held the fried offering palm up on a festive red and green paper plate.
I had the hots for a dude named Sam. My name is Samantha. Samantha ‘n' Sam. It was the stuff of obnoxious wedding invitations.
What colour were his hazel eyes today? Glancing up, I slid into hormone heaven. He stood, eyes mossy green pools of sensual seductiveness, and offered me the Garden of Eden apple. Except it was a potato ball.
Cocking my head, I posed in an alluring manner that I hoped brought Marilyn Monroe to mind. I should say something. Something not stupid.
"I love balls." Oh, damn. "And potatoes!" Did I just tell him I loved to eat balls? "I mean I love to eat food! In ball form. You know. Because it's easy. To eat. Except when it rolls. Then it can be hard to catch."
Stop.
Talking.
"Okay." Sam's lips turned upward in mockery on his almost handsome, totally charming face, topped in curling, floppy, please-run-your-hands-through-me brown hair.
Yes, I absolutely had told him I loved to eat balls. I decided I should smile through this faux pas. Everyone knew a bright grin made unpleasant things go away. Ask Judy Garland.
"I like food in stick or chip form myself," he said, munching a piece of celery in stick form.
I couldn't come up with anything to say about sticks that wasn't dirty. "Chips are good." Really, I impressed even myself with the brilliance of my witty banter. At any moment my clothes would be ripped off my quivering body by Sam, my same-named accounting crush.
I hated the office Christmas party.
Sam blinked and appraised me in what I chose to interpret as a captivated manner. A girl could dream. Instead he said, "So, Scott told me you entertained the employees at last year's party."
"Yes. I fell down the steps." My cheeks burned like the carpet at the end of two flights of stairs. I wasn't clumsy too often, but when I made the effort, I really won at it. "You can still see the splotch on the floor from the blood. I lost a tooth, but gained a reputation."
"That's gross." He grinned. One wouldn't call him drop-dead gorgeous or anything. At first, you might consider him kinda ordinary-looking. Then the naughty glimmer in his eye caught your breath. The smile appeared, emphasising the lickable curve of his bottom lip. Charm emanated from his very pores.
And, of course, he possessed the nuclear weapon of facial features. The dimple. Only one-on the left side of his face-deep enough to bury yourself in. One flicker and panties fell at thirty paces.
My body temperature had suddenly shot upward to somewhere near surface of the sun levels. I'd disconnected completely from the conversation and reverted to teenage-girl-like gawking.
I took a steadying breath and jumped back into the fray. "So, accounting? Is that as glamorous as it sounds?" I had, apparently, decided that deriding his profession was the way to go, flirt-wise. Plays like this were risky, but desperation had sunk in. His temp job in the finance department ended today-I would have no more chances to bend and snap at the water cooler for his benefit.
The corners of his sometimes green, sometimes brown, always dreamy eyes crinkled. "Of course. Usually I have eight models in my accounting entourage, but I gave them the night off."
Uh-oh. He was funny, too. It just wasn't fair. "How kind of you. You could say you're a model boss! Ha ha!" Yes, I laughed at my own joke, which was a behaviour shared by the most sophisticated of ladies. Then I remembered I turned a horrid shade of blotchy red when I got too excited. I choked off my laughter and forced down some potato.
"I could say that, but I won't."
"No, you really shouldn't."
The dimple chose that moment to come out and play. Oh, Sam-let's retire to the supply room and hump. It had been so long since I had humped anyone. Or anywhere. I shoved more mmmmm-yummy potato ball into my mouth and almost didn't get it on my festive sweater, the beautiful red one I'd spent way too much money on in the hopes of getting Sam to notice me.
He noticed now. "You have a blob of-"
Then he grabbed my boob.
"Jesus, I'm sorry!" His eyes became saucers, and he jerked his hand back, leaving my skin scorched and feverish. "There's a bunch of potato on your … sweater. Let's, um, let's go to the kitchen. There's a sink."
My stomach dropped three storeys-I'd just accidentally got to second base in public. He grabbed my arm, and we hurried past a maze of monochrome cubes draped in twinkle lights to the break room. This was the most exciting event in the office since they had switched the carpeting from taupe to tan.
Sam stood there while I applied a paper towel to my tit. Actually, he didn't merely stand there-he stared, turned away, blinked and stared again. I couldn't blame the guy. The girls were rather ravishing-perky from the cold water, encased in a formidable push-up bra, eager for more inappropriate fondling.
"I'm sorry about … that." He slumped and shoved his hands in his pockets.
"It's okay. It happens." I smiled, brimming with reassurance.
The tension finally broke when he snickered. "It does? How often does it happen? You should avoid potato balls."
"And accountants."
We laughed at each other. For once I wasn't laughing by myself.
My ears pricked at the silence surrounding us. The back office echoed, and we were alone. The whirring hum of the old refrigerator sounded like a Lionel Ritchie love song to me in my hyper-aroused state. Hello? Is it me you want to do on the floor?
I stared at him, knowing I resembled an enraptured puppy, but unable to help it. Unbelievably, he gazed right back. Soft green eyes mesmerised me. After what felt like ten minutes, I found my voice again. "I think I'll wait here until my boo-sweater dries."
"I understand." His focus never left my face. "We don't want to start any lactating rumours."
"No. It takes a long time for those to go away-I know from experience."
Sam chuckled, flashing the dimple again.
What happened next was one hundred per cent the dimple's fault-the evil dent winked in his cheek like a boozy lounge singer, urging me to bad behaviour.
I reached up his five-nine or so height and pulled the collar of his green shirt down to my five-foot lip level to kiss him.
He smelt divine-shaving cream and man skin. An enticing combination. His lips were soft and surprised at first, but soon parted to allow my exploration. Sweet. He tasted sweet, warm, delicious. Oh, God.
My fantasies about kissing him were pale, pathetic compared to the real thing. Sparks flew from my lips through my veins to my toes, singeing various important parts in between. The sudden heat emanating from his talented mouth made me dizzy. Blood pounding, I clutched him harder to remain upright. This was not an ordinary kiss. This was a masterpiece painted by the two of us.