An Accidental Gentleman (11 page)

“Ohh, so that’s why—” Palm out and forward, she mimed a circle over his face. “I thought you’d forgotten to shave. But clearly you lost a bet.”

“I’m growing a beard.” He scrubbed his face. Still scratchy. Approaching scratchy, at least. Theoretically over-the-top attractive to a woman who liked bad boys. “This is my badass scruff.”

“This?” She touched him. With gentle fingers, she danced across his cheek and down his throat. “Fuzzy and blond is not badass scruff, Prince Charming.”

Feeling up his face and giving him cutesy nicknames. Forget dating—they’d jumped to sickeningly sweet honeymoon coupledom complete with gagging bystanders. Their next date, first date, whatever the hell he called the damn thing, was an absolute lock.

“What you have is sweet cottonball fluff.” She ran her short nails up under his chin and let go too soon. A few seconds more, and her fingertips would’ve been in kissing range. “Maybe give it a few days before you try calling it a beard. Or scruff.”

“This here is five days of primo beardification.” He hadn’t taken a razor to his face since she’d come in his arms. Endured the good-natured ribbing of the rest of the chair jockeys in data analysis all week. Worth every minute to get her hands on him. “It’ll be more impressive when I dye the beard to match my lucky shorts.”

Collapsing into giggles, she landed with her forehead pressed to his shoulder. A sweet sound and a sweeter weight. He’d carry both a mighty long while, see if he didn’t.

* * * *

As thunder boomed, the skies opened up. The ping of sprinkles on the pavilion roof surged into a roaring downpour, drowning out conversation.

Good thing, since Brian’s so-called beard lacked the substance to survive the teasing. Hell, the minute he stepped out in the rain, the hair would rinse from his face like so much Magic Marker.

Men. Brian. Ridiculously proud of his scruffy face and his color-riot shorts. God. He’d make her life simpler as an out-of-shape hound dog with a sagging belly and a balding scalp. If she didn’t want to fuck him, he’d make a great friend.

He smelled different today, musky and male under the sharp storm and fresh with grass stains as spring green as his eyes. The swirling mix of comfort and arousal called for his arm around her as much as his shirt peeled from his back and dropped to the floor.

“You all using these?”

Kit shot up straight. Draped on Brian like a lovesick puppy, ugh.

The shouter, a smiling guy in a soaked tan T-shirt, waved at the four empty benches filling out their table. The rain had driven two score players and families onto the covered concrete slab. The crowd, hemmed in and adding to the humidity, pressed closer on all sides.

“Not a one.” Raising his voice, Brian piled their trash in a small stack and snapped his cooler shut. “Looks like tables are going for premium prices just now, but I’ll let you have the rest of this beauty for an overnight sat shift sometime when Daniel’s in Prague and wants a morning briefing.”

“Shit, that price might be too high for me.” But he swung into a seat and extended his hand as Brian flipped the trash into an open-barrel can. “Aaron. You’re the gal who got a double off my slow scramble in center, but I won’t hold it against you. Next time you come to the game, though, I won’t be sleeping.”

“Kit.” She shook extra-firm. Next time didn’t scare her a bit. Wouldn’t be a next time anyhow, because she’d fuck Brian tonight and get him out of her system. That’d be the right play. A shame, because he—but absolutely the best option. “I might have to stay off the field so my victory isn’t ruined.”

“Oh, now that’s an unfair move.” Aaron bounced his fist off Brian’s forearm. “C’mon, Surfer Boy, manly pride on the line here. Tell your girlfriend she’s gotta give me a chance to even the score.”

His friends needed to stop fucking calling her his girlfriend. The easier the word rolled off their tongues, the better the idea sounded circling in her head. The better Brian looked. Not the entitled white-collar office jockey she’d imagined him, the college guy who played racquetball in a sweatbox or golf on manicured lawns and drank imported shit for the prestige of the fancy names. A regular guy who’d made mistakes, fixed the ones he could, and tried to put his little brother on a better road. A man who cared about family.

“No can do.” Brian swatted his buddy away and flashed bright eyes toward her. His blond fuzz would be gentle on her thighs. “I don’t tell Kit her mind. She’s her own woman. No labels.”

Goddammit. The pit in her stomach belonged to a lovesick fool. Exactly the situation her rules avoided. Wanting and not-wanting twisted up the guts until the springs popped and the gears bent. Every stuck tooth jabbed in a sore spot. No shortage of those.

Aaron launched into some story half-drowned by the growing buzz of nearby conversations and the deep-voiced thunder rumbling through the heavy gray clouds. In a clattering shuffle, a foursome claimed the remaining benches.

More people, more labels, more pressure to know what the hell she was doing with Prince Charming. Would an uncomplicated fuck in his car while the rain beat down around them be so much to ask for?

“Hey.” Brian slid up against her, their shoulders forming one broad bulwark. No shouts to be overheard, just a solid nudge and a low tone meant for her alone. “Sure is getting stuffy in here, right?” He clasped her fingers in a quick squeeze, gone before the full hold registered. “Must be all the hot air trapped under the roof.”

His lips shaped each letter. Syllable. Whatever those things were called that no one gave a damn about after middle school because boys with mouths and lips and teeth and tongues grew far more interesting. A soft kiss, for his sweet rescue. A hard kiss, for the way she’d taste him before she let him fuck her. No kiss at all, because they sat surrounded by his friends and colleagues, who undoubtedly figured them for calf-eyed new lovers.

She followed his thumb up the curves of his knuckles to the back of his hand and traced the tendon to his wrist. “You wanna get out of here?”

A glance for the roof and its driving beat, and he set his level gaze on her. “Make a run for it? My gear bag’s in the dugout. We’ll get drenched.”

Reason enough to strip off their clothes and warm up together.

“A little water isn’t going to break me, Brian.” Hell, the rain shower might wash away the muddiness in her head until her thoughts ran clear again. She gripped his arm, and he flexed under her palm. She’d hold his biceps when he braced himself over her, when his nice-guy manners insisted on not crushing her and she dragged him into the abyss beyond manners for a night he wouldn’t forget. “Is it going to break you?”

Swallowing, he stared at her hold on his arm. “No, ma’am. Lead the way.”

She snatched his little cooler off the table and threaded through the crowd with his hand tucked away in hers. He stayed at her heels, so close they rubbed together as often as a grasshopper’s legs in a mating song.

Same reasoning, too. She ought to fuck him before she grew more attached to his sexy-sweet stares and his ridiculous shorts. Hell, imagining he might understand her living at home because he took pity on his baby brother’s situation. As if she wanted his pity. A quick fuck had no reason to know a thing about her, and a long-term prospect would be an unwelcome hassle.

Thunder boomed over the chattering crowd as she reached the edge of the concrete slab. Run-off sleeting from the roof pooled and streamed through the grassy area behind the bleachers.

“Ready to run?” She flashed him a smile, her best mischief-making grin, and crossed the line. “Let’s see you hustle.”

The storm devoured her shout, but Brian plunged into the riot with her all the same. She sprinted for the dugout with the six-pack cooler banging against her knuckles. The rain infiltrated her clasp on Brian, turning their skin slick. Easier to let him go, but a rebellious no fought simple logic. She clamped down until her fingers ached.

As they rounded the bleachers, the packed dirt churned into mud under their feet. The earth sucked at her tennis shoes, threatening to pull her out of them. She lurched forward.

Grabbing her shoulder, Brian yanked her upright. “Watch your step. Ground’s muddy.”

The storm had soaked them to the skin. Water ran down his face and across his T-shirt collar in rivers, unable to saturate the fabric any more.

“Oh, is it?” She raised her face to the sky and swept the plastered hair from her cheeks. Tempting to lick the water off his neck and see what he made of that move. “You think that might have something to do with all the rain we’re getting?”

“Might could.” As he steadied her, he brushed a ticklish spot beneath her ear. “Be right back.”

He trotted around the chain-link and snatched one of the waxed canvas bags lying in the mud.

The water beat down with the warmth and pressure of a showerhead. Brian still owed her for the interrupted shower orgasm. She didn’t dare glance down. Her shirt, heavy and sopping, clung every time she moved, and her hardening nipples undoubtedly gave him a barometer on her thoughts.

Wait ’til they reached the cars, at least. Families with kids milled under the pavilion, for chrissake. Out toward the parking lot, a few other brave souls ran for their rides. A line of cars crept forward, each pausing at the walkway between the barbecue pits and the cinderblock bathrooms. Passengers rushed out from under the roofed picnic area and dove into seats.

No point running, aside from the fun of splashing in the muck. Kicking through a puddle, she splattered mud clear up her legs. She hit Brian’s, too, as he sauntered up with his bag slung one-handed over his shoulder despite the weight of multiple bats and gloves.

“Playing dirty?” He tsked and clicked through his smile. “Somebody likes to stir up trouble.”

Somebody sure as hell did. She stomped, one-two, and splashed more mud his way. “Come and stop me, then.”

As he reached out, she darted back. She jogged just enough to stay ahead of his advances. With his arm extended, his hand clenched in a claw-grip, and a shambling gait, he chased her movie-monster style. All the way to the parking lot, her leading and him following, she giggled as he swiped and missed and mock-growled at her.

The happy, carefree moments came few and far between in adulthood. This, with Brian, felt more like childhood. Fun. With a man. Without sex. Somehow, the drive to fuck him fell second to the joy of playing with him. She’d lost her fucking mind, and madness was glorious.

He’d had all afternoon to play Mr. Nice Guy. Maybe he’d like to spend the night as a bad boy. Loosening up her rules more for Brian would be all right if he made concessions, too. A summer fuck-buddy. Still casual, with no guarantees except a good time. But how to ask him in the middle of rain-monster tag?

Brian stopped his pursuit. Their cars waited a dozen more down the line. Water-filled tire ruts with squishy-slop sides created an obstacle course.

She hopped across one. “I guess I win this round. Too big a leap for you?”

He nodded toward the next row of cars, over the low hood of a sporty coupe. “Married life.”

She followed his cue to the couple standing behind an old pickup. Brian’s buddy Rob held a wide umbrella over his wife’s head.

Brian switched his grip on his bag to his right hand and resettled the weight. “Sherwood’s Mr. Careful these days.”

Mr. Overprotective, more like. With one hand on Nora’s back, he kept her under shelter and guided her around toward the passenger side.

Nora shook her head and danced out into the rain. Twirling, she extended her hand.

Her husband closed the umbrella and chucked it into the truck bed. Then he took his wife’s hand, reeled her in, and started a slow dance. After three spins, he pulled open the passenger door, scooped up Nora, and set her gently in the seat. Laughing, she leaned out and kissed him.

Jesus, he’d better not be the same sort of man Erin had married. Skip town and leave his wife juggling car seats and diapers and questions about why her kid didn’t have a daddy. “Yeah. Married life.”

* * * *

The allure of the rain must’ve worn off. Kit stood wringing out the bottom of her shirt in a two-fisted grip, the cooler shoved under her arm.

“Getting somewhere dry’s not a bad idea, though.” He hustled past her, digging in his pocket for the key fob. The sooner they stowed the gear in his car, the faster they’d get on to something else. Dinner, with a heap of convincing. Sure, they’d dragged out lunch for the last hour, but they’d both need time to shower and change. Easy enough to pick back up for dinner and a movie. He’d play up the apology angle—a friendly makeup non-date to compensate for the rain. She might let him get away with that.

Shoes squelching, she strode across tire ruts and trudged through the muck. She’d been kid-at-recess playful running into the rain and all girlish giggles and squeals when he’d chased her. Hints of the Katherine inside had peeked out all afternoon, a string of small victories. But every time, she reverted to a more distant Kit.

As he popped the trunk, the downpour eased into a steady shower. Kit set the cooler inside.

Fuck, she shone even when the sun hid from nature’s fury. Her clothes, pasted to her with rain, and the mud streaking her legs made her more beautiful still. Sleek and curving, she leaned her hip on the car.

With a quick drop to his knees, he could push up her thin shirt and suckle the soft skin of her belly beneath. Lick the rainwater from her forearms when she reached for him.

She squelched those plans with a stern brow and a finger-tap on the bumper. “You planning to stow your equipment, or are you using the trunk as a rain barrel?”

Right, the reason the trunk yawned and waited. Flashing a so-sorry smile, he swung the gear bag.

His leg slid out in the muck. As the bats thudded on the trunk lip, he tucked his head and went down.

Splat.

He’d missed the bumper by an inch. Real close to giving his teeth a good clacking and his head a bump.

“You okay?” Clanking bats and a solid thud gave her voice a background track. “Brian?”

Was he okay? Downside, he’d be an absolute mess when he got up. On the plus side, the bag hadn’t fallen on his head. She must’ve heaved everything the rest of the way in.