“I assume since my door isn’t smoking andhanging off its hinges that this is a friendly visit,” he said.
The man knew her too well. “Doesn’t have to stay that way.”
His pearly whites flashed, and there went her femininity swooning. “I’m not here to do anything I wouldn’t do in front of my momma. Just so you know.”
“Or your ex-husband?”
She had a sudden flash of Lance’s hands on her rear, his tongue in her mouth, his heady male scent enveloping her while his surprisingly strong body pressed against her, and she had to remind herself she was the daughter of a fighter pilot and a beauty queen before she felt her chin lift and her spine straighten. “You like sleeping with roadkill? Because I know where you live, which means I know where you sleep.”
He chuckled and held the door open wide. “You coming in?”
Her pulse ricocheted.
She’d been alone with him, but neverthisalone.
But she wasn’t here for his killer smile or his lean strength or even his suck-her-in bedroom eyes.
She was here to improve herself.
So she marched inside. “Hope you got sweet tea.”
“Pretty sure I need mine leaded,” he muttered.
But when she arched a look back at him, he was grinning.
She flipped her hair and faced forward again, then stopped flat out.
His living room was a shrine to the unholy Crimson Tide. A University of Alabama blanket was tossed over the brown leather couch, and Bama bobbleheads lined a shelf beneath the big-screen TV on the wall. Surrounding the TV were Bama football andAir Force airplane posters tossed in for what was undoubtedly his idea of balance. Strikes eight and nine against any possibility of this man being good dating material. Though she’d bet that TV was fabulous for watching Ole Miss football. “You shouldn’t let your frat buddies decorate your house. It’s unbecoming.”
He snorted. “And your apartment doesn’t have Razorback crap and Albert Einstein posters all over?”
Only because Tara had threatened to call and invite her momma to do some more redecorating if Kaci didn’t relinquish that job to her. Also, she was a Mississippian through and through, and not a single soul from her bloodline had ever come from Arkansas. “I’m a Rebel, not a pig, thank you very much. You gonna offer me something to drink, or just stand there acting like you’ve never had company before?”
“Depends on why you’re here.” He dropped onto his couch and propped his boots up on an ottoman, watching her.
She blew out a short breath and took a stiff position in his matching recliner, idly wondering if he had any tequila in those cabinets she could see behind the half wall separating the living room from the kitchen.
He was right. Might as well get to it.
“What we have here is a classic problem,” she said. “You got a buddy with a blown keg, and I’ve got this little discomfort with being airborne. So I’ll go flying with you, and you’ll let this whole bill-over-the-keg thing drop.”
He didn’t blink. “And I get what out of this bargain?”
“You get to watch me be miserable. There’s nothing good about me being in an airplane. But if you can fly it low enough and slow enough—but not too slow, we don’t want to negate Bernoulli’s principle here—then wemight could both survive. Trust me, sugar, we both live through that, you’re gonna be begging me to never get within three states of you again.”
“Huh.” He stroked his chin, lazy eyes watching her. “Still not seeing what’s in it for me.”
“You get to get rid of me.”
“Why would I want to do that?”
He’d gone and popped a button in his brain. “You hit your head somewhere today?”
His wolfish grin made her ovaries stand up and do a striptease. “If I say yes, you gonna check me out, Dr. Nurse?”
She’d known he wouldn’t cooperate easily. But did he have to go and torture her with his nurse fantasies? “If you hit your head, there’s no way I’m flying with you, no matter how hard you beg.”
“Won’t be me doing the begging, Pixie-lou.”
