“Really, I’m flattered. I…we’re so different. I’m…me. And you’re…you know…you.”
He grinned right up close to her, and, Holy Hannah, the wattage of his smile. “Feel that between us? It’s called chemistry.”
“I don’t like rock music. There. I said it. I think it’s loud and obnoxious,” she declared.
His eyebrows dropped together. “What music do you like, then?”
“Country, mostly. A little Justin Timberlake…” Her voice trailed off as his eyes sparked with humor.
“Won’t listen to music while we do it, that’s fine.”The edges of his lips twitched.
“You have tattoos and I wear sweaters,” she continued.
“What’s wrong with tattoos?” he asked, moving his hand away.
“Nothing. No, it’s just we’re different. I haven’t even seen them all. What if you have one that I really don’t like, you know?”
“Take off your top.” He tugged at the hem of the pink-striped sweater she had paired with the skirt.
He wasn’t making any sense. “What?”
“You take off your top. I’ll take off mine. You can check out my tattoos, make sure you like ’em. I’ll check out your girls, make sure I like ’em. Tit for tat.”
“You’re such a pig.” She crossed her arm across her chest and tried to stand, but he caught her and pulled her back to him.
He ran a hand through her hair and pressed her to him so their foreheads touched. She shivered—in a good way. In a maybe-I-should-reconsider-my-stance-on-this-proposal way.
“Oink.”
She laughed, pretty much against her will, and shoved him away.
“Holler if you change your mind about our situation.” His thumb grazed her bottom lip. For a moment, only a moment, she seriously considered allowing him to have his way with her right there in her bedroom while his buddies played video games in the other room.
Luckily, she came to her senses.
“Clean up the living room before you go to bed,” she whispered instead.
He chuckled as he stood. “Next time Ma sets you up, tell her to be sure the guy’s schedule is clear for the evening. You deserve his full attention.”
He left. She glanced out the window at the clouds that covered the stars before she hauled herself out of bed to finally take that bubble bath.
Chapter Seven
Countdown to Claire & Dean’s Wedding: 6 Weeks
Velma had slathered on makeup and, at Claire’s insistence, slipped into a pair of tight jeans. Their friend Heather had picked the girls’ night location. Heather rocked the pinup look with her red lipstick and cleavage-baring vintage top. Hank’s Bar, she promised Velma and Claire, had an amazing band on tap for the night. The place was a dive, but clean—sealed concrete floor, long wooden bar top, and a scattering of tables throughout the room. The tables along the wall were countertop height, so patrons could watch the band. Standard neon alcohol signs lit the wall alongside triangle pennants declaring the various beers on tap. They were quite festive.
“Another?” Heather asked, tipping her forehead toward Velma’s nearly empty Shirley Temple.
Velma rested her elbow on the table and propped her palm against the side of her head. “That’d be great.”
Heather headed toward the counter.
“Thank you for dealing with Brek on the invitations,” Claire said.
Velma had helped smooth everything over. She’d promised Claire she’d be involved with the rest of the details, and she’d report any issues immediately. After a chat with Aspen, she’d made Brek a spreadsheet of all that still needed to be done.
“Okay. Dish. You’re overthinking something.” Claire took a sip of her drink.
