Broken Resolutions (15 page)

“Rest assured that the only danger I pose to you comes in the form of airborne baggage.”

“That’s nice to hear,” she said.

She took a moment to bask in the glory of Grant Peterson, the only man she’d ever interrogated this way. Something about him—his looks, his concern, the hint of shyness—made her breath catch and sent electricity buzzing through her veins. Warmed her, inside and out.

The tiniest bit of dark stubble roughened his cheeks and chin, accentuating his strong jaw. He’d rolled the sleeves of his button-down shirt up to his elbows, exposing hair-dusted forearms and broad hands that seemed strong. Capable. From what she could tell through his clothes, his flat stomach flowed into slim hips and firm thighs. She chose to avoid looking between those thighs. No point in sexually harassing the man—well, not more than she already had—until she knew the answer to her last question.

The man was handsome. No question about that. But Angie had spied other handsome men before and never experienced this sort of instantaneous magnetic draw. Hell, she could barely stop from plastering herself to his side like an iron filing.

So maybe she wasn’t responding to his handsomeness. At least, not entirely. Maybe what tempted her most was the aura of innocence surrounding him. With those dark curls, clear blue eyes, and pale skin, he looked like a grown-up choirboy. Like a man who’d chosen the right path—the reasonable, honorable one—his entire life.

She couldn’t help it. She wanted to debauch him.

“I hesitate to ask,” he said. “But do you have any more questions?” He smiled at her again, this time showing a few teeth. Even, white teeth. Either the man had won the genetics lottery or he’d suffered through years of braces, like she had.

She took a deep breath and went for it. “Are you interested? In me?”

His eyes flicked down to the pavement. He waited so long to answer that her belly clenched and the beginnings of an embarrassed flush heated her cheeks.

“It’s okay if you aren’t,” she said. “I know we just met, and—”

“I don’t usually move this fast, but . . . yes. Yes, I’m interested,” he said, meeting her eyes again. “And I have three questions to ask
you
.” He set his hands on the bottom of the car window frame and leaned toward her.

“Bring ’em on.” She grinned at him and laid a hand on the frame between his.

Yes, I’m single. Yes, I’m straight. Yes, I’d like to watch you turn around and bend from the waist to pick up something from the ground.

No fear. She could answer any question he wanted.

“Are you sure you’re all right? Do you want to get examined at the hospital?”

She’d imagined a sexier first question. Not a sweeter or more considerate one, though.

“I’m fine,” she said. “My neck might be a little sore, but that’s about it. No need to worry. What’s your second question?”

“Are you always this . . . impulsive?” he asked.

Her smile faded, and she struggled to bring it back. “Ever since I was a kid. Believe it or not, my parents are actuaries. I’m a grave disappointment to them.”

As she spoke, his brows drew together. He looked down to where his hands lay near hers on the window frame. With great deliberation, he moved his right index finger until it nudged against her own. The tiny touch sent unbelievable warmth up through her arm, arrowing to her chest.

“That wasn’t a criticism, Angie,” he said softly. “Only a question.”

“What’s your third one?” She looked down at their hands for a moment, marveling at the unexpected sweetness of comfort offered through a single fingertip.

“Will you stay here while I clean up this mess”—he nodded toward the cluttered roadway—“and then let me buy you a drink?”

She grinned at him. “No.”

“No?” His face fell, and his hands curled in on themselves.

“No. I’ll get out and help you. And then you can buy me a drink.”

“You don’t have to. I’m at fault here,” he protested.

Weird. His eyes had brightened at her answer, but he still seemed kind of... anxious. Squirrelly. The last time she’d seen someone this fidgety, little Freddie had run out of her Saturday storytime with his hands clutching his crotch. But Grant didn’t look like he had to pee. No, he looked like he was hiding something. But what?

“I know I don’t have to. I want to,” she said. “Now please scooch a bit so I can get out of my car.”

“Sooner or later, another car is going to pass by, and I don’t want you dodging traffic on the road. It would make me nervous. And like I said, it’s my mess. I’ll clean it up.”

She unfastened her seatbelt and gave him a little bump with her car door. “I’m a big girl, Grant. I appreciate your concern, but I can take care of myself. There’s no need to do this on your own.”

His face had turned a vivid shade of pink, although he moved aside to let her out. “But I—”

“Let’s knock this out so we can go get a drink. There’s the suitcase.” She pointed to where it lay on the road. “If you grab it, I can help you repack it with—” For the first time, she took a closer look at the road and the suitcase contents strewn all over it. Were those . . . ? Yes. Yes, they were. She’d seen them many times before, obviously. But not in this particular context. Or in this particular quantity.

He stood silently and shifted from foot to foot, his eyes on the suitcase.

“Holy shit, Grant. Did a condom factory explode all over the road? Or are you just happy to see me?”

C.S. Smith Photography

Olivia Dade
grew up an undeniable—and proud—nerd, prone to ignoring the world around her as she read any book she could find. Her favorite stories, though, were always romances. As an adult, she earned an M.A. in American history and worked in a variety of jobs that required her to hide her bawdy interior under a demure exterior: Colonial Williamsburg interpreter, high school teacher, academic tutor, and (of course) librarian. Finally, though, she realized the call of the hussy could no longer be denied. So now she writes contemporary romantic comedy with plenty of sex, banter, and nerdery. When not writing, she cooks alongside her husband, dabbles in photography, and tries to hide her collection of throbbing-intensive romances from her curious daughter. Visit her on the Web at oliviadade.com.

To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.

LYRICAL SHINE BOOKS are published by

Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018

Copyright © 2015 by Olivia Dade

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

Lyrical Shine and the L logo are trademarks of Kensington Publishing Corp.

First Electronic Edition: December 2015

ISBN: 978-1-6165-0939-2