Falling for the Marine (A McCade Brothers Novel) (Entangled Brazen) (14 page)

He gave her a slow, satisfied smile. “I think I just proved
my
point.”

Her heart slipped out of its life jacket and paddled toward the deep end of stupid, where the water was way over its head.

“And your point was?”

“Don’t stress about your Chi or your luck or wearing out your welcome.” He looked like he wanted to say something more, but then he stopped and smiled. “Would it settle you down if I told you you’re the best roommate I’ve ever had?”

Uh-oh. That heart of hers just kept drifting deeper and deeper. “Really?”

“No contest. Of course, you have to keep in mind that Trevor was my first. He refused to let me have the top bunk and enjoyed throwing his blankets over me while I slept, so I woke up in a sweaty, claustrophobic cocoon every morning. My next roommate was my younger brother Logan, who bitched incessantly because I refused to let him have the top bunk, even though he walked in his sleep at least three times a week until he hit puberty. Oh, yeah, I’ve also roomed in a barracks with forty belching, farting marines.”

No women, she noted, and tried to pop the idiotic bubble of happiness swelling in her chest at the realization.

“You really think you can live with the room this way?”

He glanced around, then back to her, and inspected her from top to bottom, until every erogenous zone in her body felt like it had been kissed with lip plumper. “My Chi’s flowing better already.”

Chapter Fourteen

“You have to get me out of here, Lynne. I’ll take any assignment, anywhere. I’ll take receptionist, orderly…janitor.” Chloe clutched the phone to her ear and stared blindly out the living room window at the sun shining over the San Onofre Mountains.

“What’s wrong?” Concern laced Lynne’s voice. “Has Major Hottie turned out to be a major asshole?”

“No.” She swallowed the bubble of panic trying to rise in her throat. “No. He’s…”
Perfect
. “I just can’t stay.”

“He asked you to leave?”

“No. He told me I could stay as long as I needed, but I have to do some…um…damage control—”

“Uh-oh. Dinner Saturday night blew your cover, and his boss figured out your engagement isn’t real?”

“Saturday went fine.” Too good. “We fooled them.” And she was fooling herself if she thought she could live with Michael for the next few weeks without falling for him the same inevitable way an apple falls out of a tree. He was gravity and whatever wings she’d grown were useless against his pull.

“So, why the rush to leave? Especially when I’ve got a dream job lined up for you in New Mexico.”

Because this guy already owns every inch of my body, and if I hang around much longer, he’s going to own my heart, too.

“During dinner with the Hardings I kind of insinuated I would be looking for a permanent position locally now that Michael and I are getting married. This morning, Loretta Harding called to say she mentioned me to a friend of hers who owns Veronica’s Oasis—a day spa here in San Clemente, just a couple blocks from the apartment. Wouldn’t you know, Veronica is looking to add to her roster of massage therapists, so, long story short, tomorrow morning I have an interview.”

“Uh-oh.”

“Yeah, uh-oh. If she offers me a job, I’m screwed.” Her chest tightened, as if already squeezed in a trap.

“Well, now…maybe not.”

“No, I am. I’ve already thought about this every which way. If she extends an offer, I have to find some reasonable grounds for turning it down, because, obviously, I can’t accept and then up and leave in a few weeks. That wouldn’t be right.”

“What if it’s a great job? Keep your mind and your options open, because, much as I hate to lose you, you might actually
want
to accept the position.”

“I won’t. I like the excitement of being a traveling therapist.” That was her story and she was sticking to it, even though New Mexico was starting to sound more lonely than exciting. “But even if I fell in love with the opportunity, I can’t accept because then Michael and I are stuck in the fake engagement.”

“Stuck-schmuck. Get a paycheck under your belt so you can afford your own place and then go ahead and have your fake breakup. The only difference is, instead of moving to a different state, you move to a different apartment. Happens all the time.”

“Not to me. It’s too messy, and it means extending the amount of time I stay with Michael, because it would take a while to save up first, last, and a security deposit. I can’t do it. I need a clean break.”

“I’ve got your clean break coming the first week of June. That’s the best I can do.”

So much for improving her luck through the magic and science of feng shui. “All right. Keep me—”

“I know, I know. I’ll call you if any jobs come up before then. In the meantime, remember what I said. Keep your mind and your options open.”

“I get the feeling you want to keep your options open.” Veronica put Chloe’s résumé aside and smiled at her from across the clean, white desk in her clean, white office.

Chloe returned the smile and hoped hers didn’t look as strained as she felt. “I sort of do. You have a great operation here, and I’m very tempted by your offer, but—”

Veronica waved a hand. “Hey, you don’t have to explain. You’ve just moved in with your fiancé, you’ve got a wedding to plan, and a honeymoon, and the weight of all that is forcing the rest of your life up in the air right now.”

“Yeah.” And the weight of all the dishonesty was forcing her eyes to the floor. Veronica turned out to be nothing she’d expected. Going strictly by looks, the dark-eyed, raven-haired spa-owner was only a handful of years older than she. Maybe twenty-nine, at the outside. She’d opened her business four years earlier as a massage-therapy practice, and then branched out into a full-service day spa. Now she employed a staff of twenty, including massage therapists, estheticians, nail techs, and support personnel. The whitewashed, cottage-y space offered state-of-the-art treatments in a comfortable atmosphere. A casual, relaxed vibe prevailed, despite the steady stream of clients. Just the kind of place Chloe would have pictured if someone had asked her to describe the perfect spa.

Veronica tapped Chloe’s résumé. “You have great experience, and, based on our conversation, I think you’d be a really good fit here. Your philosophy on health, wellness, and client service matches ours. God knows we could use the extra hands.” She rested her forearms on her desk and leaned in, giving Chloe a contemplative look. “It also sounds like you’re happy with Helping Hands, so maybe we shouldn’t mess with a good thing. I have a proposal. How about I contract for your services through Helping Hands? We can start on a part-time basis, booking you for days when we’re doing bachelorette parties, bridal parties, and other occasions where we get hit with lots of clients at once. What do you say?”

Well damn. How could she say no? More troubling, she didn’t want to. “I say sounds like a plan.”

…

“I made the ‘discrete inquiry’ you requested.”

Michael pulled into his parking spot at Casa Clemente and took his phone off speaker so Dane’s voice no longer flooded the interior. “What did you find out?”

“I spoke to the owner of the Camp Pendleton Massage Therapy Clinic under the guise of seeking a reference for Chloe. He told me they were pleased with her skills, but Sempler terminated her assignment because their current patient load didn’t require an additional pair of hands. I also made a discrete inquiry to a certain lady friend of mine who is part of Harding’s support staff, and she assured me Harding has received no complaints about anyone under his command.”

Michael breathed out a sigh of relief. “Thanks, Dane. I owe you one.”

“You owe me many. I’ll add this to the list, which, by the way, now includes an all-expense-paid dinner at Gino’s for me and my very informative lady friend. Want to tell me what this is all about?”

“Nope.”

“Okay, then, tack two appetizers, two desserts, and a top shelf bottle of wine onto the all-expense-paid dinner.”

“Done,” Michael said and hung up before Dane could squeeze him for anything else.

He walked up the stairs to his apartment relieved and ready to celebrate having the threat of a court-martial off his head. His stomach rumbled as he neared the landing. Somebody in the complex was cooking tonight and whatever they had on the menu smelled amazing. His good mood soared when he approached his door and realized
his
kitchen was the source of the mouthwatering aroma, but the soaring mood dipped when he found the door unlocked. He really needed to speak to her about locking the apartment when she was there by herself. Anyone could wander in.

He locked the door behind him, looked into the kitchen, and found the oven on and the timer counting down the last few minutes of cook time. A glance into the dining area revealed the table, set for two, complete with a centerpiece of the red candles she was so fond of, but no Chloe.

He made his way into the living room, and then proceeded to the hall. An off-key version of “Call Me Maybe,” coming from the bathroom offered a big clue to her whereabouts. Holy shit, she’d left the door unlocked while she showered. Had she never seen
Psycho
? Where was her common sense?

He started to walk past the closed door, mentally preparing the lecture one of her parents should have delivered a long time ago, but the thought of her alone in the shower, all wet and soapy, chased Personal Safety 101 right out of his head. A surprisingly vivid image rushed in to fill the void—Chloe, with her back braced against the tile, her thighs clamped around his hips and her toes digging into his calves as she rose to meet his thrusts. Water pounding down on them, him pounding into her, the slide of her smooth, slick body against his. Hell, he could use a shower. He shrugged out of his shirt, pulled the dog tags over his head, yanked his boots off, and then tested the knob. It turned under his hand, and the door swung inward with a force he couldn’t account for.

A wall of steam hot enough to wilt metal hit him first, followed immediately by Chloe. He grunted, more from surprise than from the impact of a hundred and ten pounds of towel-draped female striding into him. She squeaked and bounced off his chest. He wrapped an arm around her waist to keep her upright. Either she recognized his touch or used her X-ray vision to see him through the dense cloud created by her thousand-degree shower, but she relaxed into him.

“Why hello, Major. Were you waiting for the shower?”

“I was hoping to join you, but apparently I’m too late.”

She ran her hand over his pec, giving him a sexy, off-center grin when he bunched the muscle for her. “I had no idea you were such a water conservationist.”

He nodded and stopped fighting what he suspected was a more-sappy-than-sexy grin pulling at the corners of his mouth. “Conservation is a core value. Careful,” he added when her hand drifted down the center line of his chest toward his abdomen. “I’ve also been trained to respond swiftly and aggressively to any crisis.”

“Oh dear. Do we have a crisis?”

“I’m sorry to have to tell you this, ma’am, but there is a huge crisis developing.” He nudged his hips into hers so she couldn’t miss his hard-on. Her quick little intake of breath assured him she’d missed nothing, and did unprecedented things to his heart. He had a week’s worth of precedent for what it did to the rest of him.

“Goodness…that is huge…ly alarming.” She wrapped her arms around his neck, batted her big, hazel eyes and aimed a deliberately bewildered expression at him. “Is there anything I can do to avert this impending crisis?”

All sorts of suggestions swarmed his mind, but before he could articulate a single one
the oven timer buzzed.

“Whoops!” She wriggled out of his arms and adjusted her towel. “I forgot all about dinner.”

He made a grab for her. “Dinner can wait. We’re in the middle of a crisis here.”

She evaded and starting walking toward the kitchen. “No way. I cooked something special. We’re celebrating.”

Clearly, she had good news to share as well. Her eyes sparkled. Her face glowed. All the vitality coming off her only made him want her more. He caught her around the middle and snuggled her against him, his chest to her back. “Trust me, baby, whatever the occasion, I’ve got your celebration right here.” Figuring it never hurt to underscore a point, he gave her another little nudge with his hips.

Her laugh was gratifyingly breathless, but she squirmed away nonetheless. “Very tempting, but we’ll have to save that particular celebration for later. Those steaks you had in your freezer are too nice to let go to waste. I need to check them. You”—she pointed a finger at him and gave him a stern look from below lowered brows—“go shower. By the time you’re clean and changed, dinner will be ready.”

He exhaled loudly, dropped his chin to his chest, and stared at the tent in his pants. “Looks like it’s you and me, buddy.”

Low, husky, laughter trailed over her shoulder as she walked to the kitchen. He watched her go, admiring the things she did for a plain, white towel. He’d just turned toward the bathroom when the ring of his landline stalled him. “Hey, Chlo, can you get that?”

“Sure,” she said from the kitchen.

Awesome. He ducked into the bathroom and started the shower. The only people who called him on the landline were telemarketers, Mrs. Waverly, or…he winced as the last option occurred—his mom.

By the time he showered, pulled on a T-shirt and some sweats, and headed to the front of the apartment, Chloe was off the phone and standing by the table in the dining area. She’d traded the white towel for a blue V-neck that slouched off her shoulders—shoulders unmarred by the line of bra straps—and a short, gray drawstring skirt. Her wet hair spilled down her back like honey.

While he watched, she used the tip of a corkscrew to score the foil off the top of a bottle of red wine. Then she guided the screw into the cork and twisted the handle several times. She gave the cork an experimental tug and then bent over and placed the bottle between her bare feet. The move caused the little gray shirt to hike up high on her thighs, and made him wonder what, if anything, she wore beneath. She adjusted her grasp on the bottle and prepared to yank.

He came up behind her, and, because it was there, ran his hand over her ass. “Why don’t you let me handle this?”

She glanced up at him and he got a cheap thrill out of the way her eyes lingered on his mouth for an extra few seconds. “Seems like you are handling it,” she teased, wriggling her hips, before she straightened and handed him the bottle.

He took it and got to work sinking the screw properly into the cork. She disappeared into the kitchen. The cork slid out smoothly, with an audible
pop
. “Anything else I can help with?”

“Nope. It’s handled. Pour the wine, take a seat. I’ll have everything plated up in a sec.”

“Who was on the phone?”

She peeked through kitchen archway. “Your mom. She said to call her tomorrow.”

“Ah. Mom can be a little chatty.” Especially when she wanted intel. “Did you two talk long?”