Can't Hardly Breathe. Gena Showalter
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fair, he wasn’t exactly a failure. He’d offered her exactly what she’d asked for—a single night of pleasure.
Not enough for me. Not anymore.
Just once, Dorothea wanted to be the girl the guy desired deeply, madly...and long-term. She longed to be first choice, the prize and not the consolation. She yearned to matter. To mean more to a man than his job, his bank account or the opinion of his family. What she didn’t want? To sleep with a man and later see him fawning all over another woman.
Been there, done that.
What had a lot better odds of success: the local tackle shop selling bait and calling it sushi.
A hard knock sounded, jolting her. She ripped out her earbuds and spun. A common occurrence lately. This time she had to swallow a yelp or a moan, she wasn’t sure which. Daniel had pushed her cart aside, giving her a full frontal view of masculine perfection. His black tee stretched across wide shoulders and hugged well-defined biceps while his dark jeans did naughty things to his lower body. The wind had left his hair in charming disarray, and her fingers ached to comb through the strands. His beard stubble had grown thicker, making him look rough, tough and bad to the bone.
He looked so danged good, like a sexy outlaw who followed no rules but his own...and he was seeing her in her scrubs and without a speck of makeup.
Oh, what the heck did it matter? She no longer had any interest in catching his attention. Did she?
She lifted her chin, all drink me in—but don’t you dare touch.
Daniel smiled at her, slow and devastating and utterly wicked. Pleasure unfurled deep inside her, delicious warmth spilling through her whole body.
He held a large bouquet of dew-kissed roses. One of every color, with the exception of pink, which had two buds.
The moisture in her mouth dried, and she shook her head. The roses couldn’t be for her. He couldn’t know what that particular flower meant to her.
And according to Lyndie and Ryanne, flowers were cliché, a generic gift given without much thought for the recipient.
“Hello, Dorothea.”
“Hi.” To mask her sudden cascade of tremors, she ripped the sheets from the bed. Cooter Bowright had checked in last night and, though he didn’t know it, he’d competed with Daniel for the title of Worst Guest Ever, wrecking the room. “Holly mentioned you wanted to speak with me.”
“Among other things.” The huskiness of his voice proved to be a weapon as powerful as any touch. “These are for you. I thought your favorite color might be pink, because of your tattoo, but decided to cover all the bases, just in case, because of your fingernails.” He walked around her, placed the flowers on the nightstand and helped her fit the clean sheet around the edges of the mattress.
The roses are for me. And he noticed my tattoo and my nails. Goose bumps spread from head to toe.
Dang him! “They’re beautiful.” Like my curves? “Thank you,” she muttered. She gathered the supplies she needed and headed to the bathroom. A hint for him to leave.
Hinges squeaked. Then a soft snick sounded. Then an ominous click. She sucked in a breath. He’d just shut and locked the front door, hadn’t he?
He appeared in the bathroom doorway and crossed his arms over his chest. Before she could protest, he said, “You smell amazing, like lavender and...what’s the other scent?”
“Scents. Sweet marjoram and ylang-ylang. I like blending essential oils.” Those particular scents happened to be known for relieving stress...and stoking desire. Which had nothing to do with her choice to basically soak herself in them. Of course.
“I like you. I want to start over with you, Dorothea. I want to go on a date with you, get to know you better.”
Her heart leaped with excitement... “What about your dad?”
“We’ll have dinner in the city. He’ll never know.”
...only to fall into her ankles.
There was no denying the truth any longer. She still wanted Daniel. Actually, she wanted him more than ever. He hadn’t just called her curves beautiful; he’d backed up his words with actions; he’d chased her, bringing her a gift. Something Jazz had never done. And she understood Daniel’s reasons for wanting to hide their association from his dad. She really did. But that understanding failed to soothe the fears and hurt his answer had sparked. What if, deep down, he was simply ashamed of her?
What if he only liked the challenge she represented?
For a moment, only a moment, Dorothea allowed herself to ponder what things would be like if Daniel were proud of her. They’d go to dinner, but not in the city. No, he would surprise her with a picnic in the middle of Strawberry Valley. Then they would go hiking. Oh! Bowling. They would trash talk, of course, and decide the winner would receive a bone-melting kiss...in the location of his or her choosing.
“One date,” he said. “Give me a chance.”
“No, thanks,” she croaked. “I’m not interested.” The words resounded inside her head, shaming her. Lies were Jazz’s thing, not hers. “Fine. I’m interested, but what I want isn’t what I need. I won’t date you.”
He listened to her without reaction, seeming to ponder her words. “Tell me why.”
“Why?” she parroted like a fool.
“Are you afraid I’ll hurt you?”
“I know you’ll hurt me.” As soon as he finished with her, her hard-won self-esteem—if she had any left—would take yet another beating.
His gaze hardened, pinning her in place. “If we discuss the terms of our relationship up front, the chances of either of us getting hurt diminish significantly.”
Please! As if she would ever be able to hurt him. “We wouldn’t have a relationship, not really. And I can already guess your terms. One, we’ll sleep together and never speak again. Two, see term number one.” And oh, wow. The bitterness in her tone astounded her. She had once demanded he have a one-night stand with her, zero strings. Now she hated him for offering the same to her?
When had she become such a hypocrite?
“We’ll sleep together once...twice...a dozen times.” He hiked a shoulder in a shrug. “The number is negotiable as long as we both accept where the relationship—because yes, we’d have one—is headed. But why must we never speak again?”
“A dozen times?” She struggled to breathe. And she understood where the “relationship” would be headed, all right. Nowhere.
“Or more,” he said. “Like I told you, I’m flexible. I’m also waiting for an answer to my question. Why must we never speak after we have sex? I happen to like speaking with you.”
He did?
Thou shalt compliment when merited.
Red alert! Danger, danger.
She cleared her throat. “Please don’t take this the wrong way, Daniel, but I don’t like speaking with you.” Truth. Conversations with him tended to end disastrously for her.
Again he gave no reaction, as if he’d expected resistance and had come prepared to forge ahead regardless. “I’m happy to do all the talking, then.” He held out his arms, the last sane man in the universe. “See how easy I am to get along with?”
Double dang him! He was too charming for his own good. No, he was too charming for her good.
He tapped two fingers against the stubble on his chin. “I have a brilliant idea. Which happens to be the only kind of idea I ever have. Why don’t we focus on getting to know each other today, and speak about sex tomorrow?”
I’m not delighted by his persistence. And his ego is absolutely, positively not charming.
She