Flirting With Disaster Read online

“Don't you mean 'none of my business?'”

  “Shut up.” Peyton laughed but her face reddened even more. “I'm going to go troll for empties and see if I can sell some more beer, but think about what I said. Dane isn't a bad guy.”

  Even when they bickered at each other he didn't get nasty. That said a lot about him. And if she was willing to be reasonable, she could admit it said good things about him. Things that made her like him more. “Maybe.”

  Her friend left her alone with her thoughts. The other, much more private reason why she volunteered to help at The Grog was to escape that. Her mind seemed to get stuck on how her skin prickled with sexual awareness whenever they lost track of why they hated each other, and Dane looked at Brooke as though he wanted to eat her up.

  It started with the first car that morning. She thought nothing about bending over in front of him until she'd turned around and caught his expression of pure sexual hunger in his gaze. She hadn't been able to breathe, and then she couldn't help but wonder how he would kiss her, how he'd touch her.

  She'd spent way too much time since that morning imagining what naughty words he'd murmur in her ear if they ever lost their goddamn minds. She shivered. No. No. They were partners. Soon they'd go back to their respective corners. She just had to survive the next few months with her sanity intact.

  Brooke turned, pulled down the bottle of tequila, and poured herself a shot. It felt necessary.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The hairs on Brooke's arm rose. She peeked around the hood of the old Chevelle. Dane stood at the opening of the garage, looking as though he didn't want any parts of the building to come in contact with his pristine, cream-colored sweater. No sideways buttons on this one, but these buttons looked to be made of expensive wood and were purposefully off-center. He had a plain white shirt and jeans. His boots looked gruff but only because a factory made them appear that way.

  She shucked off her gloves and took out her earplugs. His appearance meant it was lunch-slash-meeting time. He stepped forward, skirting her toolbox, which was covered with grime along its sides.

  Dane probably kept baby wipes next to his bed for cleanup after sex. The thought made her chuckle.

  She straightened and stretched. She'd spent her morning hunched over the beater. “Where are we going today?” she asked.

  His gaze followed the languid movement of her body. Every part of her went hot from the perusal.

  “Brooke,” he said as a greeting, then added, “Town square. I can piggyback on the mayor's Wi-Fi and show you my finds.”

  She gasped in false scandalization. “You're breaking society's rules?”

  “It's not illegal, and if he didn't want anyone to use it, he'd put a password on it.”

  “That you could probably get from Naomi, but I'm still scandalized.”

  His jaw clenched for a second. “Not my fault you assumed I followed all the rules.”

  “You're right,” she said and happily watched shock play over his face at her admission. She unzipped the coveralls and tied the arms around her waist. “Let me grab my lunch, lock up, yada, yada.”

  Five minutes later, she found him standing outside the garage doors. His back was to her and he rocked on his heels. From behind, he created one hell of a picture. His shoulders were broad, his legs long, his ass a thing of beauty.

  She'd given being cordial a try, and the heat and frequency of their arguments had lessened. They’d progressed to having disagreements, which were a different animal.

  She hated to admit Peyton had been right. She hated to admit she liked him, in a general he's-not-a-crappy-human kind of way. And, okay, he was very attractive, in an every-sense kind of way. And, he made her-heart-pitter-patter kind of way, too.

  Most of that could be attributed to him wearing jeans instead of slacks lately. More than likely because they'd spent a lot of time with each other over the last week. Most of that was either meeting up at her shop or getting into her tow truck or standing in a middle of a field looking at a junker.

  It was a lot of time for her to see him in an appealing light that made her forget he could be chauvinistic. Something she found hard to keep at the forefront of her mind when with him.

  She sighed and led the way. They stopped long enough to get his laptop out of his car before settling onto one of the benches in the town square. Tom had cut the acre of grass that edged the center of town, and it smelled wonderful—like the beginning of summer.

  Brooke took out her sandwich, broke off a piece, and chucked it near the statue of the town's founder. The pigeon that had been propped on his head flew down to eat it. Finally, she turned to Dane and waited for the big reveal.

  He looked amused at her ritual and shook his head.

  “We have eight,” he announced and moved the computer so she could see the screen.

  Around a mouthful of ham and cheese, she put a hand up to her lips and asked him to scroll down. The owners had taken pictures of both the exteriors and interiors. From the looks of them, they were in no worse condition than all the rest of the cars.

  She swallowed. “I need to see them.”

  “You can take the road trip without me. Have you hit up your contact yet?”

  She hadn't. Her brother was the very, very last resort. “Not until I know for sure we're tapped out. Go back to the last one and zoom in on the engine.”

  He shifted closer and did as she asked. His scent distracted her for a moment. He smelled...masculine. That was the best way to describe the scent. He smelled like a man filled with testosterone, and the fragrance was delicious for that simple fact. She hummed and bit into her sandwich, refusing to look directly at him until the urge to bite him instead died down.

  She pointed at what looked to be a spider web of cracks on the engine. “We have seven. Unless we're going to spend the next ten years doing this, I don't have time to order a slew of new engines. That one is shit. Who gave you this?”

  “A friend of mine, but he knows nothing about cars.” Dane sighed, putting his back against the bench. “I hate this. Why did we say calendar?”

  She laughed. “It could have been a bachelor calendar. Now, that would be hell trying to put together.”

  “Huh.”

  He didn't sound entirely against the idea. She frowned at him. “What?”

  “Not a bad idea.”

  “What?” her voice was louder.

  He laughed and closed his laptop. “Think about it. We'll have a calendar for the men and one for the women.”

  The sandwich turned to dust in her mouth. “Yeah. 'Cause women aren't into cars.”

  He glared at her. “You're trying to tell me you'd walk right past a calendar filled with half-naked men?”

  Brooke would be on it like flies on shit, but she'd have the same reaction with a muscle car calendar. “You're so sexist.”

  “I like to think I'm a realist. A good majority of people who'd buy the car calendar will be men. Half-naked men? Women.”

  She scoffed. “How would we know what sells better?”

  “Do a survey?” He shrugged. “I'm sure it'll be simple enough to slap on questions if we sell this thing online.”

  She shook her head. “It's for a good cause. The numbers will be skewed.”

  He nodded. “One towards men and the other towards women.”

  She thought about it for five seconds and went with the first impulse. “Okay. I handle the car calendar, you put together a bachelors of Tanner Creek calendar. Technically, we are still working together and folks will think we're back to arguing. Since people would think we're back at odds, that'll move some calendars. Our fair small town loves train wrecks.”

  He gave her a blank stare. “We are arguing.”

  She shrugged. “Beside the point.”

  “It is the point.” There was steel in his voice. “We're deciding to take on another mammoth project to prove each other wrong.”

  “Look at it this way, you get to gloat if you're right. You won't have to go
with me to look at cars anymore. And you get the final say on your project.”

  “No. You get the final say with the cars.” His brows rose, and he looked so damn haughty she wanted to flick his forehead.

  “Of course, I'm motivated to make this work,” she said. “We've managed to be nice to each other for a few days. A few weeks from now I'll want to strangle you. This keeps me out of jail.”

  His jaw tightened, and the way he looked at her made Brooke feel emotionally stripped. Dane asked, “What would it take for you to get to know me and not make assumptions?”

  He was serious, and Peyton's words started to ring in her head. Was she being too hard on him? Was he any different than most people? How would Brooke feel if he suggested the bachelor calendar just to get away from her? Offended, and then infuriated.

  His question was asking for a way to judge him, on her own terms, in hopes she'd see him differently. He was being open and vulnerable in a way that made her throat feel tight.

  She put down her sandwich. “Let me see your hand.”

  He frowned. “And what will that do?”

  “I made sure to wear gloves all morning and I washed my hands before we left. Still, my hands look like I work with them. They aren't the softest and would likely never be. Too many healed over cuts and abrasions. I think...” She hesitated, not able to meet his gaze. “I think my hands say a lot about the woman I am. I gave up nail polish a long time ago, but every now and again I put some on to feel pretty. So let me see your hand.”

  He placed his laptop beside him on the bench and then offered his hand with his palm up. Brooke lined up their wrists. She'd known that his was larger than hers, but she didn't know how that simple difference would kick her heart into overdrive.

  It was cool outside but his hand was warm and rougher than she'd imagined. He didn't come off as a man who worked with his hands, ever, but maybe that came from working with books.

  She flipped his hand over and found the small nicks, likely from paper cuts. She traced a few with her fingertip.

  “Your nails look like you get manicures,” she accused, but with a smile. “Not surprising.”

  He flexed his hand. “I don't.” His voice was tight and gruff.

  She swallowed. His deepened timbre did something to her. From him...it was a warning, but she couldn't stop touching him. They hadn't really touched before. And his skin was so smooth outside of the roughened nicks…and somehow this knowledge thrilled her. She didn't have a hand fetish, so the sudden dampness in her panties made no sense. All she'd meant to do was make a quick comparison. Not this.

  This had seemed innocent and maybe her intent had been a bit dismissive—he'd be exactly the man she'd knew him to be, but she couldn't ball her fist and stop. Touching him like this should have turned awkward by now but his breathing had deepened. Her cheeks had flushed, and she had the urge to squirm to ease the throb between her legs. Didn't take long for her mind to jump to how his hand would feel pressed against her breasts, or how those small, but rough, nicks would feel brushing along her clit.

  At that thought, she could drop his hand.

  “Is it my turn?” His voice was still gruff.

  She forced herself to look at him. “For what?” she asked nervously, because his hazel eyes had darkened.

  “Getting to know you?”

  She was close enough to see his pupils had dilated. That was her fault. She'd been stroking his hand in the middle of the town square for a long enough time any man in his position would have been aroused.

  He didn't look like he should have been trusted to leave her misstep at that. But this was Dane. She could accuse him of having some Neanderthal beliefs, but he had self-control. He was a realist—pigheaded at times—but a man prone to following passion? No.

  His lids were low and his nostrils flared when she licked her lips.

  Or was he exactly that kind of man?

  “Okay,” she said slowly.

  He shook his head. “For the record, you started it.”

  “That's so...”

  Dane wore an expression like he wanted to drag her off somewhere, and the words died mid-thought. He used the hand she'd molested to cup the back of her head. There was enough time to put her palm to his forehead to make sure he wasn't suddenly feverish and delusional. But her skin was hot, her head a bit woozy and her heart was going to pound right out of her chest. This was only the prelude to the kiss.

  He inched forward until his mouth was right there. He held her gaze, giving her all the time in the damn world to tell him to stop, to push him away. She wanted to say curiosity got the better of her, but that would be a lie. A big fat one because all she wanted was his lips, his tongue.

  He nipped at her bottom lip. Her mouth tingled at the tease, and then he ran his tongue over the same spot. She moaned, her mouth parting. Dane shifted and his tongue delved deeper. Slowly. Just when she was getting used to the intrusion, he jerked back.

  Dane's brows pulled down. He looked pissed—as if he were beyond irritated that he wanted to continue to kiss her. Or annoyed the brief touch hadn’t been enough.

  His grunt sounded frustrated right before he dragged her to him again. He slanted his mouth over hers and sucked her bottom lip.

  That's when her brain said, “Nope. I'm done working.”

  She balled her hands into his sweater in case he had a thought of pulling away again and looking at her like he was angry about the kiss. He'd started it, and he damn well would finish it. He must have understood what her grabbing him meant—she wasn't exactly shy—because he kissed her like he wanted to own her. He controlled when she could breathe or moan. He dictated her actions with his tongue and teeth.

  And when she moaned, he used his mouth as a reward. When she didn't, he nipped at her again as some twisted punishment that only made her wetter.

  That's when her brain got to working, whispering words like more, now, lower, bite, tongue, deeper. Brooke couldn't do anything about that.

  His next groan sounded more frustrated than the last. He drew her closer. Another tug and she'd be on his lap. She wanted them skin to skin, but she'd take his lap instead. In the heated moment with him, nothing else mattered, but his mouth and hands.

  Dane just needed to keep kissing her like he was hungry for the taste of her. And that he was mad about needing to taste her.

  Someone cleared their throat, and it wasn't either Brooke or Dane, because she was moaning, and he'd growled, low. She shivered. The noise came again and Brooke finally had the sense to push Dane back.

  Naomi stood behind the bench, her brows up, a smile on her face. Her friend just looked pleased to watch their post by-play.

  Brooke glanced at Dane. He looked mussed. More than once she'd wondered how he'd look disheveled, and the reality was much better than her imagination. She'd been the culprit who’d ruffled his expensive sweater—who’d tented his jeans and put real scruffs on his boots as he did his best to get close to her.

  He still wore the kind of expression where he looked to be one muscle twitch away from throwing her over his shoulder and taking her someplace private. The way they'd been going at...

  Brooke placed two fingers over her swollen lips, doing her best not to glance at Dane again, because she would let him cart her off and do something caveman to her.

  He cleared his throat. “Hey, Naomi.”

  Brooke had been right. Her friend had just been happy to watch their awkward post-kiss reactions. “Dane, how are you today?”

  He laughed at the not-so-innocent question. Out the corner of her eye, she could see him reaching for his laptop. “I'm just going to head back to work.” For a long moment he was quiet. “Brooke,” he said.

  He hadn't said her name any differently. She frowned, because there were the two choices again: lust or loathing. How long had he looked at her like that? Since the first time they'd exchanged harsh words. Yeah, for a year. But knowing the difference, without a doubt? Brooke definitely couldn't ask with
Naomi standing there, so she made a noise that sat somewhere between frustrated and horny.

  “Like we were talking about before...with the calendars,” she said.

  “Huh,” he said, narrowing his eyes at her. “I'll email you a list of bachelors.”

  “Bachelors?” Naomi asked.

  His gaze swung to Brooke for confirmation, and the heat had yet to dim. He said, “We're doing another calendar to compare the demographics between a bachelor one and the cars one. Brooke and I have a bet on it.”

  “What's the wager?” her friend asked.

  A simple question, but Brooke was too distracted to immediately answer. His lips were swollen. She'd made them that way. She'd mauled him in the town square and wanted to do it again.

  She looked away to Naomi. “We hadn't ironed out that part yet.”

  “Lunch tomorrow?” He straightened his collar. Back to being clean-cut Dane, but clean-cut or not, he kissed with an edge.

  Shit. She didn't care about the fear of him being just like her ex, changing herself for him. All she wanted was to experience Dane who kissed with an edge again.

  “Sure.”

  She couldn't help the head tilt when he walked away. What his hands and mouth felt like would be at the forefront of her mind for days. Maybe weeks. She wanted to know what his legs felt like between hers.

  Okay. She was lying to herself. The first order of business would be finding out just how firm his ass was. She cursed and closed her eyes. The bench wobbled. She peeked and saw her friend's smile had widened as she down.

  Brooke sighed, disgruntled. “Just get it out now so we can move on and I can eat the rest of my ham sandwich in peace.”

  Naomi crossed her legs, turning toward her. “You aren't my friend anymore, remember? So I'm not going to ask. Tell me how many cars you need.”

  “If I were a violent person I'd flick you in the forehead right now. It's what my big brother taught me.”

  “Shaking in my heels.” Naomi cleared her throat. “Well, I guess that means the calendar is going well. Glad to have this update. I'll talk to the photographer to see if she will be willing to do the bachelor calendar.”