surprise.
“Sorry,” she said, with a trembling smile. “I had to collect myself.”
“You doing alright?” Mike asked with concern.
Carrie looked at him then pursed her lips to keep them steady.
“Carrie?”
Her eyes fell to the ground as she slowly shook her head. “It’s no use, Mike,” she said, her voice cracking up. “This whole charade is --”
“Who says it’s all a charade?” Mike asked, stepping forward and taking her by the elbows.
“Mike,” she said, looking up, and trying her damndest to look tough. Be in control. But Mike could see Carrie St. John was no more in control of her own racing heart than he was of his. “This thing, this arrangement, simply isn’t going to work.”
“Says who?” he asked, scooting in just a little bit closer as a couple of departing diners scooted around them on the pathway. “Did you find that on some literature in the ladies’?”
Carrie heaved a sigh without smiling, but he could tell she was loosening up.
“Or perhaps,” he said, sliding his arms around her waist and tugging her in to his rock solid frame. “You found something disparaging written about me on the bathroom walls?”
Carrie looked up at the impossible man and shook her head, trying to deflect the comfort of his humor, trying to make herself believe that nothing Mike Davis could say could possibly make things seem any better.
Mike reached out and tilted her chin. “None of it’s true, Carrie,” he said, his mouth closing in. “Except for maybe the part about me being a good time...”
Carrie’s knees went weak at that thought, as his overpoweringly male scent washed over her in ocean waves.
Trying to fight her natural attraction to Mike Davis, she decided, was a losing battle.
And, when he claimed her mouth with his, she knew it wasn’t only battles they were talking. They were playing for the highest stakes. Every ounce of her hurting interior was at war with what her body was doing. Revealing in, encouraging, his bittersweet, luxurious kisses. Carrie wasn’t even sure it was legal to kiss that well. Especially in the state of Virginia. Where exactly was that turnip truck, anyway?, Carrie wondered, feeling herself spiral further and further away into the magic of Mike’s embrace.
“Carrie,” Mike said, pulling back, “maybe we ought to find someplace more private...”
A fanning burn in her throat prevented her from answering. She was hot and tipsy, his raged fire still tearing through her like the strongest scotch whiskey. And this was a drink she wanted straight up. No ice.
Mike bucked as the icy chill raced through his sports coat and centered in on his spin.
“Oh! Oh, my goodness!” the befuddled voice called behind him as a hard metallic clank echoed from somewhere near his feet. Cold water sloshed forward, followed by a parade of ice cubes. Mike whirled to find the red-faced young woman who’d just poured her champagne bucket down his back.
“Oh, gracious!” she continued to babble, kneeling to scoop the miraculously intact bottle off champagne of the brick walk. “I’m so sorry! Must have run straight into --”
From just over his shoulder, a woman erupted in raucous laughter.
Mike spun to find Carrie cupping a hand over her mouth as her whole upper body quaked with mirth.
If only he’d known what she’d been thinking! What was it about Mike Davis, Carrie wondered, that always seem to attract him to water? Or, vice versa, Carrie thought, exploding once again in giggles.
Mike ignored the women at his feet, busily scooping ice cubes back into her silver bucket, and kept a watchful eye on Carrie as he stealthily removed his dripping sports coat and shook it out at arm’s length.
“Feeling all better, I see,” he said, cocking one eyebrow, and looking -- what?, Carried wondered -- amused at her amusement?
“Sir, I --”
“Don’t worry about it,” Mike said, nearly deaf to the stranger’s apologies, as he stooped to gather ice cubes and
“Sorry,” she said, with a trembling smile. “I had to collect myself.”
“You doing alright?” Mike asked with concern.
Carrie looked at him then pursed her lips to keep them steady.
“Carrie?”
Her eyes fell to the ground as she slowly shook her head. “It’s no use, Mike,” she said, her voice cracking up. “This whole charade is --”
“Who says it’s all a charade?” Mike asked, stepping forward and taking her by the elbows.
“Mike,” she said, looking up, and trying her damndest to look tough. Be in control. But Mike could see Carrie St. John was no more in control of her own racing heart than he was of his. “This thing, this arrangement, simply isn’t going to work.”
“Says who?” he asked, scooting in just a little bit closer as a couple of departing diners scooted around them on the pathway. “Did you find that on some literature in the ladies’?”
Carrie heaved a sigh without smiling, but he could tell she was loosening up.
“Or perhaps,” he said, sliding his arms around her waist and tugging her in to his rock solid frame. “You found something disparaging written about me on the bathroom walls?”
Carrie looked up at the impossible man and shook her head, trying to deflect the comfort of his humor, trying to make herself believe that nothing Mike Davis could say could possibly make things seem any better.
Mike reached out and tilted her chin. “None of it’s true, Carrie,” he said, his mouth closing in. “Except for maybe the part about me being a good time...”
Carrie’s knees went weak at that thought, as his overpoweringly male scent washed over her in ocean waves.
Trying to fight her natural attraction to Mike Davis, she decided, was a losing battle.
And, when he claimed her mouth with his, she knew it wasn’t only battles they were talking. They were playing for the highest stakes. Every ounce of her hurting interior was at war with what her body was doing. Revealing in, encouraging, his bittersweet, luxurious kisses. Carrie wasn’t even sure it was legal to kiss that well. Especially in the state of Virginia. Where exactly was that turnip truck, anyway?, Carrie wondered, feeling herself spiral further and further away into the magic of Mike’s embrace.
“Carrie,” Mike said, pulling back, “maybe we ought to find someplace more private...”
A fanning burn in her throat prevented her from answering. She was hot and tipsy, his raged fire still tearing through her like the strongest scotch whiskey. And this was a drink she wanted straight up. No ice.
Mike bucked as the icy chill raced through his sports coat and centered in on his spin.
“Oh! Oh, my goodness!” the befuddled voice called behind him as a hard metallic clank echoed from somewhere near his feet. Cold water sloshed forward, followed by a parade of ice cubes. Mike whirled to find the red-faced young woman who’d just poured her champagne bucket down his back.
“Oh, gracious!” she continued to babble, kneeling to scoop the miraculously intact bottle off champagne of the brick walk. “I’m so sorry! Must have run straight into --”
From just over his shoulder, a woman erupted in raucous laughter.
Mike spun to find Carrie cupping a hand over her mouth as her whole upper body quaked with mirth.
If only he’d known what she’d been thinking! What was it about Mike Davis, Carrie wondered, that always seem to attract him to water? Or, vice versa, Carrie thought, exploding once again in giggles.
Mike ignored the women at his feet, busily scooping ice cubes back into her silver bucket, and kept a watchful eye on Carrie as he stealthily removed his dripping sports coat and shook it out at arm’s length.
“Feeling all better, I see,” he said, cocking one eyebrow, and looking -- what?, Carried wondered -- amused at her amusement?
“Sir, I --”
“Don’t worry about it,” Mike said, nearly deaf to the stranger’s apologies, as he stooped to gather ice cubes and
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