to her, then comes stage two.”
“Which is?”
“Attention.”
Subtly, she shifted closer, and below his sleeve, a firm breast brushed his biceps. A breast only covered by a thin shirt and definitely not encased in a bra.
“You pay attention to her,” she said. “Not like giving her lame flowers from Piggly Wiggly. But paying attention to stuff she likes. Music. Books she’s read. You notice little variations in the color of her skin. You give her a nickname. Remember details, like the things she says.” Her breast nudged his arm muscle with little licks of heat. “Stage one and two. You’re hot for her, and you pay attention.”
Hot. Yeah. His lungs were on fire with the effort it took not to gulp oxygen. He was swamped in the sensation of a rough cotton T-shirt against his arm, the only barrier between his skin and hers, and it was a miracle the zipper on his jeans hadn’t busted a few teeth.
“How many stages are there?” he asked, his voice involuntarily husky.
“Six,” she said and her voice had dipped a couple of notches, too, causing her answer to sound like sex. Or maybe that was due to his hormone-laced senses. “Romance isn’t simple.”
What was simple? Not this blazing stage one between them, which had to be leaving scorch marks on her, too, as perceptive as she was. Besides, she might have been serious enough with a guy to be talking marriage, but that didn’t make her experienced.
Then there was the engagement, which had to be real to the public in order to work. He wasn’t sure of Kyla’s angle yet, but if the engagement was designed to throw them back together like he suspected, she’d perceive VJ as competition. No one deserved to be in those crosshairs.
He sighed. The reasons for nipping this thing with VJ in the bud were legion.
Because this situation didn’t suck enough, he’d just transformed VJ into ripe, delicious, forbidden fruit. Cursing, he yanked on the wheel and swerved to avoid a dead armadillo.
Half-blind, he struggled to keep his attention on the road and off VJ.
Stop. Detach. Immediately.
He hated to step on any of her puppies, let alone her fanciful ideas about romance. Unfortunately, it might be the only solution capable of getting his mind out of the gutter.
“This is all fascinating. But I don’t believe in fairy tales.”
* * *
“Who said anything about fairy tales?” VJ countered and wiped damp palms on her jeans stealthily, so Kris remained unaware of how nerves were kicking her butt. “Romance instruction” had grown from a ploy to prove he wasn’t in love with Kyla, which he’d readily admitted, into a death match of wills over something far worse. He didn’t believe in romance. And she was going to change his mind.
“Romance novels are not fairy tales. I’m talking about real life.”
“Whose real life? Yours?”
“Sure. One day.” She shrugged. “That’s why I said no to the proposal. Walt Phillips and romance don’t even speak the same language. It might as well be Greek.”
She winced. Freudian slip. Or something. This conversation was going to kill her one way or another.
With a hint of a smile, Kris peeked over the rim of his sunglasses and said something foreign and sexy. “I’ll translate that for you some other time.”
Her breast still tingled where it had touched his arm and that voice did nothing but heighten it. What was she doing? Was this really about changing his views toward romance or a thinly veiled excuse to get close to him now that she knew his relationship with Kyla was not what it seemed?
The car passed the Van Horn city limit. “Okay, now I’m hungry,” she said, even though she wasn’t. She needed time to regroup. “We can stop here for breakfast.”
Kris pulled into a crowded fast-food place without comment.
He parked the Ferrari among rusted flatbeds, semis and beat-up four-doors, then sped around to her side to help her out of the low seat. Always a gentleman, and jumping jellybeans was
“Which is?”
“Attention.”
Subtly, she shifted closer, and below his sleeve, a firm breast brushed his biceps. A breast only covered by a thin shirt and definitely not encased in a bra.
“You pay attention to her,” she said. “Not like giving her lame flowers from Piggly Wiggly. But paying attention to stuff she likes. Music. Books she’s read. You notice little variations in the color of her skin. You give her a nickname. Remember details, like the things she says.” Her breast nudged his arm muscle with little licks of heat. “Stage one and two. You’re hot for her, and you pay attention.”
Hot. Yeah. His lungs were on fire with the effort it took not to gulp oxygen. He was swamped in the sensation of a rough cotton T-shirt against his arm, the only barrier between his skin and hers, and it was a miracle the zipper on his jeans hadn’t busted a few teeth.
“How many stages are there?” he asked, his voice involuntarily husky.
“Six,” she said and her voice had dipped a couple of notches, too, causing her answer to sound like sex. Or maybe that was due to his hormone-laced senses. “Romance isn’t simple.”
What was simple? Not this blazing stage one between them, which had to be leaving scorch marks on her, too, as perceptive as she was. Besides, she might have been serious enough with a guy to be talking marriage, but that didn’t make her experienced.
Then there was the engagement, which had to be real to the public in order to work. He wasn’t sure of Kyla’s angle yet, but if the engagement was designed to throw them back together like he suspected, she’d perceive VJ as competition. No one deserved to be in those crosshairs.
He sighed. The reasons for nipping this thing with VJ in the bud were legion.
Because this situation didn’t suck enough, he’d just transformed VJ into ripe, delicious, forbidden fruit. Cursing, he yanked on the wheel and swerved to avoid a dead armadillo.
Half-blind, he struggled to keep his attention on the road and off VJ.
Stop. Detach. Immediately.
He hated to step on any of her puppies, let alone her fanciful ideas about romance. Unfortunately, it might be the only solution capable of getting his mind out of the gutter.
“This is all fascinating. But I don’t believe in fairy tales.”
* * *
“Who said anything about fairy tales?” VJ countered and wiped damp palms on her jeans stealthily, so Kris remained unaware of how nerves were kicking her butt. “Romance instruction” had grown from a ploy to prove he wasn’t in love with Kyla, which he’d readily admitted, into a death match of wills over something far worse. He didn’t believe in romance. And she was going to change his mind.
“Romance novels are not fairy tales. I’m talking about real life.”
“Whose real life? Yours?”
“Sure. One day.” She shrugged. “That’s why I said no to the proposal. Walt Phillips and romance don’t even speak the same language. It might as well be Greek.”
She winced. Freudian slip. Or something. This conversation was going to kill her one way or another.
With a hint of a smile, Kris peeked over the rim of his sunglasses and said something foreign and sexy. “I’ll translate that for you some other time.”
Her breast still tingled where it had touched his arm and that voice did nothing but heighten it. What was she doing? Was this really about changing his views toward romance or a thinly veiled excuse to get close to him now that she knew his relationship with Kyla was not what it seemed?
The car passed the Van Horn city limit. “Okay, now I’m hungry,” she said, even though she wasn’t. She needed time to regroup. “We can stop here for breakfast.”
Kris pulled into a crowded fast-food place without comment.
He parked the Ferrari among rusted flatbeds, semis and beat-up four-doors, then sped around to her side to help her out of the low seat. Always a gentleman, and jumping jellybeans was
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