"Only crazy people like hail, but sane people wish for a snowquakenado blizzard?" The incongruity of her statement somehow eased the tension inside him. "Sweetheart, I'm getting mixed signals from you." In more ways than one.
Another giggle, and hell! He wished she had stayed quiet; the sound of her good humor only enchanted him more. "If everything goes as predicted, the sun will show up in about an hour and the storm will move on." She opened the door and stepped outside, saying over her shoulder, "You'll be safe here, so there's no reason to worry."
Who was this girl? "I'm not worried."
She'd wanted to be a meteorologist but had dropped out of school after getting married. He wondered why.
He wondered about every detail of her life, and it disconcerted him. Curiosity had never before factored into his romantic pursuits, but the more he learned about Thea, the less he realized he actually knew.
Daniel carried Princess to the front door and peered out the glass, watching as Thea spoke into her phone, wind whipping around her, rain soaking her hair and plastering her scrubs to her skin. Her nipples were hard.
A sense of possession riveted him in place, invaded his blood, his bones.
Secret or not, she's mine. No other man will have her.
He walked away before he gave in to the temptation to join her outside. He could wait for their date to make his move. Barely.
CHAPTER EIGHT
WHAT THE HECK was going on?
Yesterday Dorothea had woken up with no way to create her first theme room and zero dates. Now she had a theme room in the works and three dates. Three! Daniel, Brett the vet and John, Holly's teacher.
John had texted her about an hour ago. I haven't stopped thinking about you since the parent-teacher conference. Or sister-teacher conference LOL :) It would be an honor to take you to dinner on Sunday. Any interest?
She responded with, Dinner would be lovely.
A totally suave answer, breezy rather than flabbergasted. Meanwhile she'd had a panic attack on the inside. He likes me, and he can't stop thinking about me. He's clearly insane! No, no. He's smart, and he has good taste. I've got a good heart, remember? And I have prospects. But I just agreed to go on a date with him, which means I just agreed to talk to him with food stuck in my teeth, because that is totally going to happen!
Brett had called about twenty minutes after John texted. "Look, I don't know what you've got going with Daniel Porter--"
"Nothing," she'd assured him in a rush, ignoring the twist of...something dark in her gut.
"Good. How about dinner on Sunday?"
For the first time in her life she'd gotten to say, "I just made plans with someone else." What were the rules for dating multiple people? Was she supposed to tell Brett who she'd made plans with? "How about dinner on Saturday?"
"Great," he'd said. "I'll text you Saturday morning with details."
At that point, she'd almost canceled on Daniel. Two men? Alert the presses, she was a wanted woman. Three men? She was a glutton.
In the end, she'd let things stand. A deal was a deal. Three dates with Daniel meant three weeks of free labor. Only a fool would pass up such a delicious--uh, advantageous opportunity.
She spent the next half hour on the phone with Harlow, planning the murals and exchanging ideas, and her excitement skyrocketed. The four seasons theme room would be better than she'd ever dreamed. And so would her love life!
Tonight would be a dress rehearsal for the other, more important, dates.
She'd go all-out and scale back as needed.
With that in mind, she donned her most feminine outfit: a white baby doll dress with lace straps and a lace trim that ended just above her knees. Her once-treasured wedding "gown," special only for sentimental reasons. It had been the best she could afford the day she and Jazz eloped. For her feet, she selected ballerina slippers with ribbons that crisscrossed up her calves.
Both items were completely nonsensical, maybe even out of fashion, okay, definitely out of fashion, but so what? She'd never been a trendsetter.
I am who I am, and Brett and John like me anyway. What an amazing day!
She considered painting her nails with the glittery white polish Daniel had given her. Problem was, he would consider it a sign she wanted to sleep with him. She did, but she wouldn't. Then she toyed with the idea of painting her nails solid yellow, Daniel's favorite color. But again, he would consider it a sign. She selected a pale gold to represent her nervousness. What? Gold could pass as orange. Just because the color resembled Daniel's eyes, well, that meant nothing.
Her cell phone buzzed, Holly's face appearing on the screen, and she hurried to answer.
"I'm going to the city with friends," her sister said in lieu of a greeting. Laughter rang out in the background.
"What are--" Dorothea began.
Click.
"--you guys going to do in the city?" she finished lamely.
She sighed and stuffed her cell in the pocket of her dress. At least her sister had deigned to call and tell her. But still, the rift between them had widened, no doubt about it, and Dorothea hadn't yet come up with a plan to build a bridge.
Not going to worry about it. Not tonight.
As she'd proved, time was the difference between despair and glee, zero dates and three...the death of a relationship and the start of a new one.
*
WITH HER HEAD HIGH, Dorothea strolled into the Scratching Post. Her heart raced, and perspiration dampened her palms. Through a thick veil of smoke, she saw a sizable crowd congregated at the bar. Wednesday wasn't really a let's-party night, but Ryanne was on duty, hustling to fill drink orders, and the guys couldn't get enough of her.
Dorothea noticed a man she'd met but had never truly conversed with--Brock Hudson. He was heavily tattooed and pierced in several places, his dark hair shaved military short, the shadow of a beard darkening his jaw. A woman perched on either side of his lap, making him the picture of debauchery. Though he smiled at one, then the other, he seemed more aware of his surroundings than his companions.
It was a trait Daniel shared.
Brock stubbed out a cigarette, and she grimaced. At least he'd used an ashtray. Daniel used to smoke outside the inn. But he hadn't done so the last few times he'd stayed, she realized now. Had he quit?
A blond man gave her a thumbs-up. She recognized him but couldn't remember his name. Yet another man whistled at her, and her head lifted a little higher. There was no sign of Daniel, but then, she'd gotten here fifteen minutes early and he'd had errands. He'd driven to the city to buy material for the theme room, as promised; afterward he would be taking Princess to his dad's.
His devotion to the little dog astounded Dorothea. And okay, okay, it made her chest throb with feminine appreciation.
Thou shalt treat others with kindness.
He was such a good guy. In one day, he'd done more for her first theme room than she'd done in an entire year. He'd encouraged her to live her dream. Not tomorrow--tomorrow wasn't a guarantee--but today. He'd proved obstacles could be used as opportunities.
She thought Daniel could maybe possibly become her friend. If she learned to control her physical reactions to him. The cascade of warmth every time she looked at him. The tingles and tremors. The elevated heartbeat...the surge of lust low in her belly.
He was the human equivalent of a brownie. Yummy, but oh, so bad for her.
Ryanne twirled bottles as if they were batons and poured the contents into glasses. Noticing Dorothea, she smiled. "Wow! You look amazing."
I do? Wait. That's right, I do. "Thank you." Dorothea fluffed her hair.
At the other end of the bar, a man shouted for her friend's attention. Ryanne held up a finger, saying to Dorothea, "What would you like to drink?"
"Something tasty but light." Too much sugar caused sluggishness, and she needed to remain on high alert.
"All right, then. I'll make you a Moscow Mule. It has vodka, which is made from potatoes. Potatoes are practic
ally a salad."
Suddenly a wall of white-hot heat pressed against her backside and wrapped her in a force field of masculinity. "Make that two salads, please."
Daniel's rough, husky voice stroked her ears an-n-nd, yes, she experienced an intense and undeniable physical response to him. Tremors raked her, and tingles erupted in select places.
She turned to face him and promptly lost her breath. Primal hunger blazed in his amber eyes and also painted fine lines around his mouth. His dark hair stuck out in wind-rumpled spikes. He wore a black T-shirt and sweatpants as requested. The problem was, the shirt fit well. Too well. He'd ignored her orders, and he would be punished. Or not. Definitely not, because the thought made her shiver. The pants bagged a little, at least, hanging low on his waist, but wow, they still managed to look good on him. Her plan to camouflage his hotness had backfired. His muscular physique was on spectacular display.
"What are you doing?" she whispered, planting her palm on his chest to push him back.
Strong as steel, he remained in place, his heart drumming against her hand. "I'm admiring you. You are..." His gaze slid over her, hooded, then traveled over her a second time at a more leisurely pace. "Absolutely exquisite."
Thou shalt compliment when merited.
How was she supposed to respond to such blatant appreciation?
Easy. By focusing on tonight's goals. Shedding her shyness, learning to flirt and saving herself for a viable candidate.
He took her hand in his and studied her nails. "Gold?"
"A version of orange," she said, a little defensive.
"You're nervous, then."
Ugh. She never should have told him about her polish. "People can see us, Daniel. You need to back off."
A muscle jumped beneath his eye. "People should mind their own business. Besides, there's nothing wrong with a little flirting." He leaned toward her, becoming all she could see, all she wanted to see. "Fair warning, sweetheart. Tonight my main objective is getting my hands under that dress...and into your panties."
Her world tilted, her mind abuzz with a tempest of warring emotions. Say something! "I... You... Tonight the only hands in my panties will be mine." She sucked in a sharp breath. She hadn't just implied... Oh, my stars. She had. She really had. Kill me.
Daniel's pupils expanded in a rush of pure lust. "May I watch?" His voice had evolved into a growl, barely audible over the erratic pulse of music. "I'm willing to beg for the privilege."
"I didn't mean--" Oh, what the heck? You're here to flirt, so flirt. "No, you may not watch me," she said with what she hoped was a sultry pitch. "But you have my permission to imagine..."
The response must have been appropriate--or tantalizingly inappropriate--because he moaned. "In my mind, you're going to scream my name when you come."
The panties in question? Suddenly drenched.
Thankfully, Ryanne pressed two copper mugs against the back of Dorothea's arm, drawing her attention and saving her from having to think up a response.
"Okay, my pretties. These are on the house," her friend said. "My way of saying thank you for the show."
The show. Aka Dorothea's near capitulation, all because Daniel had uttered a few flattering words. Dang it, she needed to beef up her resistance to him.
I can do better. I will do better.
Daniel nodded a greeting at her friend. "Good to see you again, Rye-anne."
"It's Rye-in, and you know it. And you, too, Danny boy." The mouth that had inspired the poems written on the bathroom walls curved into a sugary sweet smile. "By the way, your friend Jude is a turd on the half shell."
"Yeah, he gets that a lot," Daniel said.
"I'm sure you all do." Ryanne waved a hand through the air, dismissing the subject. "If you hurt Dorothea, little pieces of you will end up scattered all over town."
Oookay. A groan slipped from Dorothea.
Daniel gave her friend a jaunty salute. "Warning received."
"You mean promise received," Ryanne corrected.
"Well. Hello, there, beautiful." Brock sidled up to Daniel and grinned at Ryanne. His companions remained at his sides, petting his chest as if they'd been paid to adore him.
Had they?
Daniel motioned to him with a tilt of his chin. "Ryanne, have you met my friend and business partner Brock Hudson? Brock, I'd like to formally introduce Ryanne Wade, the owner of the bar."
"I've already had the displeasure." Ryanne batted her lashes at Brock. "Mr. Hudson is a regular pain in my butt."
The still-smiling Brock released his cargo--now pouting cargo--to cross his arms over his chest. "Every weekend I ask Miss Ryanne to play fifteen minutes in heaven with me."
"And every time I tell him to kiss my go-to-hell," she said without heat...but maybe with a little sisterly affection?
He laughed the huskiest, sexiest sound on the planet--when not compared to Daniel. But seriously. That laugh was like a mating call heard on National Geographic.
The girls stopped petting him and started pawing at him. Seriously, had he paid them, or maybe fed them a magic aphrodisiac? More important, where could Dorothea get a magic aphrodisiac?
Brock gave both women a little push. "Wait for me over there, pretties."
The girls twittered with disappointment but left as requested. As soon as they were out of hearing range, Dorothea said, "Be honest. They're hookers, right?"
"Nah. We're playing a game. Whoever fawns over me the most and the best wins a--"
Daniel hit him in the chest, and he quieted.
A sexual game, then. Envy wafted through her--followed by a sublime flicker of bliss when her gaze met Daniel's ponderous one. What would it be like to play--
Nope. Not going there.
To Ryanne, Brock said, "Baby, kissing your go-to-hell is what I'll be doing for twelve of your fifteen minutes in heaven."
"Lucky me." She pretended to gag. "By the way, your dates are wearing pants so tight I can see their religion."
"I saw you bend over earlier. Yours are tighter, doll." His gaze swept over her, his eyes twinkling. "Tsk-tsk. Haven't been to church in a while, have we?"
Okay, now that was flirting. Except, Dorothea felt no real sparks between them. No underlying tension.
Oh, you're an expert on chemistry now?
Someone bumped into Daniel. He stiffened, reaching around his waist to--
Abruptly he stilled. His arm lowered, his hand fisting, and a shuddering breath leaving him. The guy responsible stumbled away without realizing how close he'd come to a beat down.
Concerned, Brock patted Daniel on the shoulder. He also cast Drunk Guy a look laden with violence, his smile gone.
Acting on instinct, Dorothea cupped Daniel's beard-shadowed cheeks. Was his past threatening to gobble him up? Remembering a pickup line she'd heard in meteorology school, she said, "I'm not a weather girl, but I'm predicting you'll get six or seven inches tonight."
Brock spewed the drink he'd just taken. Ryanne snickered behind her hand.
Daniel focused on Dorothea, his jaw slack. Then he threw back his head and laughed with genuine amusement, and she nearly collapsed under a great wave of relief.
"I think you're underestimating tonight's storm," he told her. "I'll be getting zero inches. You, on the other hand, will be getting ten--"
"Ten?" she squeaked.
Overheating, she pressed a hand over his mouth before he could say anything more. He nipped at her, and she yelped.
They shared a smile as he gathered their drinks.
"Come on." He ushered her to a darkened corner in the back.
For some reason, Brock followed.
Ever the gentleman, Daniel set down the drinks and held out a chair for her. He claimed the seat at her right while Brock took the one at her left, as if...
Realization struck. He was a cover, she realized with a surge of disappointment. That way, no one from Strawberry Valley would suspect this was a date.
"I'm going to ignore Brock, and I hope you
'll do the same." Daniel traced a fingertip over the top of her hand. "You and I are the only two people who matter."
"Words hurt, Danny," Brock said, though he didn't sound upset.
"So do fists." Daniel's gaze remained on her. "Okay with you?"
I think you're perfect just the way you are.
Her nails dug into her knees. "Depends on what we're going to do. Stare at each other all night?"
"I'd like that." He threaded one of her curls around his finger. "But you're in charge tonight. Whatever you want to do, we'll do."
Right. In desperate need of a distraction, and maybe a little liquid courage, she tasted the drink Ryanne had made her. Vodka and...ginger ale? Absolutely delicious. Refreshing, with a sweet burn. Dorothea emptied the copper mug in only a few gulps.
All right. Let's do this. "I want you to teach me how to flirt without blushing or stammering."
His eyes darkened with pleasure. "I never blush or stammer."
"I mean me."
"Trust me, sweetheart. You know how to flirt. Your hook is baited, and I'm dangling from the end."
"But I want to catch other fish," she admitted quietly. Truth was truth, and if it created a shield between them, great. Perfect.
Daniel flinched.
Such an intense reaction from him...confused her.
Cautiously, she said, "We're not going to last. Your words, not mine. Not that we've started anything."
He drained his mug.
"It'll be easier for us both if we never start anything," she said.
Brock pulled a cigarette from a pack and a lighter from his pocket.
Daniel grabbed the cancer stick and snapped it in two. "No smoking."
"Hey. I'm not the one who quit because some woman wrinkled her nose," Brock replied, but he set the pack and lighter on the table.
Who had wrinkled her nose at Daniel? Dorothea had always been careful to blank her expression and hide her aversion, and she was pretty sure she'd succeeded each and every time.
Daniel kicked his friend's seat. "Quiet, you. The grown-ups are talking."
"Besides," she interjected, picking up their conversation as if it hadn't lagged, "you told me I'm not your type."
"You told her she's not your type?" Brock gave his friend the stink eye. "She's sex in a dress."
I am?
"I know she is," Daniel grated.
He does?
He peered at her with the heat of a thousand suns. "I also told you how deeply you misunderstood my words. You are my type. You are my favorite type. Right now you're my only type."