Lucas spent the silent, tense ride home revamping his strategy.
Fragileness deepened Cia’s shadows, and it was enough to cool his jets. Nothing would have pleased him more than to walk into the house, back her up against the door and start that kiss over again, but this time, his hands would stroke over the hot curves of her body and she’d be naked in short order.
But she wasn’t like other women. She wasn’t in touch with her sexuality, and he had to live with her—and himself—for the next six months. While he’d like to sink straight into a simple seduction, he had to treat her differently, with no idea what that looked like.
Once they cleared the detached garage, he slid his hand into hers. “Thanks for going to dinner.”
Her fingers stiffened. She glanced at him, surprise evident. “You say that like I had a choice.”
“You did. With me, you always have a choice. We’re partners, not master and slave. So, I’m saying thank you for choosing to spend the evening with my family. It was difficult for you, and I appreciate it.”
Her gaze flitted over him, clearly looking for the punch line. “You’re welcome, then.”
He let go of her hand to open the door. “Now, I don’t know about you, but my parents’ house always makes me want to let loose a little. I’m half-afraid to move, in case I accidentally knock over one of Mama’s precious knickknacks.”
Cia smiled, just a little, but it was encouraging all the same. “It is easier to breathe in our house.”
Our house. She’d never called it that before, and he liked the sound of it. They were settling in with each other, finding a groove.
He followed her into the living room. “Let’s do “Let’s do something fun.”
“Like what?”
Instead of answering, he crossed to the entertainment center and punched up the music she’d been playing earlier, when he’d returned home from playing basketball. A mess of electronic noise blasted through the speakers, thumping in his chest. “Dance with me,” he yelled over the pulsing music.
“To this?” Disbelief crinkled her forehead. “You haven’t even been drinking, white boy.”
“Come on.” He held out a hand. “You won’t dance in public. No one is watching except me, and I can’t dance well enough to warrant making fun of you.”
He almost fell over when she shrugged and joined him. “I don’t like people watching me, but I never said I couldn’t dance.”
To prove it, she cut her torso in a zigzag and whirled in an intricate move worthy of a music video, hair flying, hands framing her head.
He grinned and crossed his arms, content to be still and watch Cia abandon herself to the beat. His hunch had been right—anyone with her energy would have to be a semicompetent dancer.
After a minute or so of the solo performance, she froze and threw him a look. “You’re not dancing.”
“Too hard to keep up with that, honey. I’m having a great time. Really. Keep going.”
“Not if you’re just going to stand there. You asked me to dance with you.”
Only because he hadn’t actually thought she’d say yes. “So I did.”
He could be a good sport. But he could not, under any circumstances, dance to anything faster than Brooks & Dunn.
So, he let her make fun of him instead, as he flapped his arms and stomped his feet in what could easily be mistaken for an epileptic seizure. When she laughed so hard she had to hold her sides, nothing but pure Cia floated through her eyes.
The shadows—and the fragileness—had been banished. Score one for Wheeler.
“All right, darlin’. Unless you want to tend to me as I’m laid out flat on my back with a pulled muscle, we gotta dial it down a notch.”
She snickered. “What are you, sixty? Shall I run and collect your social security check from the mailbox?”
Before she could protest, he grabbed her hand and twirled her into his arms, body to body. “No, thanks. I’ve got another idea.”
Her arms came up around his waist and she clung to him. Progress. It was sweet.
“Slow dancing?” she asked.
“Slow something, that’s for sure.” He threaded fingers through her amazing hair and brushed a thumb across her cheek. Her skin was damp from dancing.
As he imagined the glow she’d take on when he got her good and sweaty between the sheets, he went hard. She noticed.
Her eyes widened, and all the color drained from her face as she let go of him faster than a hot frying pan. “It’s late. I have a shift in the morning, so I’m about danced out.”
All his hard work crumbled to dust under the avalanche of her hang-ups. He let her go with regret. Should have gone with slow dancing, and, as a bonus, she’d still be in his arms. “Sure thing. Big day tomorrow.”
The wedding. Realization crept over her expression. “Oh. Yeah. Well, good night.”
She fled.
He stalked off to bed and stared at the news for a good couple of hours, unsuccessfully attempting to will away his raging hard-on, before finally drifting off into a restless sleep laced with dreams of Cia wearing his ring and nothing else.
In the morning, he awoke bleary eyed but determined to make some progress in at least one area sorely requiring his attention—work.
The muted hum of the shower in Cia’s bathroom traveled through the walls as he passed by.
Cia, wet and naked. Exactly as he’d dreamed.
He skipped breakfast, too frustrated to stay in the house any longer. An early arrival at work wasn’t out of line anyway, as Mondays were usually killers. A welcome distraction from the slew of erotic images parading around in his head.
At red lights, he fired off emails to potential clients with the details of new listings. His schedule was insane this week. He had overlapping showings, appraisals and social events he’d attend to drum up new business.
An annoying buzz at the edge of his consciousness kept reminding him of all the balls he had in the air. He’d been juggling the unexpected addition of a full-time personal life and the strain was starting to wear. As long as he didn’t drop any balls or clients, everything was cool.
Four o’clock arrived way too fast.
As anticipated, Cia waited for him outside the courthouse, wearing one of her Sunday-go-to-meeting dresses a grandmother would envy and low heels.
With her just-right curves and slender legs, put her in a pair of stilettos and a gauzy hot-pink number revealing a nice slice of cleavage … well, there’d be no use for stoplights on the street—traffic would screech
