for a Friday night. Alex headed for the largest booth, only to have Brady stop, grab his brothers and literally shove them onto the bench of a smaller one. “We want to sit here,” he said, scrambling in after them.
Alex opened his mouth to object, both at the booth’s small size and because he and Shay had been left to share a seat, when he caught her look of dismay. For some perverse reason, her reluctance rankled. “After you,” he heard himself say, even though he didn’t want to sit by her, either.
With a narrow look, she sidled past, giving him ample cause to regret his impulsive words when her breast brushed his arm. A jolt of heat coursed through him. Apparently she’d only managed to secure half the standard ration of undergarments.
She slid gingerly onto the unoccupied seat and moved as close to the far wall as she could.
Alex settled in beside her, careful not to touch her.
Brady beamed at the pair of them, his smile so huge it took up most of his face. “Gee. Isn’t this fun?”
“Oh, yeah. Fun,” Shay and Alex murmured.
“Can we play video games?” he inquired.
“No.” Alex was definitely not in the mood to be left alone with Shay Spenser. Although he wasn’t looking at her, he could feel her soft warmth just inches away. And even though he knew, intellectually, that his awareness was the result of being overtired and frustrated in general—by the whole damn day, not just her—it wasn’t making his body’s lusty response any easier to tolerate. Besides, the boys were the ones who’d wanted her here; they could darn well entertain her.
“But I want to play Space Invaders.” Nick said. “Please, Daddy?”
“No.”
“Aw, come on,” Brady wheedled. “Just a few games?”
“Please, please, please?” Nick begged.
“I don’t have any quarters.” The minute he said it, he knew it was a mistake. The boys’ faces lit up like butane torches.
“I bet Shay has some,” Brady said. “She always remembers to bring them, just for us. Doncha, Shay?”
Shay hesitated as four pairs of brown eyes locked on her. Three pairs were shining with total trust; one pair was narrowed warningly. Great. “I believe your dad said no.”
“But if he did say yes,” Brady pressed, practicing early for a career as a prosecuting attorney, “would you have some for us then?”
“Well, yes, but—”
“I knew it!” The eight-year-old whipped his gaze toward his father. “See, Daddy, she does have some! So can we play? Please?”
“Well, since Shay has quarters, by all means.” Alex sent her a swift look so frigid it could have given frostbite to a polar bear.
Shay’s mouth tightened, but she swallowed the retort that sprang to her lips. After all—this was therapy, right? Any moment now her hormones would wake up and realize Alex was more annoying than he was sexy, and the infernal internal hyperventilating that struck her every time he got too close would disappear. Right?
Clinging to that thought, she reached into her purse and pulled out two rolls of quarters, which she quickly divvied up, giving the boys each a few dollars’ worth.
“Oooh, thanks!” They slid willy-nilly off the bench and dashed away.
Except for Brady, who stayed long enough to say to his father, “See, Daddy, didn’t I tell you? Isn’t she wonderful?” He smiled happily and gave Alex a pat on the shoulder. “Now, you guys can have a nice talk. And you don’t have to worry about the little kids, because—” he drew himself up “—I’ll take care of them for you.”
He turned and scampered off. Perplexed by his unexpectedly generous offer—Brady’s primary concern was usually not his brothers’ welfare—Shay glanced sideways at Alex. “What do you suppose that’s all about?”
“Beats me.” He glanced away as the waitress arrived to take their order. The moment the woman finished, he slid out of the booth and moved to the opposite seat.
Shay heaved a sigh of relief, finally feeling as if she could breathe again. Even so, an awkward silence sprang up that didn’t end until after the waitress returned with a basket of bread sticks, a pitcher of root beer and five glasses.
Alex filled a glass and handed it to her. “So, you’re a friend of Beau’s.” It was more a statement than a question,
“Yes, but—”
“Not in the Biblical sense,” he finished for her. “So you said. Besides—” he gave her an assessing look “—you’re not his type.”
She wondered what that meant, then decided she didn’t want to know. “Thank goodness. He’s not mine, either.”
Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».
Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.
Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.
