Food. Maybe she should dream about that….
“Oh, no, you don’t.”
She was being hauled upright again. This really must stop. She was sure she was telling him, but the words were all fuzzed up in her brain. All she wanted to do was sleep, dammit. Couldn’t they just leave her alone to sleep? And just who the hell were they anyway?
She tried to struggle, but her arms were all sleep-gimpy and the Sandman was much stronger at any rate. “Whas going on? Hey!” This last came out much more clearly as she was unceremoniously dragged from her nice warm bed, or Viv’s nice warm bed. Maybe that’s why her dream man wanted Viv; it was her bed after all. Hmm…She began to drift again.
Then was awakened by her own shriek when she found herself turned almost upside down. “What the hell?” She blinked her eyes furiously, trying to clear the cobwebs. “What are you doing?” This demand was delivered directly to the very hard, very broad back of…Wait a minute. Her dream man wasn’t real. Was he?
No, she must still be asleep after all. Okay, so no tamales or frozen cheesecake treats. Sheesh.
But she swiftly realized her predicament had nothing to do with sugar-and-spice overload. Because the warm, well-muscled forearm strapped across the back of her thighs was definitely real.
She began to struggle in earnest now as full consciousness was rudely and irrevocably thrust upon her. “Who the hell are you? Put me down!”
“Your best friend is crying her eyes out in a church on what should be the happiest day of her life and so you’re going to put aside whatever personal problems you might have and go make her happy.”
They were already heading down Viv’s stairs and she grabbed his waist to keep her head from banging against his back. She couldn’t string two coherent thoughts together, much less make any sense of what was happening to her. But one thing would certainly help. “Put. Me. Down.”
But the hard body presently manhandling her wasn’t remotely intimidated by her best ICU nurse voice. Okay, okay, she told herself. Calm down, wake up, think, think. What was he talking about? A wedding. Wedding.
“Oh! You must mean Kate Winchell.”
“Nice of you to remember.”
She finally put it together. He thought she was Vivian and Kate had sent him here to bring her matron of honor to the ceremony.
But the breath she’d planned to use to inform him of his dire mistake was oomphed out of her when he stepped off the front porch and headed toward a silver sedan. She forgot all about warning him when warm, humid air brushed her legs. Her very bare legs. Oh my God! “Wait just a damn minute! I don’t have any clothes on!”
She heard a rustle of plastic. “I’ve got them. You can dress at the church.”
“But I’m not—”
“Save the excuses. Whatever they are, you can swallow them for the twenty minutes it’s going to take for my buddy to marry the love of his life.” He shifted her as easily as a sack of potatoes so he could open the door. “A woman with apparently lousy taste in best friends,” he added, clearly disgusted. “But she deserves a nice wedding day and I’m going to make sure she gets it.”
Christy was dumped in the front seat of the car, quite rudely she thought, and was just winding up to deliver a blistering speech to enlighten this…this Neanderthal Kate had apparently sent to get Vivian. But all the words and a goodly amount of the venom she’d been building since the moment he tossed her over his shoulder died in her throat the instant she came face-to-face with him.
He was very possibly the most gorgeous Neanderthal she’d ever laid eyes on.
And speaking of eyes. At the moment, his were mere inches away from hers as he leaned in to get the seat-belt harness. They were blue. Lord, were they ever. All the poetic words ever used on a greeting card couldn’t describe just how blue those eyes were.
She opened her mouth, then closed it again. Better not to speak until she was sure she wouldn’t drool. Not that she could be any more humiliated at this point. No makeup, puffy eyes, bed hair…and wearing white cotton underwear. Oh, yeah, she was a real temptress. Not that she wanted to tempt the guy. But her body didn’t seem willing to register that reality. Oh, no, her body was exceedingly aware that white cotton or not, she wasn’t wearing very much of it. And his hands were hovering close to…well, close to places she really shouldn’t want a stranger’s hands to hover. But she wanted them to anyway.
God, she was tired. That had to be the reason she waited until the last possible second before smacking his hands away and taking the seat belt from him. One second later and his knuckles would have grazed…well, she didn’t want to think about what those knuckles would have been grazing against. Her nipples were thinking about it far too much already, thank you very much.
“Buckle up,” he said tersely and stepped back, apparently oblivious to the near riot he’d created with her hormones.
Sleep deprivation—she was sure that was the only reason they were all in a dither. That and a severe lack of love life. Tough combination, and after the eyeful she got watching him as he straightened, she decided she couldn’t really blame her nipples one bit.
He locked her door and shut it tightly, making her flinch. Venom buildup returning, she thought, scowling as she watched him walk with a rigid preciseness that made the military uniform he wore seem redundant. But damn, if he didn’t fill that uniform out. And men in uniform didn’t even make the top ten on her list of things to fantasize about. “Well, that could change,” she murmured, mind wandering. Of course, in her fantasies the man in uniform wouldn’t be a rude, Neanderthal, hormone-inducing jerk. Well, except for the hormone-inducing part. That would probably be okay. And those eyes, those would work.
God, she was punchy. How had she let this happen anyway? Yawning fiercely, she let her head drop back on the headrest. She knew Kate Winchell, but only through Viv. Christy had met her fiancé, Mike, at a July Fourth picnic once. He was a former Special Forces guy, she couldn’t remember with what part of the military, but given the uniform, she guessed this was one of his pals. Her eyelids drooped and her mind was tugged back toward dreamland as she vaguely wondered if she and her blue-eyed Neanderthal Man would have hit it off if they’d met at a picnic. Maybe he’d wear that uniform…and let her take it off later, alone. Somewhere where they could have their own private display of fireworks. Oh, yeah, that would be great….
She almost leaped out of her skin when he slammed his door shut. Which put him inside the car. Right next to her. Her and her rioting, fantasizing hormones. And her barely clad body. She hunched down a little and shifted toward the door, not that he hadn’t already seen everything. And it didn’t make a bit of difference, nor did the fact that her brain knew she’d never give this guy the time of day after the way he’d treated her. Her body was still back at her fantasy picnic, getting ready to explode a few fireworks.
Okay, so she’d been pulling too many double shifts. She had school loans to pay off and a fixer-upper condo that was turning into a money pit of nightmare proportions. She had priorities. And they didn’t include fireworks. In or out of uniform.
But her gaze slid over to him anyway. Along his thighs, so nicely outlined in his crisp dress pants, to the belted jacket that covered…well, things she didn’t need to be visualizing as she was overstimulated enough at the moment. But she didn’t look away. No, she had to look at his hands…and oh, Lord, what hands
