Rescue Me: A Valentine's Day Story - Smashwords (3 page)

“Um, not a chance. The guy with the blanket has my number.”

“Not literally, though.”

“You live downstairs.”

“We’ve managed to avoid conversation so far.”

She rattled off her number and he made her repeat it so he could put it in his phone. “Tell you what,” she said. “I’ll promise you hot chocolate once we’re both down from here safely. With Kahlua. And more of that
thing
you were doing. Oh, my
God
.”

He grinned. “One more kiss. Before we call.”

He licked her mouth first, sending a shower of shivers through her, then got her face in his big hands again and went to work until she was a whimpering, melted, useless heap of craving. She became aware that his hand was on her thigh, and that it was creeping upward. Some buried sentinel in her brain cried out a warning, which she ignored. He made a deep, dark sound of surprise and satisfaction and she felt his thumb glide through the wetness at the top of her thigh and tease against her curls.

It took a superhuman effort, but she pulled away. It was one thing to be kissing on a rooftop, but he’d discovered her secret, and if she let him play too much longer, she was going to be yelling all her secrets to the neighborhood.

“You’re not only not wearing big girl panties,” he said happily. “You’re not wearing any panties at all.”

“I hadn’t gotten a chance to put them on yet,” she lied.

“Do you always put them on after your shoes?”

She sighed.

“That’s pretty hot,” he said.

“Don’t get the wrong idea. I’ve never done that before in my life. It was an act of desperation. I was hoping it would cause my sex life to be less lame.”

“Is it working?”

“Oh,
hell yes
.”

Something about this answer, or maybe the heat with which she uttered it, caused him to grab her and kiss her again, and this time he didn’t stop his hand at the crease of her thigh but slipped his fingers into her folds and found her clit. Oh, so the magic fingers didn’t only work on nipples? Good to know. Her hands had gone on a foray of their own and were clutching great handfuls of his wool sweater, implacable hard sections of his thigh, and finally, before she could think better of it—or of anything at all—the impressive bulge of his erection under his khakis. Oh,
my
.

“Call. The. Fire. Department.”

He laughed, a deep, gorgeous chuckle. She kind of doubted whether, when—not if—they finally fell into bed together, she’d take any more pleasure in his orgasm than she was taking right now in his laugh. It made him seem younger, buoyant, and she thought about how different people could be from who you thought they were, how months from now, maybe he wouldn’t be who he’d seemed tonight, either. But she’d have a damn good time finding out, in the meantime.

“Oh, someone’s coming!” she said, and then, “Oh,
shit.
” She drew back and wrapped the blanket tight.

Dave figured it out right away. “Your ex?”

“Yeah.”

“Well. At least he can help with the ladder.”

Peyton’s car pulled up to the curb and he got out. “Molly? What the hell—”

“Go away.”

“Wait,” Dave said. “Can you pick the ladder up, first?”

“Who are
you
?”

“Molly’s neighbor. Dave Jenkins.”

Peyton sized him up and dismissed him. “Molly, I want to apologize.”

“What happened to your Valentine’s Day date?”

“It was a disaster. It made me realize how much I like you. We have so much fun together. We’re so compatible.”

“Is he
serious
?” Dave asked.

Peyton
was
serious, the face she’d once thought so handsome now pleading and earnest. Had they had so much fun together? If so, why hadn’t he told her at the time, instead of chastising her for something he didn’t think she should have said, or for not being lively enough? And if they were so compatible, why hadn’t he shown up when he said he would, and why had he been so willing to dump her when the first alternative came along?

He might have been serious, but he was wrong, and he was a jerk.

And the sad thing was, she’d sold herself short to him, and she’d done it knowingly, for bad and stupid reasons. She’d been afraid of being alone or being childless. So she’d twisted herself in knots to please Peyton.

She wouldn’t make that mistake again. It had taken this, this crazy situation, to make her realize that. She didn’t need to be the life of the party because Peyton wanted her to be, and she didn’t need to make sure she said the right thing so she wouldn’t embarrass him. She didn’t need to wear really tight undergarments—unless they made her nipples feel really damn good. She didn’t need to buy expensive shoes. And she didn’t always need to be competent or sensible.

She needed to be herself. Her impetuous, shoe-throwing, stuck-on-a-roof, scared-of-heights self. Who by saying whatever came into her head whenever she decided to say it, could make this adorable, generous, modest,
sexy
man beside her
laugh.

“He’s serious,” she told Dave. “Peyton, go away. You dumped me on Valentine’s Day.”

“Reiterating: Don’t leave without getting the ladder,” Dave instructed.

“I don’t want his ladder,” Molly said.

“I do,” Dave said. “Because it means we don’t have to possibly die getting back into your apartment.”

Peyton sized up the situation, then went and got the ladder and propped it up against the ledge. “There,” he said.

Molly eyed the ladder. And the ledge, with its ugly gap. And then she dropped the blanket and told Dave, “We’re going in through the window.”

Because the thing was, even if Dave didn’t care, she didn’t want Peyton to be the one who rescued her. She wanted to tell this story someday to her grandchildren, and when she did, she wanted to say,
And then your grandfather climbed right up there on the ledge with me and rescued me, and I
knew
. I just
knew.

Or, you know, at least to keep the possibility open. She wasn’t such an idealistic maniac that she was going to hang all her hopes on the fact that Dave would someday be the grandfather of her grandchildren, but there was no effing
way
she was going to let Peyton be the hero of this night.

“Thanks, Peyton,” she said. “But I think Dave had this covered before you showed up.”

She lunged for her Jimmy Choo and grabbed it securely. She crawled over Dave’s lap, not giving a shit if she flashed Peyton or the whole world with her bare ass or subjected her knees to the vicious surface of the ledge. She inched toward the window, and climbed inside, and then she held out her hand to Dave and he crawled in after her. The ledge creaked and shifted, but held.

“Now,” she said. “Where were we?”

He kissed her, long and deep, his arms tight around her, drawing her up against him so she could enjoy the feel of his erection against her hip. She shifted to take full advantage, and his arms tightened even more. Then he let her go and set her back. “I believe that you promised me hot chocolate with Kahlua? But I have another idea. How about we go find a place to eat and talk—somewhere other than that ledge. Then we go somewhere afterwards to get dessert and drinks, and talk some more. And then—provided we both still like the idea, we could—” He hesitated.

“Start fires and put them out with hoses?”

He chuckled again, deep, the best sound she’d heard in years. “I was going to suggest that we would say goodnight and happy Valentine’s Day.”

“You were
not
.”

“Well, something along those lines.”

She picked up her Jimmy Choos and slipped them on, grabbed her clutch purse and gave Dave her hand. “Hey,” she said.

“What?”

“Thank you. For rescuing me.”

“I didn’t do anything.”

“I know you think that,” she said. “And that’s probably my second favorite thing about you.”

“What’s the first?”

“I’ll show you later,” she said, and tugged him—laughing—toward the door.

Author’s Note

Thank you for reading
Rescue Me
. I hope you enjoyed it!

If you’d like to know when my next book is available, you can sign up for my new release e-mail list at
www.serenabell.com
. You can follow me on Twitter
@SerenaBellBooks
or like my Facebook page at
www.facebook.com/SerenaBellbooks
. I’m also on Goodreads at
www.goodreads.com/SerenaBellbooks
.

Reviews help other readers find books. All reviews, whether positive or negative, are appreciated.

Acknowledgments

This story is my first foray into self-publishing, and it would never have come together without Rachel S. Grant, who contributed heroic amounts of detailed advice about the process, as well as hours of her own time helping me format.

In addition, I am so grateful for the thoughtful criticism of Amber Belldene, Ellen Price, and Samantha Wayland, the self-pubbing wisdom and experience of Charlene Teglia and (again) Samantha Wayland, the design savvy of Amber Shah at Book Beautiful, and the copyediting skills of Jessica Auerbach and Suzann Goldberg.

And as always, Mr. Bell and the little Bells kept me sane and gave me pats and hugs, as did the inimitable and indispensable Ruthie Knox and my incredibly supportive agent, Emily Sylvan Kim of Prospect Agency, though theirs were virtual. Thank you all so much.

Books By Serena Bell

Visit my web site at
www.SerenaBell.com
for more information.

Yours to Keep

Still So Hot

Ticket Home (a novella)

After Midnight (in Heating Up the Holidays)

Rescue Me (a Valentine’s Day short story)

Still So Hot!

Read on for a sneak peek at

Still So Hot!

By Serena Bell

Copyright © 2014 Serena Bell

All Rights Reserved—Harlequin Blaze

One

Elisa Henderson Had Imagined
worst-case-scenario headlines even before her plane took off.

Dating Coach Misplaces Client.

Client Goes AWOL from Dating Boot Camp in Caribbean.

God, this was
not
comforting. She needed to get up. She needed to move. Most of all, she needed to find out whether Celine Carr had made the flight. But she couldn’t do that until the Fasten Seat Belt sign blinked off.

She’d gotten Celine’s text just as Elisa had arrived at the gate.
Thru security. Gotta pee. Board without me.
She’d taken her seat in coach—alone, since Celine had claimed the last available in first class. Elisa tried to catch a glimpse of Celine, but the aisles were filled with other passengers. By the time Elisa had realized they were about to take off, she still didn’t know if Celine was on the plane, and the flight attendants wouldn’t let Elisa up. She’d tried to call and text Celine a million times, until a redheaded flight attendant pleaded with Elisa to put the cell phone away before she got them both in trouble.

Now she was trapped by the “fasten seat belt” sign, and all she could do was cross her fingers and try not to fidget.

Think positive. She’s on the plane. She’s raring to go.

This is the weekend you teach her that she calls the shots. That she controls her dating destiny.

This is the weekend you make hiring a dating coach the new black.

She took a few deep breaths and focused on positive visualization, which always helped her beat stress: Celine, sitting in first class, smiling and signing autographs, ready to make the best promo video ever. Celine, strolling the white-sand beach at the edge of the aquamarine Caribbean, hair blowing in the breeze, beside a handsome, attentive man. Celine, confident and competent, beaming her appreciation as she said to Elisa,
Thank you. You helped me see that I didn’t have to keep making the same dating mistakes. The right man was out there.
Imaginary Celine tossed her hair, gave her guy a sidelong glance and linked her fingers through his.
Thank you for this wonderful man.

Elisa loved the thrill of the match, the click of satisfaction she felt when she fit two people together like puzzle pieces. Plus, she
loved
running boot camps, intensive one-on-one weekends where she observed her clients in real-world dating situations and taught them new strategies. These weekends were a great chance to get to know a client well, learn her quirks and boost her self-esteem. And who could argue with a weekend in the Caribbean?

Elisa was lucky that her sister’s friend knew Celine’s publicist, Haven, and had been willing to put them in touch. And maybe a little bit lucky too that Celine was already undergoing a major image revamp as Haven tried to halt her slide toward celebrity train wreck. It hadn’t been
too
hard to convince Haven that a boot camp could turn Celine into a dating role model instead of someone whose antics reporters mocked—especially if it could attract media attention for the weekend. And if Elisa could make that happen for a rising star like Celine Carr, she’d have the added bonus of building her business’s brand in a big way.

On the other hand, if Celine had missed the flight, Elisa would step off this plane into a barrage of firing flashbulbs and mocking voices calling out, “Where is she?”