The Wedding Gift (9 page)

But being Mick, he got cocky and pushed her too far, draping his arm over her shoulder like he had a right. Like she'd stand still for it.

Playing along, she slid her arm around his waist, under his jacket. Then she pinched him, hard.

He flinched, dropping his arm to grab his side, covering it up like he was scratching an itch. But before she could gloat, he reached out and gently, affectionately, brushed her hair back over her shoulder.

Harper's face split in a grin, which puzzled her until Maeve casually tapped the side of her own neck. Then Jan's skin caught on fire. Shaking her hair down over the hickey, she muttered, “Excuse me,” and bolted.

Kicking off her high heels, she steamed across the lawn, weaving between café tables and lush flower beds, on a march toward the inn.

Mick matched her stride for stride. “I'll be black and blue for a week,” he growled.

“I'll have this hickey for a month,” she shot back. “I can't believe I let it happen.”

“You didn't complain at the time.”

She pulled up short beside an arbor blanketed with roses. “We're not having this conversation.”

“Yes, we are.” His eyes burned. “You've had your say. When I tried to have mine, you lobbed Rowena at me like a stink bomb and ran away.”

“I didn't run away.” Not exactly. “I walked.”

“Either way, your”—air quotes—“ ‘wedding gift' isn't working this time.”

“Give it a few weeks.” She smirked. “You'll run into Rowena, maybe at the parade. You'll grab a beer together, get to talking, and realize how much you've got in common. Next thing you know . . .
dum dum da-dum.
”

“Dumb is right.”

“That's the wedding march, dummy.”

“I know what it is, and it's dumb. I'm not marrying Rowena. In fact”—he shot out a finger—“it's not possible for you to introduce me to the woman I'm gonna marry.”

“Why not? Is she an alien? A ghost? A zombie?”

“She's a pain in the ass, is what she is. And you can't introduce me to her because I already know her. I've known her all my life.”

Jan's opened her mouth to fire another pistol shot. And then his words sank in.

She closed her mouth. Cocked her head.

“Yeah, dummy,” Mick said. “I'm talking about you.”

“You are?” It came out soft and wondering.

He softened too. His eyes, his voice. The curve of his lips. “You asked me this morning what I meant when I said I love you. Now I'm telling you.”

His knuckles brushed her cheek, feather light. “I love you every way a man can love a woman. I love your face.” He took it in his hands. “It's the most beautiful face in the world to me. I love your brain”—he tapped her temple with one finger—“even when it's barely working. I love your heart”—he laid his palm on her chest—“as big as Boston.”

His gaze traveled slowly to her toes. “And last night I fell in love with your body. I'd like to love it again tonight, and every night for the rest of my life.”

He ran his hands down her arms, linked his fingers with hers. “I've loved you for as long as I can remember. It's always been you.”

She gazed at him, stunned. “But . . . why didn't you ever tell me?”

“And have you feel sorry for me, like I was some lovesick puppy dogging your heels, wishing you'd love me back?”

“But I do love you, dummy.”

A smile broke like sunrise over Mick's face. “You do? Since when?”

“Since Tommy Teeter.”

He laughed. “That little prick. I'm gonna look him up and buy him a drink.”

He brought her hand to his lips, kissed her knuckles, each one, then pressed her palm to his heart. “Does this mean we could've been together all this time?”

She thought about it, then shook her head. “We were too young and stupid before now. I had to be New Jan first.” Taking charge of her life, believing she could be desirable, even lovable. “And you had to have a nightmare.” Making him vulnerable, forging the intimacy that made everything else possible.

“If we weren't in bed together, none of that would've mattered,” Mick pointed out.

“I'll take credit for that,” she said.

“It was my room.”

“Yeah, but you gave it to me.”

“I knew you wouldn't put me out on the street.”

“Baloney. You almost died when I told Barbie we were sharing.”

“So you believe me about her?”

“I do. I'm sorry I didn't.” How could she have doubted him? Whether lover or just friend, Mick would cut off his famous left nut before he'd hurt her so cruelly.

His arms wound around her waist. “Got anything you want to say to me?”

“Mmm hmm.” She knew he was expecting
I love you
. She gave him something better.

Stepping back, she stuck out her hand. “Mick McKenna, meet the new Jan Marone.”

M
ICK PILED H
IS
pillows behind his head, curled his arm around Jan and reeled her in.

She came willingly, her head slotting naturally into his shoulder, her leg wrapping around his.

And her sneaky little hand heading straight for trouble.

He caught it before it got where it was going. “You're gonna kill me, babe.” Words he'd never said before, and thought he never would.

She laughed, her breath warm against his throat. “Finally, something a little different for the bathroom wall at O'Reilly's.”

He lifted his head to eyeball her. “What the hell?”

“The Mick McKenna wall. Haven't you heard about it?” She did one-handed air quotes. “ ‘December seventeenth—six times. February eleventh—seven times.' ”

“You're kidding, right?”

“What, those numbers don't sound familiar? Now I can add ‘March twenty-first—only three. Then he pooped out.' ”

“Like hell.” He flipped her, caging her head with his forearms.

“I'll add a frowny face—”

He kissed her deep and long. And got his numbers up to a more respectable four before collapsing on his back once more.

Jan curled into his side like a kitten. He heaved a peaceful sigh. After the ride he'd just given her, even Miss Insatiable should be out of action for a while. Which was a blessing, because he was—okay—pooped out.

She rubbed her cheek against his shoulder. “I love you,” she said softly.

“I love you too, babe.” He nuzzled the soft crown of her head.

She stroked his chest lightly. “You're my hero, Mick. You always have been. Always will be.”

His whole body tensed. Peace and quiet went out the window, and despair hollowed his chest. “I'm no hero, Jan. You were here last night. You know it better than anyone.”

“I know you're having bad dreams after a near-death experience. Who wouldn't?” Her fingertip smoothed the furrow of tension carved into his brow. “I also know you're courageous. That doesn't mean you don't get scared. It means you don't let being scared stop you. You're the bravest person I know.”

Dread curled like a snake in his gut. What if he lost his nerve? What would she think then?

Her fingers traced over his temple, his cheekbone, his jaw. “If you're thinking my feelings will change if you don't run headlong into the next fully engulfed building, you're wrong. Brave doesn't mean stupid. Please don't be stupid.”

That made him smile. “You're asking a lot.”

“Don't I know it.”

His smile slowly dissolved. “What if I'm not . . .” He swallowed. “What if I can't do it anymore?”

“Then you'll do something else. And I'll still love you. We'll still be together. None of that changes.”

He didn't deserve this woman. Just being with her made him feel better, stronger. Getting laid helped too. So did being all but engaged to her.

Which raised one last niggling doubt.

“What if I
can
do it? What if I
can
keep running in? Will you marry me anyway?”

Soft fingertips stroked along his collarbone. “A wise man—well, a guy I know who's occasionally not dumb—once told me that love should conquer how somebody earns a paycheck.”

“The guy sounds like a genius to me.”

“He has his moments.”

“And you agree with him?”

“About this, yeah. At least as it applies to you and me.” Her fingertips drifted away from his collarbone to trace a circle over his heart. “I know who you are, Mick. I'll take you, for better or for worse.”

The breath that had lodged in his lungs came out on a sigh. He relaxed right down to his DNA.

He definitely didn't deserve this woman.

“What about me?” she asked.

“What about you?” He covered the hand she'd laid on his heart. “You're perfect. I love you. I'll take care of you forever.”

Her lips curved, a soft tickle against his skin. “Sounds nice, but you didn't seem totally on board with New Jan.”

“She'll take some getting used to. Especially her clothes, and I mean that in a good way. She looks great. Sexy. Fuckable.”

“But?”

“But I discovered this weekend that I've got a jealous streak. I don't like other men panting all over my woman.” He shrugged. “I'll have to get used to it, though, because she's hot. And I like her like that.”

“Mr. Caveman.”

“Mrs. Caveman.”

“Make that Ms. Cavewoman.”

“Whatever you say, babe.” He smiled smugly. “But you'll always be Mrs. Caveman to me.”

New to Cara Connelly's Save the Date series?

 

Find out how Julie and Cody met in . . .

THE WEDDING DATE

And get to know Tyrell and Vicky in . . .

THE WEDDING FAVOR

All available now!

Read on for a sneak peek . . .

The Wedding Date

“B
LIND DATES ARE
for losers.” Julie Marone pinched the phone with her shoulder and used both hands to scrape the papers on her desk into a tidy pile. “You really think I'm a loser?”

“Not a
loser
, exactly.” Amelia's inflection kept her options open.

Julie snorted a laugh. “Gee, thanks, sis. Tell me how you
really
feel.”

“You know what I mean. You've been out of circulation for three years. You have to start
somewhere
.”

“Sure, but did it have to be at the bottom of the barrel?”

“Peter's a nice guy!” Amelia protested.

“Absolutely,” Julie said agreeably. “So devoted to dear old Mom that he
still lives in her basement
.”

Amelia let out a here-we-go-again groan. “He's an optometrist, for crying out loud. I assumed he'd have his own place.”

Julie started on the old saying about what happens when you
assume
, but Amelia cut her off. “Yeah, yeah. Ass. You. Me. Got it. Anyway, Leo”—tonight's date—“is a definite step up. I checked with his sister”—Amelia's hairstylist—“and she said he's got a house in Natick. His practice is thriving.”

“So why's he going on a blind date?”

“His divorce just came through.”

Julie groaned. Recently divorced men fell into two categories. “Shopping for a replacement or still simmering with resentment?”

“Come on, Jules, give him a chance.”

Julie sighed. Slid the stack of papers into a folder marked “Westin/Anderson” and added it to her briefcase for tomorrow's closing. “Just tell me where to meet him.”

“On Hanover Street at seven. He made reservations at a place on Prince.”

“Well, in that case.” Dinner in Boston's North End almost made it worthwhile. Julie was always up for good Italian. “How will I recognize him? Tall, dark, and handsome?” A girl could hope.

“Dark . . . but . . . not tall. Wearing a red scarf.”

“Handsome?”

Amelia cleared her throat. “I caught one of his commercials the other night. He's got a nice smile.”

“Whoa, wait. Commercials? What kind of lawyer is he?”

“Personal injury.” Amelia dropped it like a turd. Then said, “Oh, look, Ray's here. Gotta go,” and hung up.

Putting two and two together, Julie groaned. Leo could only be the ubiquitous Leo “I Feel Your” Payne, whose commercials saturated late-night television, promising Boston's sleepless that he
would not quit
until they got every penny they deserved—minus his third, of course.

“How did I get into this?” she murmured.

For three years, since David died, she'd tried explaining to her sister that her career, her rigorous training schedule—she really
would
do the marathon this year—and their sprawling Italian American family kept her too busy for a man. And Amelia, even though she didn't buy it, had respected Julie's wishes.

Until now.

The catalyst, Julie knew, was Amelia's own upcoming Christmas Eve wedding. She wanted Julie—her maid of honor—to bring a date. A real date, not her gay friend Dan. Amelia loved Dan like a brother, but he was single too, always up for hanging out, and he made it too easy for Julie to duck the dating game.

So Amelia had lined up three eligible men and informed Julie that if she didn't give them a chance, then their mother—a confirmed cougar with not-great taste in men—would bring a wedding date for her.

Recognizing a train wreck when she saw one coming, Julie had given in and agreed to date all three. So far they were shaping up even worse than expected.

Jan appeared in the doorway. “J-Julie?” Her usually pale cheeks were pink. Her tiny bosom heaved. “Oh Julie. You'll never believe . . . the most . . . I mean . . .”

“Take a breath, Jan.” Julie did that thing where she pointed two fingers at Jan's eyes, then back at her own. “Focus.”

Jan sucked air through her nose, let it out with a wheeze. “Okay, we just had a walk-in. From Austin.” She wheezed again. “He's
gorgeous
. And that drawl . . .” Wheeze.

Julie nodded encouragingly. It never helped to rush Jan.

“He said . . .” Jan fanned herself, for real. She was actually perspiring. “He said someone in the ER told him about you.”

That sounded ominous.

Julie glanced at her watch. —5:45. Too late to deal with mysterious strangers. If she left now, she'd just have time to get home and change into something more casual for her date.

“Ask him to come back tomorrow,” she said. “I don't have time—”

“He just wants a minute.” Jan wiped her palms on her grey pleated skirt. At twenty-five, she dressed like Julie's Gram, but inside she was stuck at sixteen, helpless in the face of a handsome man. “I-I'm sorry. I couldn't say no.”

Julie blew out a sigh, wondered—again—why she'd hired her silly cousin in the first place. Because family was family, that's why.

“Fine. Send him in.”

Ten seconds later, six foot two of Texan filled her door. Tawny hair, caramel eyes, tanned cheekbones.

Whoa.

Her own sixteen-year-old heart went pitty pat.

He crossed the room, swallowed up her hand in his big palm, and said in a ridiculous drawl, “Cody Brown. I appreciate you seeing me, Miz Marone.”

“Call me Julie,” she managed to reply. Her hand felt naked when he released it, like she'd pulled off a warm glove on a cold winter day.

No wonder Jan had gone to pieces. He was tall, the way an oak tree's tall. Lean, the way a cougar's lean.

She gestured and he took a seat, his beat-up leather jacket falling open over an indigo shirt with pearl snaps and a belt buckle the size of Texas. When he crossed one cowboy-booted ankle over the other snug-jeaned knee, spurs jangled in her head.

Her mouth went dry.

She picked up her pen, clicked it off and on, off and on. “So, you're new to Boston?”

Cody Brown unfurled a slow, eye-crinkling smile. “What gave me away?”

She huffed out a laugh. “Okay, that was dumb.”

God, she was as bad as Jan.

He waved a hand. “Not at all,” he drawled, “you were just being polite.” The December wind had stirred up his hair. The fingers he raked through it did nothing to tame it. “You're right, I'm brand new to Boston. Just got here last week, and been working every day since I touched down.”

“I see,” she said, staring at his stubble, the way it shadowed his jaw. She made herself look down at the yellow pad on her desk. “Are you looking for a house? A condo?”

“I'm thinking condo.”

She made a note. “Your wife agrees?”

“I'm not married.”

She glanced up. “Engaged?”

He shook his head. “No girlfriend either. Or boyfriend, for that matter.” He broke into that smile again.

She set her pen on the desk. “Who referred you to me?”

“Marianne Wells. Said you found her dream house.”

Julie remembered her, a nurse at Mass General. “Yes, I found a house for her. For her and her
husband
.” She put an apology in her smile. “That's what I do. I match couples with houses.”

Cody tilted his head. “Just couples? How come?”

“It's my specialty.”

He nodded agreeably. “Okay. But how come?”

She shifted impatiently. “Because it is.”
And that's all the explanation you're getting.
“Now, Mr. Brown—”

“It's Cody to my friends.” He smiled. “Most of my enemies too.”

She wished he'd holster that smile. It lit up the room, exposing how drab her office was. Tasteful, of course—ecru walls, framed prints, gold upholstery. But bland. She hadn't noticed just how bland until he'd walked in and started smiling all over it.

She clicked her pen.

His smile widened and a dimple appeared, for God's sake.

Then he spread his hands. His big, warm hands. “Julie,” he said in that slow, Texas drawl. “Can't you make an exception for me?”

She tried to say
no
, to resist his pull. But he held her gaze, tugging her irresistibly toward blue skies and sunshine.

Her breath gave a hitch, her stomach a dip.

And her heart, her frozen heart, thumped
at last.

C
ODY'D THOUGHT HE
was too damn tired for sex, but from his first glimpse of Julie Marone—moss-green eyes, chestnut hair, slim runner's body—he'd been picturing her out of that business suit and spread across his bed, wearing a lacy pushup bra and not another damn thing.

Then her breath caught, a sexy little hiccup, and he was halfway hard before he knew what hit him.

Damn it. He didn't need to get laid half as much as he needed a place to live. After seven straight overnights in the Mass General ER—and an eighth that would begin in just a few hours—he was finally due to get some time off. Four days, to be exact, which gave him exactly that long to find a condo, sign the papers, and write the damn check.

But Julie wasn't cooperating. Not only did she have his cock in an uproar, she wasn't inclined to hunt up a condo for him. She kept feeding him a line about
couples
, like she was some kind of karmic matchmaker or something.

Seriously, what kind of Realtor gave a shit who she sold to? A house was a house; a condo was a condo. Money was money. Right?

Whatever. She was hot for him too, and even if he wasn't in a position to do anything about it right at the moment, he wasn't above using it to get what he wanted.

Deliberately, in a move that had yet to fail him, he put his palm to his chest, rubbed it back and forth slowly.

Her eyes dropped to follow the movement.

He let her think about it.

She swallowed.

Then, shamelessly, he worked his drawl. “I'd sure be grateful if you'd help me out. I been staying next door at the Plaza—and don't get me wrong, it's swanky, for sure—but I need my own place so I can bring Betsy on east with me.”

Her eyes snapped up. “I thought you didn't have a girlfriend.”

“Betsy's my dog. Part coonhound, part Chihuahua.” He did the smile again. “She'll like you. You both got that feisty thing going on.”

Her brow knitted, and he bit his cheek to hold back a laugh. She probably wasn't sure how to feel about being compared to his dog. He could tell her it was a compliment—Betsy was the only woman who'd never disappointed him—but he didn't want her to get cocky.

What he wanted was for her to forget her cockamamie rule about couples and find him a condo in the next four days. That meant keeping her interested in him. So he played his strongest card, the one that worked with all the ladies. Worked too well in fact. But he wasn't going to argue with that now.

“The problem's my schedule,” he went on, spreading his palms. “Me being a doctor and all.”

He waited for her to rip her clothes off.

She didn't.

For five long seconds, she stared straight into his eyes. Then she opened a drawer and took out a business card, set it on the desk in front of him.

He dropped his eyes.
Brian Murphy—Century 21.

What the fuck?

“Murph's a friend of mine,” she said, her voice cool and flat. “I'm sure he can help you.” She snapped her briefcase shut.

Cody couldn't believe it. The doctor thing
always
made women go crazy. So crazy that they stopped seeing Cody Brown the man and saw only Cody Brown, MD, their ticket to a McMansion in the burbs and vacations in Cabo.

But this chick was the opposite of attracted. She'd gone downright frosty.

He was in uncharted territory.

Desperate, he went into full seduction mode, hit her with the eye-lock, sexy-smile combo, playing it out in super slow-mo.

First he caught her eyes. Held them. Let a long, silent moment slide by like a river of molasses.

Then slowly, leisurely, as if he had all night to get it done, he curved his lips. First one side. Then the other.

She paused.

He deepened his drawl. “I want
you
, Julie.”

She clicked her pen.

“Give me one day,” he crooned. “Just tomorrow, that's all.”

Click click. “Are you sure you wouldn't rather rent first? Check out the neighborhoods?”

He shook his head. “I'm not picky. Someplace close to Mass General will do me fine, where I can take Betsy for a run.”

She hesitated, obviously wrestling with some inner demon.

He put his money on the horny Realtor.

“Beacon Hill could work,” she said at last.

Not a smidgen of smugness seeped into his voice. “That where the Old North Church is? One if by land, two if by sea?”

She smiled, finally, a pretty sight. “No, that's in the North End. You could look there too, especially if you're a fan of Italian food. The restaurants are amazing.”

He stood up. So did she. She was taller than he expected, which meant she had long legs.

He liked long legs.

“Let's go try one out,” he said like it was only natural. “I'm sick of room service.”

She looked startled. “Oh. Um. Thanks, but I have a date.” She gave a nervous laugh. “A blind date, actually. And a closing in the morning.”

“Seriously?” he blurted.

Her eyebrows shot up.

He did damage control. “A closing in the morning? I shouldn't be surprised. You must have lots of those.” He nodded, sagely. Wondered why in the hell a looker like her had a
blind date
.

One of her brows came down, but she arched the other like she was assessing his intellect, wondering if he was actually smart enough to be a doctor. Then she lifted her briefcase and came around the desk, herding him through the door. “I can give you tomorrow afternoon. I'll line up a few places, and we'll get started around one.”