"Poker, trash talk and snacks sounds perfect," Brock said, only a slight bite in his tone.
He led his friends inside. They would distract him and help him pass the time. In two days, he would marry Lyndie Scott, soon to be Lyndie Hudson. A slow smile spread over his face.
Any lingering nervousness withered at last, leaving him anticipatory.
She's going to be mine.
*
That same night, Ryanne and Dorothea showed up at Lyndie's house for a bachelorette party. And dang, she loved her friends something fierce. No one could ask for better allies.
They vegged out in the living room and watched romantic comedies--French Kiss, Groundhog Day, and because Lyndie couldn't resist, Pretty Woman. Afterward, they ate ice cream and laughed like loons as she sorted through a surprise gift: a Wedding Night Survival Kit. Inside a plastic box rested a tube filled with rose petals, a jar of honey and vanilla scented lotion, a lacy white teddy, two energy shots, a pumpkin-spice-scented candle, a pregnancy test, a six-pack of mini wine bottles, ibuprofen, a small container of mouthwash, chocolate body paint, four jars of dried soup mix with instructions to add water and heat, and finally--a notebook.
"Why a notebook?" she asked, confused. Everything else served a purpose.
Ryanne grinned. "That is a ticket book, baby girl."
"You now have the honor of fining Brock every time he does something wrong." Dorothea's eyes glittered with amusement. "I predict only good things will come from this."
Now Ryanne snickered, only to don a straight face and nod. "Men are simpleminded creatures, and they need to be told about their transgressions, big and small. How else are they going to learn?"
"You're doing the world a favor," Dorothea said with a nod.
Oh, really? "Or maybe your husbands want me to torture Brock as much as possible?"
New rounds of laughter abounded.
Both of her friends glowed, and not just because of the moment or their pregnancies. The two had never been happier, ever. They loved their husbands with every fiber of their beings. They were loved in return, and cherished.
But not too long ago, the two couples had been miserable.
Years before, Jude lost his first wife as well as his twin daughters. A drunk driver killed the trio in an instant. Jude hadn't wanted to want Ryanne, but he'd been helpless to resist. The Latina hottie with sensual brown eyes and a fall of jet-black hair was an unrepentant flirt, but also unwaveringly loyal with a generous heart and selfless spirit.
Dorothea was just as amazing and just as beautiful with her dark corkscrew curls, big blue eyes, and pale skin covered in freckles. After being bullied in high school and struggling with her weight most of her life, she'd suffered from low self-esteem. Daniel hadn't helped...at first. Like Brock, commitment had scared him. He'd lost so many loved ones, he'd feared losing Dorothea too and continually pushed her away.
Though Lyndie and Brock wouldn't be getting a happily-ever-after, they could enjoy a happily-right-now.
"Have you guys noticed all the hot guys who have moved to Strawberry Valley in the past year?" Ryanne speared a spoon into a half gallon of butter pecan ice cream. "First Jase Hollister, Beck Ockley, and Lincoln West, then Daniel returned with Jude and Brock in tow."
Dorothea wiggled her eyebrows. "Welcome to Strawberry Valley, where hotties live and love happens."
"Maybe we'll get a new batch of rich, handsome bachelors and other single ladies can be swept off their feet," Lyndie said. Although Brock would regain his bachelor status soon enough.
Growing stiff, she snatched a half gallon of strawberry ice cream from Dorothea and dug in.
A snickering Ryanne bumped her shoulder. "So you admit Brock swept you off your feet? I knew it!"
"I admit nothing," she said in a rush.
Dorothea took pity on her and wagged a finger at Ryanne. "You leave our sweet Lyndie Belle alone." Lyndie Belle. Their nickname for her as teens. "She can't help it if Brock's man musk sends her hormones into a tizzy."
"Man musk?" Lyndie and Ryanne cried in unison.
Together, the three of them erupted into a fit of giggles, making Lyndie feel like the carefree kid she'd never gotten to be.
In many ways, Brock, Jude and Daniel were responsible for this amazing moment. They were men with hearts of freaking gold. Daniel had given Dorothea back her smile. Jude had helped heal Ryanne's inner wounds--wounds that not even Lyndie had known she possessed. And Brock...he was doing things to Lyndie she'd never thought possible. Soothing her even as he heated her.
Going forward, she'd have to be a lot more careful. Maintaining emotional distance was proving more difficult than she'd ever imagined.
*
Finally, the big day arrived. And Lyndie wanted to vomit.
She and her bridesmaids occupied the choir room in the Strawberry Community Church, were the ceremony was set to take place. They were putting the finishing touches on their hair and makeup.
Cameow and Mega were in the room as well, chasing a ball of yarn. They were part of her family, and she wanted them to participate in the wedding. Cameow was her flower girl, and Mega was her ring bearer.
Heart galloping, Lyndie made her way to the room's only full-length mirror. For a moment, as she studied her reflection, she saw nineteen-year-old Lyndie, who was about to marry James. He'd picked her dress for her--a capped-sleeve corset top with a skirt bigger than Texas. Oh, how she'd hated that dress. And because he'd topped out at five-eight, he'd forbidden her to wear heels. She'd somehow felt both dowdy and overdone, but he'd looked at her with such pride that she'd thought: I'm stupid, and he's right.
Of course, she'd been worse than stupid back then. She'd been in love. Gag!
Was twenty-six-year-old Lyndie equally deluded? Blinded by thoughts of finally living her dream and becoming a mother?
Nope. No way. Brock was nothing like James. He'd kept his word. He hadn't visited the Scratching Post this week. Instead, he'd spent nearly every spare minute with Lyndie, charming and delighting her. And driving her insane with lust.
Now she wondered: How many days could she keep his attention after he'd nailed her?
Stop! Just stop. For all she knew, she'd get pregnant their first time and that would be that. He could go back to his man-whoreish ways and she wouldn't care.
Her nails bit into her palms. Maybe she'd care a little.
Her period had just ended, so she wouldn't ovulate for another two weeks. If she had sex tonight, and Brock tired of her afterward, she would waste her only shot at having a baby. Maybe he'd want more of her. He certainly seemed to think so. Could she take the risk though?
One hurdle at a time.
Right. As she cleared her mind of debris, the gown she had chosen came into focus. Her something new. A Grecian-style masterpiece made of cream-colored silk, formfitting in places but flowing in others. Also made of silk--the pale pink roses and ice-green ivy woven into the skirt. Both simple and elaborate.
Her something blue? The most gorgeous shoes she'd ever seen. The four-inch heels resembled mini-birdcages. Twined around actual copper bars were tiny porcelain roses in shades of sapphire, cerulean, and cobalt.
Something old? The comb anchoring the sides of her hair to her crown. A true antique with copper sparrows. Over the years, the copper had developed a gorgeous patina.
Something borrowed? Two garters. One from Ryanne, one from Dorothea.
With Lyndie's pale complexion, she couldn't pull off heavy foundation. She had to limit her makeup to mascara, rose-colored blush, and matching rose-colored lip gloss. But even with a generous dusting of the blush, she looked white as a ghost and ready to faint.
No way in heck she would let herself faint. She'd faced tougher situations than this and thrived.
What would Brock think of her appearance?
Ugh! What did his opinion matter? His opinion would not control or dictate her choices. This wasn't a love match but a business arrangement between friends. With fringe bene
fits. Their marriage would not change her. Unless Brock gave her a reason to go nuclear, she would treat him as an equal. She wouldn't pamper him, wouldn't cook and clean for him. The same way he wouldn't cook or clean for her! She wasn't his mother or his maid.
And if she didn't want to have sex one night, but he did, she freaking wouldn't have sex. If she didn't want to shave her legs, she wouldn't shave her legs.
Let him complain. See what happened.
With James, Lyndie had always feared sparking his temper and had felt as if she had to tiptoe on eggshells. She'd stressed about everything every minute of every day. Panic attacks had occurred daily, the entirety of her life drilled down to a single goal: don't make James mad.
She'd kept everything organized just the way he liked--by color. One color per room, and only ever pastels. To James, bright colors had been "sickeningly cheerful."
Only fools wanted a little cheer in their lives, right?
Every morning she'd slaved over a hot breakfast, ensuring he had multiple options even though he usually only wanted coffee. Sometimes he'd thrown fits about the waste of food and money, but nothing had compared to the times he'd raged about not having what he wanted, when he wanted it.
He'd demanded she quit school and refused to let her get a job, claiming she needed time to clean the house, iron his clothing, shop for groceries, and cook dinner. When she'd run errands in town, she'd spoken to no one. Not even Ryanne. Dorothea had been living in the city at the time. And Lord have mercy if James heard through the grapevine that she'd "flirted" with another guy or that she had friends she liked better than her husband, well, she usually ended up in an emergency room.
Her gaze narrowed, breaths coming a little faster. Never again would she act like a dog eager to please her master. Never again would another person control her thoughts, words, and actions.
Trust yourself. Trust Brock. All will be well.
"What's going on inside that beautiful head of yours, sweat pea?" Ryanne demanded.
"Nothing," she said, and forced a grin. "I'm fine."
"Oh, please." Dorothea wagged a finger at her reflection. "Fine is never fine."
"In my case, fine is actually a luxury." Actually, "fine" had once been a goal.
Her friends flanked her sides, and oh, wow, they looked gorgeous. Lyndie had told them, "Wear your favorite dress, any color, any style," and they'd taken her instructions to heart. Ryanne wore a crimson stunner with capped sleeves and a hem that ended just below her knees while Dorothea wore a sapphire fit-and-flare with a ruffle and lace hem. Her pregnancy wasn't obvious yet, but Ryanne was far enough along that her rounded belly could no longer be hidden.
I'm next. A genuine smile bloomed. Her future included orgasm(s) and a possible pregnancy. And Brock, the sweetest guy she'd ever met. What could be better?
"Okay, that's better," Ryanne said with a nod.
"You are exquisite." Dorothea grinned, all teeth and happiness. Nowadays she always grinned. "The most perfect bride I've ever seen."
Lyndie pivoted to give her beloved friend a kiss on the cheek. "Thank you."
Ryanne wiggled her brows and nudged her shoulder. "You'll look even hotter when the dress comes off tonight."
Tonight. The word echoed in her head. Tonight she would experience her first sexual encounter with Brock...and he would see the scars her father and James had left behind.
Anticipation and excitement drained, replaced by a sudden surge of dread. Her stomach twisted into a thousand tiny knots. Brock knew the basics of her past. Would he ask detailed questions about her abuse? Did it matter? He could ask, but she didn't have to answer. What if he found her scars unattractive though? What if he couldn't perform?
Making decisions based on what if will only get us in trouble.
"Uh-oh." Ryanne took her by the shoulders and forced her to turn. "The look is back. What's wrong?"
Had the air thickened? It must have. Every inhalation burned her nose and lungs. "Am I really going to do this? Marrying a man I've never even dated. Trying to get pregnant and definitely getting divorced."
"Sister dear," Ryanne said and sighed. For several years, her mother had the horror of being married to Lyndie's father. Despite the divorce, the bond between stepsiblings had never faded. "If you need time, you get time. It will be handled."
No, time was the only thing Brock couldn't give her. "I adore you for looking out for me, but I'm doing this."
"I think you're on the cusp of an amazing adventure," Dorothea said. "You're being proactive, going after what you want. I'm proud of you."
"I'm proud of you too." Ryanne thought for a moment, frowned. "Oh, crap. What if she falls in love with him? He's got no sticking power."
"I won't fall in love with him." She might fall in love with him. Already he'd infatuated her. He'd tempted her, delighted her, amused her, and turned her on. He was quite possibly the best guy she knew.
No, no. She knew better than to fall for a playboy. No way, no how. She wasn't going to lose herself, remember?
Except she had, like, zero sense when it came to matters of the heart. Considering she'd only ever slept with James, she could stumble into the same trap that had led to her first wedding, when she'd confused pleasure with emotion.
James had introduced her body to passion, so of course she had to be in love with him. Granted, he'd saved her from her father's wrath beforehand, so she'd already been blinded by hero worship.
And what if she became pregnant, huh? Might be difficult not to fall for her baby daddy.
Know your faults and weaknesses, plan for every possibility.
If she fell in love with Brock...
Oh, the humiliation. The utter foolishness. He'd be done with her soon enough.
I'm not the brightest bulb in the lamp, but I'm smarter than that. Surely. She would guard her heart.
If ever Lyndie made a conscious decision to pursue a relationship rather than nurture her independence while satisfying her lusts--this is a possibly now?--Brock Hudson would never qualify as a potential candidate. She'd go for someone turned on by monogamy, who didn't threaten her peace of mind, or hope to invade all aspects of her life. So. If she did fall for Brock, despite all her precautions, well, so what? Her feelings wouldn't matter.
Something James had taught her: feelings were inconsequential, fleeting, and changeable. Besides, Brock would meet her long-denied sexual needs--hopefully--and, like a type of camel, Lyndie would store the memories in a mind-hump and survive another carnal drought if she failed to find a proper candidate for her lusts.
Never again would her happiness depend on a man. Not even a good one like Brock.
On my own or bust...but sometimes with a little help. Argh! Now she was hearing his voice in her head. But help didn't have to come from a man, or partner. Look at Ryanne and Dorothea. They helped her in a hundred different ways every day.
"Don't worry about me." Lyndie hugged her friends, one after the other. "I'm going to be okay. Promise."
Tears welled in Ryanne's eyes, no doubt courtesy of her raging pregnancy hormones. "Hey! We're supposed to comfort you, not the other way around."
"You have." Truly.
Knock, knock.
Startled, Lyndie jolted. "Yes?"
"You ready, ladies?" Daniel called. "We made the mistake of teasing Brock, telling him you skipped town, and now he's desperate to see you."
Her stomach knotted all over again. Goodbye comfort. Goodbye confidence. Almost too late to back out.
Stop! Just stop! No more flip-flopping.
Trembling, she hooked the cats to their leashes, passed one handle to Ryanne and the other to Dorothea. Cameow and Mega were not happy to be leashed while there were perfectly good pieces of lint to chase through the air, and they bucked liked wild broncos. They wore harnesses rather than collars, thank goodness, saving them both from choking.
"Just like toddlers," Dorothea said and tsked.
Lyndie squared her shoulders. "Come on. Let's get t
his over with."
Chapter Seven
The moment the sanctuary doors opened, Lyndie came into view and Brock lost his breath. He didn't have a gown fetish. He had a Lyndie fetish. She was a strawberry-blond goddess. A dream come true. An angel. A seductress. Temptation made flesh.
Every muscle in his body tensed with desire. Tonight he would explore every inch of her...
Her head was high, revealing the length of her elegant neck, but her eyes were downcast. Why? Whatever the reason, she still managed to enrapture him. No woman, in this world or any other, had ever been more beautiful.
Awareness sizzled inside him, setting a bone-deep sense of possession on fire. In minutes, she will be mine, all mine.
He'd halfway expected to wake up and feel the same toxic deluge of emotion he used to experience before a mission, when he had to keep his endgame on his mind and reject all other thoughts. What he hadn't expected, even at his most calm? To wake up delighted. Eager.
Needing a moment to gain control of his anticipation, Brock looked away. His gaze landed on Jude. His friend might be dressed in a suit, but even still, he managed to look like a surfer with shaggy sandy-colored hair, sun-drenched skin, and leanly muscled frame. Not surprising.
For two and a half years, misery had been Jude's constant companion. At the moment, he watched his new wife with absolute adoration, radiating all kinds of happiness.
And there was Daniel, just as entranced with Dorothea.
Both of his friends suffered with some form of PTSD, but look at them now. Hopeful, with bright futures ahead.
Envy pricked Brock. For a month or so, he could pretend his future was just as bright...
His gaze returned to Lyndie, as if drawn by an invisible force.
As a photographer bustled about snapping pictures, Brock's wife-to-be glided ever-closer. Her cats led the way while Ryanne and Dorothea flanked her sides. Lyndie had no mother or father or siblings; Brock would be her only family.
Family. The word continued to echo in his mind. He would be her family...until the divorce. He would be her friend...until the baby came.
Total wrong thought. The blood rushed from his head, leaving him swaying.