Feels So Right

“So, anyway.” Angela broke the awkward silence. “I was thinking we could take the same package idea, but have it available as a holiday special from Thanksgiving through New Year’s Day. We can charge a flat rate and sell certificates people can buy for themselves or as a gift. What do you think?”

“Wow. I love that idea!” Bonnie grinned, eyes alight, and looked at Seth and Jack for their reactions.

“Same here,” Jack said. “Get us new business and reward our existing customers. Win-win.”

“I was talking with Daniel about it last night as a wedding package and whining that we’d missed the summer bridal rush and then it came to me … the holidays!”

“I love the idea, Angela.” Demi smiled at her. She looked so amazingly happy these days. Last spring she’d fallen for a guy who’d come into her bakery for white cupcakes to commemorate his late fiancée’s birthday. Angela had sneaked in a chocolate cupcake to cheer Daniel up, and ended up doing a lot more than that. On her right hand she wore his diamond promise ring. “It’s brilliant.”

“I’ve got the perfect jingle.” Seth got a faraway look in his narrow gray eyes, then cleared his throat and started a jazzy tune. “Spend holiday money on your sweetest honey. The cash you’ve paid will ensure you get lai—”

“Stop!” Angela and Bonnie yelled at the same time, then tried to restrain their giggles.

“What? What did I do?” Seth dropped his innocent look for a grin and squeezed Bonnie’s shoulder. “Okay, maybe it needs work.”

“We should plan this out.” Angela started counting on her fingers. “Make posters, work on a jingle for a radio spot—G-rated, thank you, Seth. I also think it’s time to bite the bullet and come up with a communal website. Right now we each have our own. What do you think?”

There was general assent, lots of joking, lots of constructive brainstorming and thorough planning. Demi was, as always, impressed by the quartet she’d signed on with. They worked hard and had all done well, though she wasn’t sure about Bonnie, who always went oddly quiet when the others discussed their good fortune. She’d also dropped quite a bit of weight in the last six months or so and never seemed terribly busy in her shop. Demi hoped she was just angsting about her romantic life. Maybe she’d fall in love with a nice rich guy. Demi’s sister had done that. Boy had she. And didn’t let anyone forget it for more than twenty seconds.

The meeting broke up; Demi left the four of them still chatting. She was tired, anxious to get to bed, a little flustered at the idea of seeing Colin again the next day. Often she’d dream about whatever she concentrated on at night, powerful dreams that affected her the whole next day. Tonight before she went to bed, she’d imagine him toothless with bugs crawling all over him. That way she might be able to turn him into an object of disgust.

Yeah, and if that worked, she’d try walking on water next.

Half an hour later, she was snuggled in bed, listening to the October rain tap on the window, concentrating on Colin, not the way he was, but the way she wanted to dream about him.

Big brown eyes—make those piggy, puffy red ones. His fabulous male scent—now eau de skunky hangover. His rare smile—brown and broken. His build—flabtastic. Plaid pants, platform shoes. Flowered shirt unbuttoned to his waist.

Gold chains …

She gave a huge yawn and nestled deeper under the covers, smiling faintly.

Long, greasy hair.

Another yawn. Take that, Colin …

Morning already? Couldn’t be. Somehow Demi was in her office suite without getting out of bed. Her waiting room, normally a cool, refreshing blue-green color, had been repainted violet with rainbows and pictures of clowns. She glanced at her watch, not the gold one she’d bought for herself, but pink glowing plastic with a picture of Barbie on it. Noon! Colin was about to show up.

A knock on the door. She tried to say, “Come in,” but couldn’t make a sound. The door opened. Colin! Except he was about four foot five, wearing a clown costume—white with huge red dots and yellow ruffles, floppy black shoes, giant red nose.

This must be her dream. Perfect.

Lie down, she told him without sound. I’ll work on you.

“Sure.” His voice emerged without problem, deep, resonant, very sexy. Oops, she’d forgotten to change that to an appropriately girlie squeak.

You can keep your clown suit on.

“No.” He moved his hands to the back of his suit.

She tried to say yes, but couldn’t make herself understood, and frowned at him instead, frantically gesturing that he should stop.

Wait, was he growing taller? He was, no! Taller than she was, up to his real height, just over six feet.

Bad clown, bad.

The silly suit melted off. Instead of proper clown underwear, he was wearing boxer briefs that molded to a decidedly not flabby body. The violet walls changed to trees, and suddenly Demi and Colin were lying in a meadow on a blanket, picnic basket nearby, holding glasses of champagne.

Uh-oh.

Then the champagne was gone and he was kissing her tenderly, his body warm and solid against the length of hers … which no longer had any clothes on it. And his briefs were gone, too.

Oh, no.

His mouth tasted hers languidly—upper lip, bottom lip, this corner, that. Then he pulled back and gazed at her from under his brows, causing her blood to race, her body to arch toward his.

Oh, yes.

He rolled over her, the width of his shoulders making her feel protected, surrounded. She felt him hard between her legs, opened hers wide to welcome him inside.

Then he was pushing into her, filling, stretching, setting her nerve endings on fire. She clasped him around the back, lifted her knees high and wide to bring him in deeper.

He said her name over and over, increasing the pressure and pace until she was gasping, reaching for her climax, reaching, reaching, feeling it start to grow, to burn through—

“Demi, I love you.”

Say what?

Demi Woke With a jerk, staring with wide eyes up at the ceiling, breath coming fast, body still hot with arousal. Instinctively, her hand went between her legs, and then she stopped herself.

No.

There was no way she could get herself off right now. Because if she did, she’d be imagining Colin making her completely crazy with lust, and when he showed up for real in—she blinked at the clock—six hours, there would be no way she could look him in the eye. And no way she could put her hands on his back and think of anything but the way she’d clasped that same back while he was hot and hard inside her.

Bad, bad clown.

COLIN WOKE WITH a jerk, staring with wide eyes up at his ceiling, breath coming fast.

A dream. Damn it all to hell. He’d been on the last leg of the Ironman World Championship triathlon in Hawaii. He’d already sailed through the two-point-four-mile swim, powered through the one-hundred-twelve-mile bike ride and was approaching the finish line after the twenty-six-mile marathon barely out of breath, legs still strong, in first place by a hundred feet.

What a high. What a feeling. His body ultrafit, lean and strong. All those hours, all those years of training, coming down to this one explosive sprint to victory that would make him world champion. Just him, on top of the field, the dense crowd at the finish line already cheering for him. Stephanie was there, too, long blond hair swept back in a ponytail, blue eyes glowing, beaming with pride. Her man was number one and she was crazy about him.

Then he’d woken up, not on a triumphant path to victory, but in bed, back muscles contorting in agony, pain shooting down his right leg.

From king of fitness to short-term disability after falling off his bike like a six-year-old just learning to ride.

They said he was done. They said his back was too messed up ever to be able to ride long hours bent over his handlebars. They said disc injuries like his could be controlled but not healed.

Bull. Maybe some people could hear “no” and accept it, but Colin wasn’t one of them. “No” just meant he’d have to work harder, train harder. Fine by him. He was no stranger to hard work.