Blame It on the Bachelor

How pathetic he was, sitting in the dark with his porn. So why did she feel like the loser? She was crazy.

Kylie had finally had enough of the repeated talks and the repeated broken promises to stop. She’d dumped his sorry ass.

If only she didn’t remember what Jack was like before he’d discovered OxyContin and internet porn. He’d been handsome and charming, with a bright future in medical equipment sales ahead of him.

He’d been a blue-blazer kind of guy, definitely not the type to show up to a coat-and-tie dinner in, say, black leather pants.

But Jack was now unemployed and boozing it up in T-shirts that said things like I’m with Stupid, and Property of So-and-So’s Athletic Department. He needed a barber badly and a life even more.

And it was time for Kylie to focus on what she herself needed: to wash Jack out of her hair for good.

She needed a distraction.

A male distraction, one with no conscience so she wouldn’t feel at all bad about using him for her own psychological and physical purposes.

Yes, she needed some acrobatic, sweaty, therapeutic sex with a hot stranger. A stranger who wouldn’t want a relationship, since she was done with those for a while. A stranger who was ready to peel off his inappropriate pants within moments of finding out her name.

Devon McKee had honed right in on her. Devon, with his I’m-a-sex-god eyes and his background full of rock ‘n’ roll groupies, was just the ticket. Her ticket to ride.

He’d do quite handsomely.

And she was sure he’d do her well.

2

DEVON, AFTER A MOMENT of stunned silence, followed Kylie out of the reception, only to see her disappear behind the door of the ladies’ room.

There was no question that given the opportunity he would do her. But he didn’t like the way she’d neatly plucked the power out of his hands along with the champagne glasses. He felt like a piece of meat.

He had a mental image of Kylie poking and prodding him through plastic wrap as he sat on a foam tray in the cold case of the local supermarket.

Repulsive appeal?

As if he had an area of gristle or a streak of fat running through him, and she wasn’t sure he was worth his per-pound price. As if she’d take him home in a pinch, but was tempted to wait until he oxidized a little and went on sale.

That stuck in his craw.

Devon McKee of Category Five had been Grade A prime beef in his heyday. Hell, he’d had a local artist make a mobile of the lacy thongs that had been tossed at him. He’d had the bad taste to hang it over his pool table in the game room of his rented house.

He wasn’t particularly proud of that now, but then, he wasn’t proud of a lot of things he’d done.

Kylie Kent was right. He was a mess. But he wasn’t used to being summed up so thoroughly and instantaneously by a woman. And he’d already decided to start cleaning himself up. Maybe not today. But soon.

“Dev, what are you doing lurking out here in the hallway?” Adam asked him. Adam Chase, a medical student, was the best man, and he was currently sporting a broken nose. Or close to broken, anyway.

“Nice schnoz. Where’s the stripper you stole from the bachelor party last night? You didn’t bring her as a date?”

Adam glowered at him, and Dev grinned.

The very cute blond stripper had exploded out of her plywood cake only to elbow his friend right in the face, knocking him to the floor.

Adam squinted at the champagne flute Dev held and deliberately changed the subject. “What’s with that? You hate champagne.”

“Yeah, but I’m trying to stay away from the rum.”

“Since when?”

Dev waved a hand at him and ambled into the garden room. He went to the bar and then belatedly brought Aunt Mildred the drink he’d promised her.

She arched a drawn-on eyebrow at him. “Thank you, young man. Did you have to harvest the grapes, first?”

Was every woman here, from five to ninety, going to bust his balls? But his lips twitched. “Yes, ma’am. Apologies.”

She patted his arm. “It’s all right. I saw you almost trip over your tongue when Kylie walked in. The girl’s always been a looker. Sweet, too.”

Sweet?

“She’s far too wholesome for you, dear. Wait until tomorrow at the wedding and I’ll introduce you to a naughty girl who’s more your speed.” Aunt Mildred, to his horror, winked at him.

For the second time in a half hour, Dev found himself speechless. Then he got defensive. “How do you know I’m not looking for a nice girl?”

She cackled. “In those pants?”

Damn it, he was going to set fire to them.

“I really am looking to settle down. You know, find the One. Believe it or not.” He wasn’t sure he believed it himself, but the words had somehow flown out of his mouth.

Mildred eyed him shrewdly. “Your tone is sincere. But are you serious or … self-delusional?”

Dev laughed weakly because he had no idea how to respond.

Was he self-delusional? After all, he’d just failed the challenge his sister Ciara had set him: to keep a houseplant and a goldfish alive for a month. She’d gotten the idea from some movie.

Anyway, the plant had died after ten days, despite his best efforts. And the fish was looking depressed and moody. He hoped the neighbor kid wasn’t overfeeding it while he was away for the weekend. Or forgetting to feed it at all.

“Why are you abusing me, Aunt Mildred?” Dev asked her, with his best innocent-little-boy smile.

“I’m not, dear heart. I’m fond of you, and I don’t want to see you make a mistake. My first husband thought he was ready to settle down with a nice girl, too.” She lifted her shoulders and took a sip of her champagne, leaving a mauve lip-print on the rim of the glass. “He wasn’t.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. If Laurence hadn’t done me wrong, I’d never have met Mr. Right. Ed and I were married for forty-three years, all of them good. But I won’t lie to you—it’s easier to get it straight the first time.” She smiled at him. “So you make sure that you sow every last one of your wild oats before you go playing house, hmmm?”

Just what, exactly, was a wild oat? Wild and oats had never seemed to fit together, to Dev. And sow meant to plant. If something was planted, then it didn’t grow wild. Where did these phrases come from?

But all he said was, “Yes, ma’am. Thank you for the advice. Now, can I get you a shrimp puff or a Swedish meatball?”

“No, Devon, but thank you. Run along now and play with someone your own age.” She tilted her cheek up and he dutifully kissed it.