One Night Stand Bride

The way his hazel eyes lit up as he coaxed her should be illegal. Or maybe her reaction should be. How did he put such a warm little curl in her core with nothing more than a glance? It was ridiculous. “Your idea of fun and mine are worlds apart.”

A slow, lethal smile joined his vibrant gaze and it pretty much reduced her to a quivering mess of girl parts inside. All the more reason to stay far away from him until the wedding.

“Seems like we had a pretty similar idea of fun one night not too long ago.”

Memories crashed through her mind, her body, her soul. The way he’d made her feel, the wicked press of his mouth against every intimate hollow an unprecedented experience. It was too much for a Saturday morning after she’d signed up to become Mrs. Hendrix Harris.

“I asked you not to kiss me again,” she reminded him primly but it probably sounded as desperate to him as it did to her.

She could not get sucked into his orbit. As it was, she fantasized about that kiss against her desk at odd times—while in the shower, brushing her teeth, eating breakfast, watching TV, walking, breathing. Sure it was prudent to avoid any more scandals but that was just window dressing. This was a partnership she needed to take seriously, and she had no good defenses against Hendrix Harris.

He was temporary. Like all things. She couldn’t get invested, emotionally or physically, and one would surely lead to the other. The pain of losing someone she cared about was too much and she would never let that happen again—which was the sole reason she liked sex of the one-night stand variety. What she’d do when that wasn’t an option, like after she said I do, she had no clue.

“Wow. Who said anything about kissing?” He waggled his brows. “We were talking about the definition of fun. That kiss must have gotten you going something fierce if you’re still hung up on it.”

She rolled her eyes to hide the guilt that might or might not be shuffling through her expression. “Why are you here?”

“We’re engaged. Engaged people hang out, or didn’t you get the memo?”

“We’re not people. Nor is our engagement typical. No memos required to get us to the...insert whatever venue we’re using to get hitched here. Until then, I don’t really feel the need to spend time together.” She accompanied that pitiful excuse of his with crooked fingers in air quotes.

“Well, I beg to differ,” he drawled, the North Carolina in his voice sliding through her veins like fine brandy. “This partnership needs publicity or there’s no point to it. We need to be seen together. A lot. When people think of you, they need to think of me. We’re like the peanut butter and jelly of the Raleigh social scene.”

“That’s a nice analogy,” she said with a snort so she didn’t laugh or smile. That would only encourage him to keep being adorable. “Which one am I?”

“You choose,” he suggested magnanimously and that’s when she realized she was having fun. How dare he charm her out of her bad mood?

But it was too late, dang it. That was the problem. She genuinely liked Hendrix or she wouldn’t have left the Calypso Room with him.

“I suppose you want to come in.” She jerked her head toward the interior of her loft that had been two condos until she bought both and hired a crew of hard hats to meld the space into one. They should probably discuss living arrangements at some point because she was not giving up this condo under any circumstances.

“I want you to come out,” he countered and caught her hand, tugging on it until she cleared the threshold on the wrong side of the door. “We can’t be seen together in your condo and besides, there are no people walking past the window. No photographers in the bushes. I could slip a couple of buttons free on this shirt of yours and explore what I uncover with my tongue and no one would know.”

He accompanied that suggestion with a slow slide of his fingertip along the ridge of buttons in question, oh so casually, as if the skin under it hadn’t just exploded with goose bumps.

“But you won’t,” she said breathlessly, cursing her body’s reaction even as she cursed him for knowing exactly how to get her hot and ready to burst with so little effort. “Because you promised.”

“I did.” He nodded with a wink. “And I’m a man of my word.”

She’d only reminded him of his promise as a shield against her own weaknesses, but he’d taken it as an affirmation. He would keep his promise because it meant something to him. And his sense of honor was doing funny things to her insides that had nothing to do with desire. Hendrix Harris was a bad boy hedonist of the highest order. Nothing but wicked through and through. Or at least that was the box she’d put him in and she did not like the way he’d just climbed out of it.

She shook her head, but it didn’t clear her sudden confusion. Definitely they should not go into her condo and shut the door. Not now or any day. But at that moment, she couldn’t recall what bad things might happen as a result. She could only think of many, many very good things that could and would occur if she invited him in for a private rendezvous.

“I think we should visit a florist,” he commented casually, completely oblivious to the direction of her thoughts, thank God.

“Yes. We should.” That was exactly what she needed. A distraction in the form of flowers.

“Grab your handbag.” The instruction made her blink for a second until he laughed. “Or is it a purse? I have no clue what to call the thing you women put your lives into.”

Gah, she should have her head examined if a simple conversation with a man had her so flipped upside down. Nodding, she ducked back into the condo, snagged her Marc Jacobs bag from the counter in the kitchen and rejoined Hendrix in the hall before he got any bright ideas about testing his will behind closed doors. Hers sucked. The longer she kept that fact from him, the better.

He ushered her to a low-slung Aston Martin that shouldn’t have been as sexy as it was. At best, it should have screamed I’m trying too hard to be cool. But when Hendrix slid behind the wheel, he owned the beast under the hood and it purred beneath his masterful hands.

She could watch him drive for hours. Which worked out well since she’d apparently just volunteered to spend the day planning flowers for her wedding with her fiancé. Bizarre. But there it was.

Even she had heard of the florist he drove to. Expensive, exclusive and very visible, Maestro of the Bloom lay in the Roundtree shopping district near downtown. Hendrix drove around the block two times, apparently searching for a parking place, and she opened her mouth to remind him of the lot across the street when he braked at the front row to wait for a mother and daughter to get into their car. Of course he wanted the parking place directly in front of the door, where everyone could see them emerge from his noteworthy car.

It was a testament to his strategic mind that she appreciated. As was the gallant way he sped around to her side of the car to open the door, then extended his hand to help her from the bucket seat that was so low it nearly scraped the ground. But he didn’t let go of her hand, instead lacing their fingers together in a way that shouldn’t have felt so natural. Hands nested to his satisfaction, he led her to the door and ushered her inside.

A low hum of conversation cut off abruptly and something like a dozen pairs of eyes swung toward them with varying degrees of recognition—some of which held distaste. These were the people whose approval they both sought. The society who had deemed their Vegas tryst shocking, inappropriate, scandalous, and here the two of them were daring to tread among more decent company.

Roz’s fingers tightened involuntarily and dang it, Hendrix squeezed back in a surprising show of solidarity. That shouldn’t have felt as natural as it did either, like the two of them were a unit already. Peanut butter and jelly against the world.

Her knees got a little wobbly. She’d never had anything like that. Never wanted to feel like a duo with a man. Why did it mean so much as they braved the social scene together? Especially given that she’d only just realized that turning over a new leaf meant more than fixing her relationship with her father. It was about shifting the tide of public opinion too, or her charity wouldn’t benefit much from Helene’s participation. Roz would go back to being shunned in polite society the moment she signed the divorce papers.

Against all odds, he’d transformed Roz into a righteous convert to the idea of marriage with one small step inside the florist. What else would he succeed in convincing her of?

With that sobering thought, Roz glanced at Hendrix and murmured, “Let’s do this.”

Three (#u315c2aff-8302-57ec-9717-9d79a7e4753c)

As practice for the bigger, splashier engagement party to come, Hendrix talked Roz into an intimate gathering at his house. Just family and close friends. It would be an opportunity to gauge how this marriage would fly. And it was a chance to spend time together as a couple with low pressure.

The scene at the florist had shaken Roz, with the murmurs and dirty looks she’d collected from the patrons. That was not okay. Academically, he knew this marriage deal was important to his mother and her campaign. In reality, he didn’t personally have a lot of societal fallout from that photo. No one’s gaze cut away from him on the street, but he was a guy. Roz wasn’t. It was a double standard that shouldn’t exist but it did.

Who would have ever thought he’d be hot to ease Roz’s discomfort in social situations? It had not been on his list of considerations, but it was now. If this party helped, great. If it didn’t, he’d find something else. The fragile glint in her eye while they’d worked with the florist to pick out some outrageously priced flowers had hooked something inside and he’d spent a considerable amount of time trying to unpierce his tender flesh, to no avail. So he did what he always did. Rolled with it.

The catering company had done a great job getting his house in order to host a shindig of this magnitude. While the party had been floated as casual, Hendrix had never entertained before. Unless you counted a handful of buddies sprawled around his dining room table with beer and poker chips.

Roz arrived in the car he’d sent for her and he ignored the little voice inside taunting him for hovering at the front window to watch for her. But it was a sight to see. Roz spilled from the back of the car, sky-high stilettos first, then miles of legs and finally the woman herself in a figure-hugging black cocktail dress designed to drive a man insane.

She’d even swept up her wavy dark hair into a chignon that let a few strands drip down around her face. It was the sexiest hairstyle he’d ever seen on a woman, bar none.

He opened the door before she could knock and his tongue might have gone numb because he couldn’t even speak as she coolly surveyed him from under thick black eyelashes.

“Thanks for the car. Hard to drive in heels,” she commented, apparently not afflicted by the stupid that was going around.

He shouldn’t be, either. He cleared his throat. “You look delicious.”

Amazing might have been a better term. It would make it seem more like he’d seen a beautiful woman before and it was no big thing. But she was his beautiful woman. For as long as they both deemed it beneficial.

That seemed like a pretty cold agreement all at once for two people who’d burned so very hot not so long ago.

She smiled with a long slow lift of her pink-stained lips. “I’ll take that as a compliment, as weird as it is.”

“Really? It’s weird to tell my beautiful fiancée that she looks good enough to eat?” he questioned with a heated once-over that she didn’t miss.

“You can’t say stuff like that,” she murmured and glanced away from the sizzling electricity that had just arced between them right there on his doorstep.