Ask Me Why (22 page)

OH, HELL. MAGGIE
hadn't expected this.

“I didn't know we'd be . . . sharing a room,” Maggie said to Nick, staring at the two beds before her. The bedroom, located on the second floor of Hattie's old house, was small but neat, with blue walls and wooden floors that squeaked. A slight breeze danced in through the open windows, cast about the space by the whirring ceiling fan above them. Years ago, this had been her bedroom, but back then, it had had a single twin bed and seemed much more spacious. With Nick in the room, the space from her childhood suddenly seemed tight . . . intimate.

“I kinda like it,” Nick said. “Makes me feel like I'm ten years old again.”

She arched a brow. “And when did you stop acting like you were ten years old?”

Nick put a hand over his heart. “Ouch. You wound me, M.J.”

She pivoted toward Nick and gave his chest a pat. It was solid and strong, like concrete right after it set. Damn. “I can't wound you, you big he-man.”

He covered her hand with his own and pressed it against the hard, solid planes. Never had the words
pectoral muscles
seemed so . . . tempting. “Au contraire.”

She laughed and tried to tug her hand out, but he held firm. God, when he looked at her like that, it made something flip inside her. Since when did Nick turn her on with just a look or a few words? The second she'd started calling him her boyfriend, he'd taken on new dimensions in her silly mind. As if this whole charade was real, which it most definitely wasn't. “Since when do you speak French?”

“Since I started wooing you.”

“You”—she wriggled her hand away—“are not wooing me. Not for real.”

“Are you saying I couldn't woo you if I wanted to?”

“We already covered that ground the other day.” When he'd almost kissed her and damned near made her heart stop. Oh, Nick could woo all right. It was the after-woo that worried her. “I'm saying you're not my type.”

“Oh, really?” He leaned against the bedpost and crossed his arms over his chest. “And what is your type?”

She flipped out her index finger. “Dependable.”

“I show up at work on time. Every day.”

“You're getting paid to be there. That's different.” She flipped out another finger. “Responsible.”

“I'm responsible.”

She arched a brow. “For what?”

“For providing beer at a party.” He chuckled. “Seriously, I'm responsible for making sure the work gets done on time with no injuries and no cost overruns.”

“Again, you're getting paid for that. Totally different from a relationship with a human being.”

“How do you know what I'm like in a relationship? You've never dated me.”

“I have observed from afar. Sometimes not far enough.”

He leaned in, his ocean-colored eyes assessing hers. “Is that a hint of jealousy I hear in your voice?”

Instead of answering that question—because clearly, it should be obvious she wasn't a bit jealous—Maggie spun away from him and tossed her bag up onto the mattress. It landed with a solid thunk. “I call top.”

A slight grin played on his lips. “And why do you assume you get to be on top?”

“Because I like to be in control.” She poked a finger at his chest. “And because you're my subordinate this week.”

“Subordinate, huh?” A devilish gleam lit his eyes, sent a tremor through her gut. “Sounds like things could get kinky in here.”

“Don't get any ideas, Casanova. As soon as that bedroom door shuts, we're back to a hands-off policy.”

“Well, given our sleeping arrangement”—he gestured toward the bunk beds flanking the southern wall—“I'd say hands-off will be pretty easy to stick to.”

Maggie told herself that was a good thing, while she grabbed her nightshirt and toiletries and headed to the single bathroom on the second floor. That the last thing she wanted was to touch Nick. Except the few times he had touched her—in the truck, on the ride down here, when they'd first arrived—had awakened something inside her.

Oh my God. She needed to stop reading the romance novel the book club picked for this month. Was she seriously thinking good-time Charlie over there was going to make her take a risk on love? Hadn't she seen him, in action, one too many times? Nick made dating an Olympic sport, and Maggie was not interested in competing. She was building her career, carving out her name in the construction industry, working on getting her contractor's license. None of which involved falling for Nick Patterson.

A minute later, she was changed into an oversize Tampa Bay Rays T-shirt and had her hair loose around her shoulders, her face bare of the traces of makeup from earlier. She padded into the bedroom, stowed her toiletries inside her bag, then turned around to find Nick staring at her. He was still dressed, and damned if a part of her wasn't disappointed. It had to have been Rachel's comment about seeing him shirtless still ringing in Maggie's mind.

“What?” she said.

“Nothing. You just . . . well, you have amazing legs.”

She glanced down. The T-shirt came to mid-thigh length, covering more of her body than her shorts did. “Same legs I have every day.”

“Yeah, but . . .” He cleared his throat. “Uh, you said you wanted to be on top?”

The phrase flashed an image in her mind of her climbing on top of Nick, her hands on his bare chest, riding him with her head thrown back while his palms captured her breasts. She glanced at the bottom bunk and for a second, saw him there, her straddling his hips—

Whacking her head on the frame of the top bunk.

Apropos of any decision to sleep with Nick, meaning it would be stupid to even think it. The last thing she wanted to do was be one more woman spinning through the revolving door of Nick's love life. She hoisted herself into the upper bunk and slid under the blanket. “Let's just go to bed.”

“You're right. It's going to be a busy day tomorrow.”

She peeked over the edge of the bed. “What do you mean, it's going to be a busy day?”

“Didn't Rachel tell you? J.W. and her grandpa invited me to go fishing. Taking a boat out and bringing home dinner to the womenfolk like real he-men.” He let out a little grunt.

“Womenfolk?”

Nick grinned. “Yup.”

She shook her head and rolled back into her bunk. “You are a Neanderthal, Nick Patterson.”

A second went by, another. She thought maybe he'd gone to sleep, then she felt a movement and there he was, his sandy hair and ocean eyes so close to her, the warmth of his skin filling the space between them. “Should I drag you off to my cave and have my way with you then?”

She rolled over and tugged the blanket up to her ears. “You wouldn't dare.”

In one fell swoop, he scooped her up and hauled her off the bed, then dove into the bottom bunk, curling a leg over her burritoed body. “There. Now I've got you and I can have my way with you.”

She laughed, and tried to wrangle free, but Nick's strong leg kept her in place. She arched against him, but he only held her tighter, leaning in until the distance between them erased. “Nick! What are you doing?”

“Proving I'm a Neanderthal.” He shifted until he was over her. Maggie was pinned inside the envelope of the blanket, unable to wrestle free. Truth be told, Maggie wasn't trying very hard.

Nick was there, a face as familiar as the sunrise, yet in the dim light of the room, his features had a mysterious, dark edge. Her hands itched to trace the line of his jaw, the ridges of his mouth. To feel his body against hers, without the layer of blanket between them.

“Admit it,” Nick said.

“Admit what?”

“That I'm an evolved man.”

“You are . . .”

“What?”

Holy hell hot. Turning me on. Flipping the tables on me.
“A Neanderthal,” she teased, then let out a squeal when he pinned her tighter.

“Take it back.”

Maggie laughed. “No. I refuse. It's the truth.”

He reached a hand between them and tickled her waist. She bucked against him and laughed. “Take it back.” His voice was hot and tempting.

“Never!”

He tickled her again and Maggie wriggled harder, flailing in vain against the blanket that bound her in place. She moved, Nick reached, and his hand rubbed against her breast. Electricity arced through her body and she gasped.

His eyes darkened. Even through the layer of blanket, Maggie could feel his erection, hard and insistent against her leg. That grin she knew so well toyed at the edges of his lips. “What were we arguing about?”

“Uh . . .” Her mind went blank. “I forgot.”

“Me, too.” He raised a hand to brush the bangs away from her face, the move so sweet, so tender, Maggie melted.

What was wrong with her? When had Nick ever affected her like this? Was it just the wedding? The close quarters? Or was she so caught up in the fantasy of being his girlfriend that her hormones were starting to believe it, too?

“Nick . . .” But her voice trailed off. The objection died in her throat.

He leaned in and kissed her, a long, slow, tender kiss, the kind that seemed to simmer on a stove all day like a good stew, sliding across her lips with a feather touch, then pressing harder, deeper. His hand tangled in her hair, and she almost sighed with the sheer pleasure of that easy, soft touch. A faint shadow of stubble scratched against her chin as he deepened the kiss, sending her hormones into a frenzy. It was rough and soft, fast and slow, and she found herself wanting to stay wrapped in this blanket underneath Nick for the next hundred years.

Wait. This was
Nick.
The man who didn't stay with a woman for a hundred hours, never mind a hundred days or a hundred years. She turned away, breaking the kiss. “Nick, we can't be doing that. Not . . . alone, meaning no one is here to see us. Doing it here just . . . confuses things.”

His eyes were murky, unreadable. He drew back, and slid off of her. “You're right. I guess I took my job too seriously. I'm not earning overtime, am I?”

The truth, even as a joke, stung a little. “Not in my budget, sorry.”

“We should—” he began.

“Go back to our own beds,” she finished. Maggie started to wriggle out of the blanket, but Nick stepped out of the bed, scooped her into his arms like she was nothing more than a loaf of bread, and lifted her onto the top bunk.

“Sleep tight,” he said, then ducked below to his own space. “Don't let the bedbugs bite. Or the Neanderthals tackle you.”

“I'm trying not to,” she whispered, and the warm night air caught the words and whisked them away.

THE SUN BROKE
over the lake, speckling the water with gold. Nick took a long gulp of coffee from the travel mug Hattie had thrust at him as he stumbled out the door behind the others this morning. He'd nearly drained the cup and was still stifling yawns. “Damn, it's early,” he said.

Herbert chuckled. “Early? Boy, I thought you worked construction. Do they start working at noon down there in Florida?”

“No, sir. I'm usually on the site by seven at the latest.” He took another gulp of coffee and rubbed the tired out of his eyes, then slipped his sunglasses into place. Damn, if he didn't know better, he'd think he was hungover. Jackhammers pounded in his head, the sun burned his eyes, and every inch of him longed to crawl back into bed. “Just didn't sleep so good last night.”

Herbert shifted the handle on the motor and steered around some lily pads. “Cool enough up there? I know it can get pretty damned muggy on that second floor. I been meaning to switch out that ceiling fan. They got these fancy ones now with remote controls.”

“The temperature was fine,” Nick said. The air temp, anyway. Between himself and M.J., the temperature had risen to levels usually measured in Kelvins. Tumbling around in his bed, separated by only a thin cotton blanket, what had started as a joke quickly shifted into something that treaded on the edge of sex.

And that was why he'd barely slept the rest of the night. He'd tossed and turned, acutely aware of M.J. in the bunk above him, wearing only a T-shirt and white lacy panties. He'd only had a glimpse of those panties, but it had been a glimpse that had stayed with him all night. In the couple hours of sleep he'd managed to grab, his dreams had been filled with her.

When his alarm went off, he'd peered over the top bunk, but M.J. was already gone, her bed made, leaving nothing but the scent of her perfume on the pillow.

What had he expected? A note? A single red rose tucked into a copy of
Pride and Prejudice
? Seriously, any more of this, and he would turn into a girl.

Herbert shut off the boat and dropped the anchor. “All right, let's get this fishing trip started.”

Nick reached for a pole, but Herbert put up a hand. “We aren't actually fishing, Nick. That's just so the women don't call us every five minutes with something to do for the wedding.”

“Cover story,” J.W. said. He reached in the cooler and pulled out a trio of beers. “If anyone asks, we were fishing all day.”

“All damned day.” Herbert reached into a bag by his feet. “Or at least until the beer and Cheetos are gone.”

*   *   *

M.J.
hadn't had this much girl time since she was in high school. Rachel, Katie Ann, Susie and Charlotte surrounded her like bees on a flower, pumping her for information about Nick and chattering about the wedding, dresses and flowers. The five of them had gone out for an early breakfast, then a day of errands, tidying up the last-minute details for the wedding.

Rachel looped an arm through M.J.'s as they headed out of Pancake Heaven. Rachel was nearly the same height as Maggie and wore her hair in this perfect brunet bob that accented her hazel eyes and long neck. “I am so going to regret those pancakes on Saturday.”

“We'll just go for a run and burn it all off,” Maggie said. “Besides, I've seen the way J.W. looks at you. You could gain four hundred pounds and grow horns on the top of your head, and he'd still be madly in love.”

Rachel grinned. “He's pretty awesome, isn't he? He loves my family, lets all my nieces and nephews crawl on him like he's a human jungle gym, takes my great-aunt Daisy to church on Sundays, and still manages to slip a love note into my car while I'm sleeping.” She fished a paper out of her pocket and danced it in the air. “He wrote about how he loves my smile, how he melts when I walk into a room, and how marrying me will be the best decision he ever made.” She sighed. “He's a keeper.”

A flicker of something a hell of a lot like jealousy—if Maggie had a jealous streak, which she didn't—ran through her. She'd dated men over the years, but never had she had that one all-consuming love, that man who made everything around him pale in comparison. A man who made her dreams and needs as important as his own.

Once, she had thought she had a love like that. Except it turned out she was the only one feeling that way. Once had been enough to teach her that if the road was going in only one direction, someone was going to go off a cliff. Someone like her.

Like last night when she'd wound up in bed with Nick. Kissing him. Arching up against him. Crossing all those nice, neat boundaries she had put in place two years ago. Thank God for the smothering blanket, because it was the only thing that stopped her from a bad decision.

Nick wasn't the kind of guy to leave her notes in her car, or think about how much he loved her smile. He was the kind of guy who would charm her pants off, show her an amazing time in bed, then be gone before the sun rose. No commitments, no relationships, nothing more than a good time.

She was tired of being nothing more than a good time. Of waking up alone. Of not being settled, having roots. She wanted . . .

More. She wanted the love notes and the flowers and the googly eyes. Good Lord, she had definitely been in Chatham Ridge too long. She was morphing into Rachel, who was the biggest romantic of them all.

“J.W. comes across as all manly with Grandpa and the guys, but underneath, he's just a big marshmallow.” Rachel tucked the note back in her pocket and opened the door into the cake shop. The scent of vanilla and chocolate wafted up to greet them.

“I bet Nick is just like that, too,” Katie Ann said. “Especially after that story he told about your first date. He's such a romantic.”

Maggie snorted. “Nick? No.” Then she remembered the story line she'd concocted and shook her head. “What I mean is, he wouldn't want anyone to know he's a big softy at heart.”

Ha. Nick a big softy? Now she really was creating fairy tales out of thin air.

Katie Ann picked up a china plate and studied the back. In typical Katie Ann, she was wearing a pretty pink sundress today and low pumps, her hair curled and pinned on top of her head. Of all of them, Katie Ann was the only one who had done all the girlie things, modeling in pageants and hosting a giant debutante party. “Maybe I should move away. I swear, every single man in this town is either gay or related to me.”

“Small-town America, keeping people celibate for thousands of years.” Susie grinned, then tucked a strand of long blonde hair behind her ear. “Maybe the rest of us lonely hearts should go on a road trip. Head up to New York or something and come back with some hunky men.”

“You make it sound like a hunting trip,” Maggie said. “Big Game Bachelors.”

A moment later, they all pronounced the cake, nearly finished for the wedding, the most beautiful ever seen. Then, just when Maggie thought the day was over, she was being shepherded off to a nail salon. Five minutes later, she had her feet in a swirling tub of hot water and a glass of champagne in her hand.

“I think we should have weddings more often,” Rachel said, her voice rat-a-tatting from the shiatsu massage running up and down the back of the leather chair. “This is like heaven. Remind me to get pedicures every week.”

“We'll do them for Maggie's wedding,” Katie Ann said. “Assuming, that is, that Nick proposes. Which I totally think he will. That guy looks at you with stars in his eyes. If he proposes, do you think you'd come here to get married or get married on the beach?”

“A beach wedding would be awesome.” Susie sighed. “If I ever get married, it'll be in Hawaii, while the sun is setting—”

“And the groom is lei-ing you.” Charlotte giggled.

Laughter erupted from the pedicure chairs. A short Asian woman slipped into the space between the chairs and put Maggie's free hand into a dish of warm, soapy water. “So rough.” Her face twisted and her nose wrinkled. “Like rocks.”

“I, uh, work with my hands.”

“Uh-huh. Working rocks?” The woman pushed Maggie's hand deeper into the liquid. She wrinkled her nose again in distaste. “You soak. Long time.” Another glance at Maggie's hands. “Long, long time.”

“Better listen to the woman,” Charlotte said. “I bet Nick will appreciate a nice, smooth hand on the job.”

That caused another burst of laughter from the other bridesmaids, and a few snickers from the nail techs.

“I'm not—” Maggie cut off the words. She was supposed to be dating the man. Of course she'd be having sex with him. “He's, uh, not too picky.”

“What man is when it comes to jobs?” Charlotte said, which sent up a whole new round of giggles.

Why had she thought this was a good idea? She should have just turned down the dare and let Rachel fix her up with her cousin again. Anything was better than talking jobs and hands and Nick. Because all it did was feed the constant fantasy reel running in her head, the one that began with that kiss last night and ended with them in bed.

The nail techs buzzed around the wedding party, filing and buffing, chattering in their native language beneath the chitchat of the bridesmaids. The other women sat back in the chairs, relaxed and at ease, but Maggie felt like inchworms were crawling up her back. She'd only been here for forty-five minutes and was already itching to leave. She could have spent the time studying for her exam or going over the plans for the reno they were starting after she and Nick returned to Rescue Bay. Or heck, chewing off her own hand and running away until the wedding was over.

The other girls had dropped the topic of Maggie's wedding to Nick, thank goodness. The lie seemed to grow in proportion to every minute she was here.

The pedicurist left for a second, then returned with a small electric tool. She settled herself on a stool and began to attack the calluses on Maggie's feet.

Maggie yanked her foot back. “Hey!”

“Like rocks. Need this.” The motor whirred, spinning a sandpaper disc in a quick circle.

“That's for wood, not for feet.” Maggie put up her hands. “No. No. Just . . . no.”

A few words exchanged, then the pedicurist let out a long, frustrated sigh. “I just paint color.” She wagged a finger in Maggie's face. “You, no complain about rocks for feet.”

Rachel leaned over and gave Maggie a grin. “When was the last time you had a pedicure?”

“Somewhere between a century ago and never. You know me. I don't do this”—she waved her hand around, sending the bottle of nail polish flying, which made the nail tech curse under her breath—“stuff. Sorry about that.”

The nail tech rolled her eyes, grabbed Maggie's hand and pressed it down on the table. “Stay.” She muttered something to the pedicurist, who just nodded and rolled her eyes.

Maggie was pretty sure they'd said
high maintenance
in whatever language they were speaking.

“Can I get another glass of champagne, please?” Maggie said, waving to the manager of the shop. “A really, really big glass?”

Twenty minutes later, Maggie had a smudged manicure—which came from bumping the drying table when she tried to leave too soon—and a slight buzz. Four glasses of champagne had made the whole process . . . tolerable.

“Okay, girls, off to our next adventure!” Rachel said.

Maggie pressed a hand to her forehead. Her bangs cemented themselves in her still-wet nail polish. Of course.
Please don't say
dress shopping
.
Please don't say
dress
shopping
.

“Dress shopping! We all need something awesome for the rehearsal dinner, right?”

“Come on, Maggie,” Katie Ann said, slipping an arm through Maggie's. “Let's get you something that knocks Nick's socks off.”

They hustled her into a dressing room at Daisy's Dress Barn and shoved dresses at her over the top of the door. Dresses of all colors, styles. Some with belts, some with zippers that slid up the side, treading too close to her armpit for comfort. By the time she had wriggled her way into the third dress, Maggie was sweaty and tired and needed another drink.

“Let's see it!” Susie called. “Come on out—do a little spin.”

Maggie tromped out of the fitting room and flung out her arms. “There. You saw it.” She turned to go back for dress number 572.

“No, no, don't take it off yet.” Rachel grabbed Maggie's hand and tugged her back. “Stand on the pedestal. And here, put these on with it.” She slid off the wedges she was wearing and held them out to Maggie. “Go ahead, they won't bite.”

The others all stared at her. All women comfortable in heels and dresses and manicures. Unlike Maggie, who would have paid them all to leave her in her work boots and T-shirts, her hair in a sloppy ponytail and nothing more than ChapStick on her lips. Maggie would have bolted, but she'd promised Rachel, and it was her job, as maid of honor, to participate in all prewedding insanity. So Maggie slipped her bare feet into the wedges, wobbling from side to side. Rachel braced her on one side, Susie on the other, and together they hoisted her up the step onto the carpeted pedestal that faced a quartet of mirrors. Rachel gasped.