Game Plan (23 page)

“You’re telling me what to wear.”

“I like you in red.” Such as that red bra and panties she’d had on last night, or the red sexy-as-hell shoes. “Yeah, definitely wear the red dress.” Her hair called to him, so he twirled a section of it around his finger. Soft and silky. If he got closer, it’d smell fresh as a spring day, like it always did. “And leave your hair down.” Easy access while they were out and about. Her expression whenever he played with her hair made him feel like king of the world.

The glare she gave him as she pushed his hand away, not so much. What the fuck…? Chin in the air, she huffed out of the room. Shut his bedroom door with enough gusto to rattle the house. Apparently slamming doors when pissed was Andie’s thing. Could be worse. It’d sure be nice to know what had set her off, though. Women.

Some of the chicken was salvageable. He dealt with the casserole, left the dish for Hugo and took his chances knocking on the bedroom door. “Can I come in?”

“It’s your house.”

He grunted. She’d sure treated it like her own when the mystery tantrum came on. He turned the knob and found her standing by his bed, hands on those curvy hips, toe tapping on the hardwood. Call him fucked-up, but her fiery stance did it for him. Act on it, though? He wasn’t that stupid.

Her eyes followed every step as he moved around the room. Burned a hole through him would be more accurate. He dared to smile at her while throwing on some clothes. No return on that investment.

“You chose the purple dress,” he said, stopping in front of her.

The hand he offered got a disgusted glance, one that quickly moved to his face. “And I put my hair up.”

“I noticed.” Aside from a few wavy escapees at the back, her neck was bare. Long and sexy, begging to be stroked and kissed. Or bitten. Like while he bent her over the bed, slippery dress pushed to the waist so he could fuck her hard and in a hurry.

“That’s it? You’re not going to say anything else?”

Shit. Dumbass, standing here with his tongue hanging out instead of complimenting the lady. “Yeah, I am. You distracted me, that’s all.

“By going against your wishes.”

“By looking fucking incredible. I knew I liked that dress when I saw it in your closet, but seeing it on you is like winning the lottery. The way it shows off your nice little waist, your sexy legs… I want to put my hands all over you, lick every inch of you, starting with your beautiful, sweet-smelling neck—which is what I was thinking about a minute ago.”

Her bottom lip fell open. The bracelets on her wrist jingled as her hands dropped to her sides. “You’re not mad?”

“No. Should I be?” Technically, scientifically, he knew how the brain worked. But understanding women’s thought processes…no clue.

“Scott would’ve been,” she whispered, focusing on the group of metal bangles on her right wrist. “He insisted on choosing what I wore outside the house. Pretty much always. I hated the stuff he bought for me.” She spun the bracelets a few more times. When she met his eyes, hers were full of tension. “I resent being dressed like some mindless doll.”

Andie, voluntarily opening up to him…hell must’ve frozen over. He finally had her talking, yet he couldn’t think of a single right thing to say in return. Shit.

“So I freaked out a little when you told me what to wear.” Her head jerked to one side in a nervous shrug.

He captured one soft hand and brought it to his lips. He could’ve reassured her that he wasn’t like her ex, but that wasn’t really the problem. Everybody had hot-buttons—he sure as hell did—and now that he knew one of hers, he’d try not to trip it. Part of him did want to point out that
she’d
bought everything he stuffed in her weekend bag, but he kept his mouth zipped on that one.

“Thank you,” seemed like a wiser choice.

“For what? Being a psycho bitch with issues?”

“For sharing why you acted like one.”

“Jerk,” she said, halfheartedly trying to regain possession of her hand.

From the smile on her face and in her voice, he’d said exactly the right thing.

* * * * *

After watching Andie’s nipples press against the clingy purple dress during lunch, Mason had almost ditched their afternoon plans so he could take her home to bed. Instead, he’d summoned his last speck of willpower and hit the highway. Then, on the way to St. Jacob’s, she’d slid into the middle spot so she could snuggle up beside him. That’d led to his discovery that she’d omitted panties. He’d been
this close
to turning the truck around.

It wasn’t the first time she’d gone commando around him. It didn’t matter that he’d fucked her twice today already, and very well at that. Following her up the stairs now, watching that ass sway and knowing explicitly what treasures were bare beneath the thin, single layer of material…his head was crowded with images. And his shorts were crowded with a non-stop, raging hard-on.

The market’s mezzanine area was packed with people, forcing him closer. No more visual appreciation of her body, but direct contact suited him fine too. When she tilted her head to smile up at him, he caught her lips for a kiss.

“My breath has to be horrible after everything we sampled downstairs,” she said after cutting it short.

“I only taste you.”

“I have a flavor?”

“Yeah, Andielicious.”

“God, you’re smooth.” The tone of her voice might be sarcastic, but her pretty smile lit her whole face. “It’s congested and stifling up here. Want to go back down, walk around outside?”

“There’s one place I have to hit first. Pawprints something or other. Then we’ll get out of here.”

Once Andie got a glimpse of all the shops, the elbow-to-elbow crush of bodies didn’t seem to faze her anymore. She squeezed between people and pillars to reach the booths that caught her eye. Pottery, pillows, stained glass. Through it all, she kept her fingers laced with his. The crowd meant staying tight behind her, the perfect place for soaking in the naturally sweet smell of her skin. He whispered in her ear, some things innocent, others, not so much.
She’s mine
, the actions said to anyone watching. Given Andie’s natural beauty and shapely figure, that was a lot. Let them look. When he caught guys checking her out, his chest swelled to what felt like twice its normal size. They could ogle her all they wanted—Andie belonged to him.

“This must be it.” He nudged her toward one of the larger booths, stocked floor to ceiling with brightly colored clothing. Miniature clothing.

She looked up at the hand-painted wooden sign. “Pawprints Clothing Company. When you said paw prints, I thought you meant pet products for the clinic.”

“Yeah, weird name. Shopping for the clinic would be easier. No, one of my buddies has a boy turning one. Apparently his wife loves this stuff and you can only get it here.” The salesgirl smiled at him, so he nodded, then pulled
his
girl into a proper hug. “Help me pick something, since the gift’ll be from both of us.”

The nod wasn’t enough to keep the young blonde clerk at bay, and she promptly floated over and hit them up with a pitch about quality and uniqueness, yada, yada, yada.

“And if you’re looking for the newborn items, they’re mixed in the racks by style, rather than being grouped by size. Most of our things are unisex, though we do have a few gender-specific fabrics if you know what you’re having.”

Mason kept his arm tight around Andie, who looked as if she’d been caught on one of those practical joke-type reality shows. “Thanks, but we’re shopping for a one-year-old, not a newborn, and not ours.”

“Oh—oh gosh, I’m sorry.” The girl’s fair skin turned solid pink. “I assumed you were expecting…” At Andie’s wide eyes, the pink changed to beet red. “Oh no, that didn’t come out right. You don’t look pregnant at all, it’s just that you’re obviously in love and you’re practically glowing, I thought you must be in your first trimester and… I’m going to sit over there behind the counter and hide until you need some help with sizes or patterns.” Walking away, she shook her head and mumbled something about how her boss was going to kill her.

Mason glanced around at what had to be hundreds of little outfits. “So, what do you think?”

“About having a baby?”

Whoa. Not the question he’d been asking. Still, this was a perfect opportunity to find out where she stood on having more kids. Specifically, with him. “Yeah.”

She fingered through a rack of puppy- and kitten-printed overalls, pausing at a tiny pair. “I’d love another child. I always wanted more, but…” She didn’t look at him while answering. For the first time since arriving at the farmer’s market, she let go of his hand and moved away.

No psychology degree needed to read between those lines. The more Mason learned about Scott, the less respect he had for the guy. Anybody who’d let Andie down in such a huge way deserved divorce papers. The day would come when they’d meet, he and Scott Finch. Not punching the fuckwad in the face was going to take effort.

For now, he shelved the baby conversation. They’d pick it up another time, privately. “What do you think of this stuff, see anything good for a rowdy one-year-old who eats sand and dog kibble?” he asked, joining her in front of a bunch of clothes displayed on an oversized wooden crate.

“Plenty.” Her smile returned. Smaller than before, but better than nothing. “Something with dogs on it, you think? An appropriate gift from the best vet in town.”

“And his girlfriend. Grab a couple of things so I can pay and we can get out of here.”

“So
we
can pay. If it’s from both of us…”

“You do the choosing and the wrapping. I’m paying.” Shit, she had her feisty face brewing. “This time, babe. By the next party you’ll know Josh and Jane and both their wild things better than you’ll ever want to. You can chip in for that one, if you want to.”

Apparently appeased, she shifted her attention to the clothes. “How old is their other child, should we pick up that present while we’re here?”

“Nah, we’ll come back another time.” Like next May, a week before that party rolled around.

“Anything to get out of here faster, right?” A couple of minutes later, she held up two hangers. “These okay?”

“Great.”

“You didn’t even look at them.” She laughed as he snagged them with one finger.

“Nope. I’m a guy.”

“Try a six-foot tower of solid testosterone.”

“Yeah?” He dropped Andie’s picks on the counter with a credit card on top. “What are the other two inches made of?” The blushing clerk kept her head down while tallying their receipt. Unlikely she was missing a beat of his conversation with Andie, though, or the fact that he was caressing Andie’s incredible ass through the clingy dress.

Her hand snuck under his t-shirt. The long, perfect fingernails crossing his stomach made him shudder. “Cream and sugar, of course.”

A squeak slipped out of the salesgirl. Her eyes flitted everywhere except directly on them as she handed over his card and the bag. “Thank you, and uh, sorry if I offended either of you before…but you’re absolutely the sweetest couple to ever come in here.”

To hell with courtesy. He draped his arm over Andie’s shoulders and pulled her alongside him as they hit the aisle way again, smiling down at her when she slid her arm around his waist. Exactly how it should be.

“That’s a bad-boy grin.”

“I was thinking that the salesgirl back there wouldn’t call us sweet if she knew the things I did to you a couple of hours ago.”

“I don’t know…I came three times. That was pretty sweet.”

“Three? I thought it was only twice.”

She pulled him inside a booth filled with leatherwork. “Two and three sort of ran together. You were, um…” She glanced at the shopkeeper, then back to him. “Enthusiastically distracted at that point.”

“Understatement of the year, babe.” Yeah, he’d never forget that part. Fucking her oil-slicked ass from behind while she used a vibrator on her clit…it was a miracle he’d had awareness at all. “I’m getting lightheaded thinking about it.”

Six feet or so away from the guy working the booth, Andie stuck her free hand inside the front of his shorts. Copped a giant, lingering feel. “That’s because all of your blood has gone to your cock, honey.”

Honey?
She’d never called him anything like that. Whatever the reason, she could do it again, anytime. Ditto with the way she continued to surprise him. “You keep your hand down there much longer, I’m gonna buy a few of these sheepskins and take you out to my truck.”

The man buzzing away at his crazy-looking sewing machine didn’t look up, but snorted openly. “For you two, no tax. Oh, and they’re machine washable, which might come in handy.”

“Good to know, thanks.” Albeit unnecessary, since Andie’d already removed her hand and moved off to look at a shelf of moccasins and sheepskin slippers. Not her usual type of footwear. “Moving to Nunavut?”

“It’s the sewing. My feet become blocks of ice when I work for hours at a stretch, even in summer.” She paused with her hand on his elbow, halfway through the process of slipping off her sexy sandals. “Do you think it’s okay for me to try them on with bare feet?”

“Ask.”

“I can’t talk to him now. Not after…” Her face went from sun-bronzed to deep pink. “Will you ask?”

“Anything for you.” Those three words were becoming reflex. Every time he said them, he might as well have been saying the other three words, because they meant the same thing.

The blush receded from Andie’s face when the man chose to speak to them from behind his equipment. In the end, she had two pairs in her hands. Purple slippers bursting with white fuzz—those he could see her wearing. The boring, brown mocs, not so much.

“For Dylan,” she said, answering his unasked question.

Of course. The kid was twelve. Twelve-year-old boys had adult-sized feet. They shopped in the men’s section, ate a ton of food and if memory served, got the sheets sticky on occasion.

Twelve. Almost a teenager. Shit, it’d been so easy to forget that since he’d gone up north with his dad. Not to forget about Dylan himself. Andie talked about her son often, spoke to him on the phone every day. She’d made no attempt to hide that part of her life or its importance. A couple of times, while she’d been chatting away to the boy, Mason had gotten this picture in his head. What it might be like, hanging out with Andie and her boy, doing normal, family-type stuff. But in those imagined scenarios, Dylan was smaller, younger. Like six or seven. It was the age part Mason had forgotten. Or blocked out.