I Do! (2 page)

The old Becca would have felt bad and been totally susceptible to his hot eyes giving her warm tingles. The old Becca would have succumbed to his lethal good looks and said something flirty. The new Becca ignored her tingles and her urge to feel bad for causing the welt on his head. “Sorry I startled you, and you nearly gave yourself a concussion.” She was so pleased that she hadn’t so much as flipped her “Texas hair” that she added, “Although, if that crappy music you listen to doesn’t give you brain damage, nothing will.”

A scowl creased his forehead right beneath the red bump getting redder. “Says the girl who probably listens to Taylor Swift.”

“What’s wrong with Taylor Swift?” She liked Taylor Swift. Nothing better after a bad breakup than a bag of Hershey’s Kisses, a box of Kleenex, and “Picture to Burn” downloaded onto her phone.

“Shitty chick music.” He moved toward the house and added over his shoulder as he walked up the steps, “And that’s the best thing that can be said about Taylor Swift.”

That was three insults in less than a minute, her feet, her hair, and her taste in music. Becca’s gaze slid from the back of his dark head, past the comma of curls at the base of his neck, to the shoulders of his T-shirt covered in grime. The screen door hinges squeaked and her gaze slipped down his back to his waist and that stupid spiky belt. What a jerk.

“Your photos are probably in the house.” He paused halfway inside and glanced over his shoulder at her. “Come in out of the heat while I look for them.” The darker shadows of the porch hid the top of his face and slashed across his nose to the corner of his mouth and the dark stubble on his chin.

Go inside Nathan Parrish’s house?
She didn’t think he was a demented pervert. At least she hadn’t heard anything about him being a demented pervert. But she didn’t know him, and it wasn’t smart for a girl to go into the house of a man she didn’t know. “I’ll wait here.”

“Suit yourself.” He shrugged.

The screen door slapped shut behind him and Becca tried to recall what she did know of Nate. She let out a puff of breath as she dug back into her memory. She hadn’t heard much about him for a while now. Not since the big scandal involving him and Lindsey Dale when Lindsey had gone around town telling everyone that one night of passionate love with Nate had created a love child. The town had fed on that gossip for seven months until it became obvious to everyone that Nate was not the father. The dates just hadn’t matched, neither had the DNA test Nate demanded on Lindsey’s baby girl.

For one whole summer people whispered and wondered about that baby’s daddy. There had been a ton of speculation, but no real confirmation until the day Bug Larson’s wife had chased him through a field down by the high school, swearing “You cheating son of a bitch” at the top of her lungs and swinging a baseball bat.

Becca shook her head. Sometimes Lovett, Texas, was as scandalous as the
Maury Show
. Not that she watched.

A frown creased her brow above the frame of her sunglasses. When had that been the hottest event in town? Three years ago maybe? She knew it had been right after she’d graduated beauty school and landed her first job at Karla’s Kuts and Kurls. She’d spent that summer squandering her versatile talents with cut and color on the shampoo-and-set ladies for minimum wage and dollar tips. All they’d talked about was Nathan Parrish and Lindsey Dale and how they weren’t the least surprised, given that Nate’s parents had created enough of their own scandals and how Lindsey was just the last in a long line of Dale loose women.

She looked at her watch. After the baseball bat incident, Lindsey’s mom had packed up her and her baby and sent them off to her cousin in Huntsville, which just seemed like cruel and unusual punishment, as far was Becca was concerned. She remembered hearing that Nate had returned to college up north somewhere, but she hadn’t heard much about him after that.

Of course, she’d moved and didn’t pay attention to gossip.

Her hand fell to the side and her gaze returned to the front door. If Nate didn’t hurry, she was going to be late for her meeting with Sadie. What was taking him so long? Had he fallen and hit his head again? She was baking beneath the Texas sun. The top of her head was getting cooked and it was apparent that he was in no hurry to reappear and didn’t care if she died of heatstroke.

Bless his pea-pickin’ heart.

The heels of her shoes tapped on the concrete as she walked up the steps and across the wooden porch. While it might not be smart to go into a man’s house alone, time was money, and he was wasting hers. Instead of knocking again, or calling out, she slowly opened the front screen door.

A BROAD SLICE
of sunlight slipped between toile curtains, bleached with age, and spilled across Nate’s bare shoulders and chest. He scrubbed his face with a clean washcloth, thick with suds from a bar of Irish Spring. He stood in his work pants at the chipped single-basin sink, his shoes planted in the spot worn thin by generations of Parrish men washing up after work. Cold water from the faucet streamed full force into the sink and splashed droplets on his belly and the thin line of dark hair that circled his navel and disappeared beneath the waistband riding low on his hips.

Nate had lived alone in this house, his grandparents’ house, since the day he’d moved back to Lovett full-time to work with his father and Uncle Billy at Parrish American Classics a little over a year ago.

Suds dripped from his chin as he slid the washrag to the back of his neck and across his shoulders. For the first fifteen years of his life, he’d lived in Seattle. He’d been born and raised there by his mother and stepfather, Steven Monroe. After his stepfather’s death, his mother had moved them back to Texas so he could get to know his biological father, Jack Parrish. He and his dad had adjusted to each other easily, but he’d never quite adjusted to Lovett. Not the small town. Not the gossip. Not the dry heat.

He rinsed the cloth beneath the cold tap water. When it had come time to choose a college after graduating from high school, he’d naturally chosen the University of Washington. He’d lived in Seattle for six years, returning to Texas on holidays and in the summer to see his family. He loved Seattle, but Nate discovered he was a Parrish like his dad and uncle. Oil ran through their veins and he loved the smell of 15W–50. There was nothing like a fully restored American beauty. Nothing turned Nate on more than a 427 big block vibrating the pavement. Nothing like four-barrel carbs, flat open and chewing up the road, to make him hard.

Soap stung a cut under his chin and he leaned at the waist and stuck his head beneath the faucet. Cold water ran over his head and down his cheeks. The ’66 Cadillac in the driveway made him hard. Real hard, and if Holly Ann wasn’t in Dallas for the summer, he wouldn’t mind tossing her on the Coupe Deville’s big trunk and testing out the suspension. He’d set her between the glossy red fins and step between her open thighs. She’d tilt her face to his and he’d kiss her mouth as he had sex with his girlfriend of one year.

The chilly water on the back of his neck felt good after working under Cadillac, and he paused to let it run through his hair and down his temples and the welt on his forehead. Of course, Holly Ann probably wouldn’t go for it. She didn’t like grease and dirt and outdoor sex.

The girl in the white dress in his driveway probably wasn’t the kind of girl who’d go for it, either. Not that he was interested, but she looked like one of those good girls. The kind that didn’t like to get messed up. The kind who teased guys with red polish on her toenails and red shoes that made her legs incredibly long. The kind who wore a white dress that the sun shone through and outlined her inner thighs clear up to the V of her crotch. Between the sunlight and those big sunglasses, he hadn’t seen much of her face. Her legs were memorable, though.

He felt around for the cold tap and turned it off. She was probably melting out there, but it wasn’t his fault. He’d told her to come inside. He was sweaty and grimy and needed to clean up before he looked for his mother’s photos. She’d worked hard to establish her name, and the last thing she needed was a set of black fingerprints on the white studio folder. And since he was washing his hands, he figured he’d wash the rest of him, too.

He ran his hands over the back of his head and down his face. It was probably best the girl stayed outside anyway. Holly Ann wouldn’t appreciate it if he invited a girl into his house, and while he’d begun to question his relationship with her, he had to respect the year they’d been together.

Nate blew the water from his lips and straightened. He shook his head like a dog and sent droplets across the kitchen and down his back. There had been a time in his life when he would have already stepped out on Holly Ann, but Nate was not a cheater. Not these days. He’d learned a long time ago that one-night stands with girls he didn’t know were never worth it.

A fluffy blue bath towel sat on the counter next to a clean T-shirt. He reached for the towel and covered his head with it. He scrubbed it over his hair and dried his face. He hadn’t hooked up with a nameless girl for several years now. Not since Lindsey Dale had accused him of being her baby’s daddy. Not since the night his father had called him to ask about the story she’d been spreading around town. Not since the night he’d had to tell his dad that he didn’t remember her name or face, but he did remember meeting her at Rowdy’s Roadhouse when he’d been home for Christmas. He remembered her sticking her hand down his pants and having sex with her in the backseat of his ’67 Camaro. He’d been shit-faced, but he’d remembered to use a condom.

He scrubbed the towel across his back and neck, then slipped it over the top of his head once more. No one in town had believed him about the condom. No one but his family, and while they had all supported and believed him, that whole summer had been difficult on everyone. Especially his parents. It had brought back painful memories for them. Memories of a past they didn’t talk about because it had been resolved. Memories that had the potential to hurt, and it did no one any good to pick at a sore spot.

The towel fell to his shoulders and everything in him stilled. He heard a faint intake of breath and spun around at the sound. The girl from the driveway stood in the entrance to the kitchen; light poured into the living room and backlit her once again like an angel come down from heaven. An angel with sunbeams in her golden hair and sliding over her bare shoulders to dip into her smooth cleavage. His own breath whooshed from his lungs as if a hard fist slammed into his chest.

“I didn’t want to call out and scare you again,” she said, and pushed her sunglasses to the top of her head.

Sweet Lord Jesus, other than his mom coming over to do his laundry, he hadn’t had a female in his house for so long he’d forgotten how they changed the air in a room. “Startle.” He tossed the towel on the counter and grabbed his shirt. He’d forgotten how a woman could turn the air instantly hot.

“Potato, pa-tot-o.”

She was a smartass. A good girl smartass. He shoved his arms into the sleeves of the armadillo T-shirt his twelve-year-old cousin had given to him last Christmas, then pulled it over his head. She looked like a good girl. A good girl who made him have very bad thoughts. Thoughts of a certain Northern boy kissing her pink lips, then sliding his mouth south to her Dixieland. He wasn’t surprised by his thoughts. He’d always had a taste for good girls.

“How’s your head?”

He’d forgotten about it and raised his hand to the welt. He pressed it with his fingertips and winced. “Hurts like a bitch.”

“Sorry.” Her little smile twisted her pink lips, and she didn’t look sorry at all. She moved farther into the kitchen, and with each step of her red shoes, his chest got a little tighter. One step and then two and the tight feeling in his chest slid down his insides to grip him beneath his belt. Three steps, then four, and his ball sac got tight and reminded him just how long Holly Ann had been away. She stopped in front of him and stuck out her hand. “I’m Becca Ramsey. I work for your aunt Lily.”

Nate looked down into her face tilted up a few inches beneath his. Her eyes were the brilliant blue of morning glories that grew along his grandmother’s fence. “Let me guess.” He took her hand, and the warmth of her palm seeped into his. “You wax eyebrows and armpits.”

“I cut, style, and color hair. Sorry if you were looking for someone to get rid of that uni-brow for you.” She laughed at her little joke like she was amusing, but he didn’t have a uni-brow and she wasn’t funny. Somehow, none of that mattered as the soft sound of laughter whispered across his skin and sent a shiver up his spine. “Are you cold?”

Holy shit. He pulled his hand from hers and away from her touch. Hell no, he wasn’t cold. He was hot. Hot for a girl in a white dress and red shoes. He swallowed past the sudden constriction in his throat and wondered for half a second if he’d accidentally gotten ahold of some shellfish. Shellfish made his mouth itch and his throat close. Earlier he’d eaten a huge bowl of Cocoa Puffs. That was it.

She looked up at him through those shiny blue eyes and her smile fell. “Are you okay?”

Hell no, he wasn’t okay. His chest felt tight, like he was having an allergic reaction when he hadn’t eaten anything he was allergic to. He had a painful case of hard dick for a girl who wasn’t his girlfriend.

“Can I get ice for your head?”

She put a concerned hand on his forearm, and he lowered his gaze to her thin fingers and red nails. The feeling in his chest and belly had nothing to do with shellfish and everything to do with this girl. “No.” His brow lowered and reminded him that he’d whacked his head pretty good. Maybe he’d knocked his head harder than he’d thought. Maybe his reaction was some sort of concussion. A delayed concussion that tightened his insides and made every hair on his body rise like he was standing in a freezer. “But you need to go,” he said before he tried to make her stay. “Now.” He shook off her touch and walked through the kitchen to the living room.

“My photographs,” she reminded him as she trailed behind. “I need my photographs.”