Falling for the Marine (A McCade Brothers Novel) (Entangled Brazen) Page 11

  “Oh. Sorry. When’s my birthday?”

  “I have no idea actually. November twenty-ninth?”

  “Nice try. Drink.”

  He got up and refilled her wineglass, then took a gulp, and plunked the half-full glass down on the small dining table. “When’s your birthday?”

  “May thirty-first.”

  “Not too far away.”

  “Yeah, in a few short weeks, I’ll be well into my mid-twenties.” She sighed dramatically. “Twenty-five, divorced, and jobless. Thank God I’m engaged, or I’d be so depressed.”

  “If it helps, I can promise our relationship will never end in divorce.”

  The statement rang with such intensity it took her a moment to get the joke, and then she burst out laughing. “That’s the most romantic thing any man has ever said to me.”

  He grinned and pulled her into a quick, one-armed hug. “I’m smooth like that. And I’ll make you another promise.”

  “I’m not sure my heart can handle another.” She crossed her hands over her chest.

  “If that lasagna you’re cooking tastes as amazing as it smells, I’m your slave for life.”

  “The lasagna never fails. What kind of slave?” Naughty, but she couldn’t resist.

  He raised an eyebrow and gave her an equally naughty look. “Any kind you think you can handle.”

  …

  They continued the game during dinner—which Michael admitted was the world’s best lasagna, Mexican or otherwise—and willingly assumed his role of slave. This necessitated opening another bottle of Chardonnay. He also found himself playing self-appointed rescuer again, surreptitiously drinking more than his fair share of the bottle in order to save her from a hangover. He managed to get heroically tipsy in the process, which hadn’t happened in a long time, and made concentrating on the game tough. When she spoke, his attention kept wandering to her hands or her mouth. Her actual words tended to get lost in the buzz.

  The task of cleaning up after dinner got his body moving again, but his brain still felt sluggish. Chloe, on the other hand, was going a mile a minute.

  “So your oldest brother, Trevor, is an LAPD homicide cop, married to Kylie, who owns a yoga studio?” Chloe followed the question up by handing him their dirty plates and utensils.

  “Right.” He nodded, rinsed the dishes, and loaded the dishwasher.

  She folded a new sheet of aluminum foil over the half-empty casserole dish and placed it in the fridge. “Logan is your younger brother, the rock climber. He lives in Colorado and founded a climbing-gear company. And he’s married to…hmm…” She bit her lip.

  Michael shut the fridge door so they stood face to face. “And he’s married to?”

  Her forehead wrinkled. “Um…oh… I know. He’s not married. I got that right didn’t I? You, sir”—she poked his chest—“have to drink.”

  “I’ve created a monster.” Still, he picked up his glass and drained it. “No more. Your slave requests mercy.” He took her hand and dragged her to the couch, and then pulled her down beside him.

  “My slave… I do like the sound of that. I may have to change your nickname from Major Hottie to slave.” Her wide smile and the extra bounce she took when she sat told him he hadn’t completely cornered the market on tipsy.

  “Since when is my nickname Major Hottie?”

  “Lynne came up with it, I think.”

  “Your recruiter?” The idea of his hotness being assessed by a complete stranger left him feeling a little…fazed. Heat crawled up his neck.

  “Why, Major, you’re blushing.”

  “I am not. Marines don’t blush.”

  She giggled and pressed her palms to his flushed cheeks. “Oh, sorry, my mistake, Major Hottie.”

  “I think I prefer ‘slave.’”

  “You don’t say?” She giggled again. “What are your slave duties?”

  “Entirely your call, Mistress, but might I suggest you’re looking a little tense right here?” He rested his hands on her shoulders and kneaded the muscles.

  Her eyebrows disappeared into her hairline. “You’re going to give me a massage?”

  “Sure.” But he also really liked the idea of her body all pressed up against his, so he reclined and pulled her down until she lay on top of him. “I learned my techniques from the best.”

  She raised her head and eyed him suspiciously. “The position you’ve chosen is certainly innovative.”

  He ran his hand along the back of her neck and lowered her head so her cheek nestled against his chest. The warm weight of her breasts rested against his diaphragm. He found himself taking deeper breaths than necessary and smoothing his palms down her back in slow, even strokes.

  She snuggled into him a little deeper. “Mmm. That’s nice.”

  He could not agree more. Content to drift, he closed his eyes and enjoyed the feel of her draped all over him like an absurdly sexy blanket. Just for a minute…

  A pounding noise jackhammered through his skull and rattled his brain.

  “What the…?”

  A soft, groggy groan sounded from somewhere close to his ear and warm breath tickled his temple. Chloe.

  He snapped his eyes open, winced at the daylight streaming through the living room window, and took stock. They were still on the sofa with Chloe sprawled over him, limp and boneless. He had one hand tangled in her hair and the other down the back of her shorts. Her tank top had worked its way up her torso during the night, leaving a smooth expanse of bare skin, and, just above the low, wash-whitened waistband of her shorts, the greenish-blue tip of a hummingbird wing.

  The pounding started again, and a familiar voice yelled through the door, “Hey, man, it’s Dane. You okay in there?”

  “Fine,” he tried to reply, but the word left his dry, scratchy throat like a weak cough. Chloe groaned again, an incoherent protest against all the noise, and snuggled her face against his neck.

  The next thing he knew, his front door swung open and Dane walked in. “You know your door is”—his friend’s voice trailed off as he got an eyeful of Chloe and Michael entwined on the couch, and froze—“unlocked.”

  Chloe popped up like a prairie dog and blinked. Her red-gold curls tumbled every which way. She had a line across her cheek from the imprint of his T-shirt. She looked sweet, and rumpled, and so unbelievably sexy, if Dane hadn’t been standing there, he would have hustled them into the bedroom, tossed her down in the middle of his bed, and found out, at last, what it felt like to be inside her while she arched and shivered and cried his name like some kind of prayer.

  Instead, he sat up as well, sneaked a hand along her back and tugged her tank top down. Then with no small amount of regret, he slid her off his lap. “Dane, meet Chloe. Chloe, Dane. He was just leaving.”

  “Um, right.” Dane ran a hand through his short, uncombed blond hair, and had the good grace to flash an apologetic smile. “Hi, Chloe. Nice to meet you.”

  She stood, stretched like a cat, and then held out her hand. “Nice to meet you too, Dane.”

  He took her hand, and Michael didn’t miss the way his friend’s gaze traveled over her, taking in long, bare legs in tiny shorts, the yellow bra peeking out from the neckline of her tight tank top, the mass of curls spilling around her shoulders. “Sorry for barging in. I didn’t realize Grumpy here had a guest. I agreed to drag his sorry ass down to the gym this morning, and I thought he was wussing.”

  Michael scrubbed a hand over his face. “I’m not wussing on anything.” Was it really eight in the morning? He squinted at the clock on the cable box.

  “The gym?” Chloe sent him a sharp look and then turned her attention back to Dane. “That might not be such a good idea. Michael has a back injury.”

  “Don’t worry, I know all about it. I’m not just his taller, smarter, much hotter friend, I’m also his doctor.” Dane gave her his best ain’t-I-the-shit grin and Michael wondered if kicking his doctor’s ass would aggravate his back.

  “Oh, Dr. Anderson. I read y
our report.” At Dane’s inquiring look, she went on, “I do—well, did—massage therapy at the clinic just outside Camp Pendleton. I worked on Michael earlier this week.”

  “Excellent. The massage therapy was another thing I was afraid he might wuss out on. Glad to know he followed through.”

  She slid a sly smile Michael’s way. “He grumbled a little at first, but now he’s a believer.”

  “That’s good, because I plan to put him through a whole series of physical therapy this morning. He may come crying to you when we’re done.”

  Michael pushed off the couch. “Yeah, right, we’ll see whose crying. I’m going to go change. Be useful and make Chloe some coffee.”

  He turned, but stopped when she put a hand on his arm. “If I make you a list, can you stop at the store on your way home from the gym and pick up the…uh”—she glanced toward the kitchen where Dane was dumping scoops of coffee into a filter—“the cobbler stuff for the thing tonight?”

  “Dane, you got time to hit the commissary after the gym?”

  “No problem.” He poured a carafe of water into the reservoir. “I know you hate to run out of Depends.”

  Michael smirked and flipped him the bird and then looked at Chloe, who had her fingers knit together so tightly her knuckles had turned white. He unlinked her fingers and gave her hand a squeeze. “Don’t worry, Chlo. You’re going to have the Hardings eating out of your hands tonight.”

  She stared back at him with huge, worried eyes. “I just hope the cobbler hides the smell of our bullshit.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Three…two…one. Michael counted down the seconds as he walked to his car. Right on cue, his friend started in. “Sorry for barging in. I didn’t realize you had company. I thought you’d thrown your back out and couldn’t get to the door.”

  “Nope, my back feels pretty good, actually.”

  “No doubt, considering you scored a sleep over with your massage therapist.”

  Michael turned and led the way to his Jeep. “At this point, Chloe’s more than a masseuse to me. She’s more like a…roommate.”

  Dane’s say-whaaaat? expression would have inspired a cartoonist. “You’re living together? Better be careful, man. Harding’s not going to smile on one of his officers shacking up with the local talent. And his opinion matters, because, rightly or wrongly, he’s got a hell of a lot of say over your career—especially at the moment.”

  “Well, technically,” he hit the unlock button on his key and waited for the double beep, “we’re not shacked up, we’re engaged.”

  “Wow. You work fast.”

  Michael shrugged and got in the car. “She was in a little bit of a bind and needed a place to stay for a few weeks. I wanted to help, but I also have my reputation to protect, so…”

  “Ah,” Dane nodded from the passenger seat, “an engagement for show only. In that case, I have to say the eyeful I got this morning of you two all cozy on the couch looked pretty convincing.”

  Yeah. It had felt pretty convincing too. “That was perfectly innocent.” Mostly innocent. “We stayed up late talking—preparing for dinner tonight with Harding and his wife to celebrate our engagement—and fell asleep.” He put the car in gear and steered out of his parking space.

  “And after the gym, you’re going to run to the store for her?”

  “Yep. It’s the least I can do. She vacuumed yesterday.”

  “And she’s going to bake something for tonight’s command performance at the Hardings’?”

  “So?” The skepticism in Dane’s voice was starting to chafe. “What’s your point?”

  “My point is, you two stay up half the night talking and fall asleep in each other’s arms, you do little chores for each other, and you socialize as a couple. You’re more engaged than half the real couples I know. Are you sure this thing is for show only?”

  “Yes. She’s leaving in four weeks.”

  “She doesn’t have to. There are jobs in San Clemente.”

  “Staying in one place isn’t for her. She’s not looking to settle down, and I’m not looking for a casual, catch-you-next-time-I’m-in-town kind of thing. I’ve ridden that merry-go-round for a long time and I’m ready to get off.”

  “So four weeks, and then have a nice life?”

  “In a nutshell. My life will get back to normal.”

  Dane shrugged and faced front. “If you say so.”

  “I do.” Hell, yeah, it would. No more nerve-racking engagement charade. No more having his apartment look like it had been invaded by a band of gypsies, no more chick food in his kitchen…no more homemade dinners, no more sexy massages, no more waking up surrounded by the scents of cinnamon and honey. No more Chloe.

  …

  Chloe knew she was making herself, and Michael, crazy, but she couldn’t seem to help it. She walked from the bathroom to the living room, where he was trying to watch a ball game, and stood beside the oversize flat screen…again. “Are you sure this looks okay?” She smoothed her hand over the billowy skirt of her pink, strawberry-print sundress, sending a stack of slim, pink, enamel bracelets tinkling down her arm to gather at her wrist. This was the closest thing she owned to a church outfit but the halter top of the dress had her worried and her lucky shoes weren’t giving her much of an advantage. “I want to be presentable.”

  “Huh?” he said absently, his eyes never drifting from the screen.

  She huffed out a breath. Men had it so easy. Had he agonized over his wardrobe? No. Had he spent an hour in front of the mirror taming his hair into a smooth, subdued twist? Not even close. He’d come home, showered, thrown on flat-front khakis and a white, linen shirt, and run a comb through his hair. And he looked perfect.

  Michael reached out, quick as a snake, and caught her around the waist. Despite her halfhearted struggles, he tugged her down onto his lap. “You look fine.” He nuzzled her neck, but she had a funny feeling he kept one eye on the game. He disabused her of the notion when he fingered her bracelets, and then parted them and swept his thumb lightly over the flesh-colored Band-Aid she’d used to cover the little burn from last night.

  “Very presentable.” His nose brushed her throat. “And you smell almost as good as the cobbler.”

  “Oh, shit, the cobbler!” She squirmed off him and hurried into the kitchen. A peek inside the oven confirmed the dessert was done. “Thanks for reminding me.” She turned off the heat, grabbed a couple pot holders and placed the square pan of bubbling apple-brown-sugar decadence on the stove to cool.

  She fanned the cobbler with a pot holder. Sudden silence from the living room told her Michael had turned off the television. Next thing she knew, he wandered up behind her and rested his hands on her shoulders.

  “Don’t worry about this evening, Chloe. Just relax and be yourself. We’ve rehearsed and we’re ready. You look beautiful. This dessert looks amazing. The Hardings are going to love you.” He reached around her and took a swipe at the cobbler.

  She swatted his hand away but not before he stole a crumble of topping. “Hands off. That’s for tonight.”

  “I’m selflessly serving as the taste tester.” He dropped the crumbs in his mouth, swallowed, and smiled. “Oh yeah, they’re going to be eating out of your hands. You ready?”

  Oh, God. Her stomach bungee jumped to her knees and then sprang back with a sickening lurch. Ready? Not so much. She shoved the cobbler pan at him. “Here, wrap some foil over this. I have to check my hair real quick, and…” She hurried out of the kitchen… Put on more deodorant, meditate, pray.

  By the time she returned from the bathroom, Michael stood by the door. “All ready.”

  She drew in a deep breath, ran her palms down her skirt, and nodded. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”

  He grinned and led her out the door.

  On the drive to the base she silently reviewed everything she and Michael had discussed last night. They’d only touched the tip of the iceberg. There was tons of stuff she still didn’t know.

&nbs
p; “What’s your middle name?”

  “James—there will be no quiz, Chlo.”

  She ignored him. “Michael James McCade.” She repeated his full name several times in a low whisper.

  “Okay, not that I think it will come up, but just out of curiosity, what’s yours?”

  “Um…Chloe is my middle name, actually.”

  His eyes darted to her, and then back to the road. “Seriously? Wow. Now I’m glad I asked. What’s your first name?”

  “You can’t laugh.”

  Michael pulled the car to a stop at the Camp Pendleton main gate and showed his military ID to the marine on guard. He waved them through with a salute. “I would never laugh…Ethel…Myrna…Harriett…whoever you are.”

  “Scarlett.”

  “As in, O’Hara?” His lips twitched once, before he tamed his feature into his stoic, I’m-a-badass-marine expression.

  “Yes. Gone with the Wind was one of my mom’s favorite books.”

  “Scarlett’s a nice name. Distinctive. Why don’t you go by Scarlett?”

  She shrugged. “It didn’t suit me. Everyone pretty much called me Chloe from the get-go. Then, when I was twelve or thirteen, I read Gone with the Wind, and I was like, ‘Hey, Scarlett’s a complete bitch.’” She laughed, despite her lingering tension. “I vowed never to be a Scarlett, literally or figuratively. But now you know the awful truth. I hope you’re not ashamed to be engaged to a Scarlett woman.”

  “Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn.”

  She giggled, but the humor subsided as Michael turned into the Del Mar Military Housing tract, and, a few seconds later, pulled to the curb in front of a sprawling gray, single-story Cape-Cod at the end of Dolphin Way, with a bluff’s top view of the Pacific. She inhaled an unsteady breath. So this was officers’ housing. Nice.

  He came around and opened the car door for her. She held out the cobbler, expecting him to take it from her, but he leaned in and took her arm instead. The next thing she knew she was standing on the sidewalk beside him, clutching the cobbler pan. She stared down the front walk and whispered, “Michael James McCade” under her breath.