Authors: Marley Gibson
Tags: #computer software, #airplane, #hunk, #secret love, #affair, #office, #Forbidden Love, #work, #Miami, #sexy, #Denver, #betrayed, #office romance, #working, #san francisco, #flying, #mile high, #sex, #travel, #Las Vegas, #South Beach, #hot, #Cambridge, #casino, #Boston, #computers
Can't Touch This (36 page)
“—and then there’s Rick and Isabella,” Kyle says, grabbing my attention.
Who… us? All eyes in the room turn to us. Rick slides in behind me, fresh beer in hand, and is just as surprised as I am.
Kyle’s relentless as he presses forward with the mic in his hand. “Rick and Isabella mean the world to us. Wouldn’t it be great if the four of us have a double wedding ceremony?” Our crowd of friends goes crazy hooting and hollering. “Of course, Churchman, that would entail you getting down on one knee and popping the question to your lady, right here, right now.”
“Is he fucking kidding me?” I hear Rick mutter.
“Oh, my God.” I want the floor to swallow me whole as my entire body bursts into flames. The crowd loves it, though, and everyone is clapping and egging us on. Rick laughs nervously and shifts from one foot to the other.
“Come on, Churchman,” Kyle yells out. “If you don’t do it, Isabella’s going to tell you to ‘shit or get off the pot.’”
“I wouldn’t do that,” I mutter back. My skin itches, though, at the prospect of Rick dropping to his knee in front of all of our friends.
The entire room echoes with laughter like some sick Adult Swim cartoon. Faces and bodies morph in and out of shape to me as the champagne hits rock bottom in my empty stomach. I sway backwards into Rick’s chest and he wraps his arm around my waist to steady me. “Come with me,” he whispers softly.
As he hustles me through the crowd, there are more cat calls, cheering, and clapping. Thank heavens Rick knows me well enough to get me out of the embarrassing situation. He turns down the hallway and presses open the door that reads “Ladies.”
“You can’t come in here,” I say to him with a girlish giggle. Maybe he just wants privacy so he can do this right. I bite my tongue to keep my excitement tamped down. Does he have a ring in his pocket? Did he and Kyle orchestrate this?
“Don’t worry about it,” Rick says.
Once inside, he looks under the stalls to make sure we’re alone and then he locks the door. My heart races in anticipation. Not the most romantic location for a proposal, but certainly memorable.
“Issy,” he begins.
I don’t let him finish, though. Before he says the words that will surely change our lives, I want to have a little fun. My drought period of pent-up desire, emotion, and wanting comes to a frothy cappuccino-like head. I want him. I want him
now
. I rush forward and wrap my arms around him. My lips, hungry from five months of fasting, attack his full ones, ravishing him with my kiss. He’s hesitant at first, then his mouth opens over mine like it’s the very first time. Our tongues meet in an epic battle for control, stroking, smoothing, and licking. I groan a little when I feel his hands move into my hair. He moans a lot when my fingers find the zipper to his Joseph A. Banks slacks. Kissing and feeling, tugging and burning, I back us up until we’re in the handicapped stall. I sit down on the porcelain seat and deftly pull his stiffening erection out into my hands. Rick’s breath hitches and I sense him shiver.
It’s been too long. Way too long.
For both of us.
I place my tongue on his firmness and test out his resolve.
“Oh Issy…” he hisses out. “This isn’t—”
“I know, baby,” I say, my eyes shining up at him. “It’s not the best place. It’ll do, though.”
“It’s not that, it’s that Kyle said—”
His words stop immediately when my mouth encompasses him whole.
“Oh God…” he says with a long sigh. “How do I say this with your mouth on me like that?”
Ask me to marry you.
He leans forward with his hands on my shoulders. Kneading my skin and… pushing me away.
“Rick! What’s wrong?” I ask as my hand flies to my mouth.
He presses Little Ricky back into his pants and stares at me. “Be serious for a minute. It’s what Kyle said in there.”
I don’t want to be serious. I want to be lovers, like we used to be. “It’s okay,” I say, smiling in what I hope is a mischievous way. “I just want to be with you.”
Rick hangs his head. “That’s just it, Isabella. Kyle’s right. I should have done this a long time ago. It’s not right to keep you hanging on for so long.”
My breathing stops momentarily as I await the words every girl longs to hear.
I promise to say “yes.”
“Isabella.” His face morphs into serious regard. “I’m getting off the pot.”
“You’re wh-wh-what?”
“Yeah. It’s time we moved on.”
Stung, as if slapped in the face, I gasp. Hard.
I don’t believe this. I don’t
fucking
believe this.
Before I can utter a word, Rick turns and walks out of the bathroom.
My life has just turned to shit.
Click here to purchase CAN'T FIGHT THIS by Marley Gibson!
Book One in the Sweet and Savory Novel series
C
andace Woodrow stared at
the gooey, sunken mess inverting onto itself like there was a Hoover under the table. “This was supposed to be a groom's cake, not a pancake.”
Rebecca poked at the chocolate failure. “Did you cook it long enough?”
“I thought I did,” Candace said. “I lost track of time because Trifecta needed to go out.”
“I've seen you with that dog.” Maria wagged a finger at her. "Taking a three-legged dog for a walk is a comedy of errors.” She gave an indulgent smile to Candace's shelter-rescued mutt, dozing in the front part of the shop, separated from the kitchen by a glass door. “We still love ya, Trifecta, even if you are a living tripod.”
Candace laughed. The best thing about working with her friends every day was the laughter. Without them, she swore she'd have gone crazy planning her wedding.
Two years ago, the three of them had started Gift Baskets to Die For in the basement of Candace's Dorchester duplex. Within a year, their food-themed baskets had hit it big with the corporations in Boston, allowing them to open a storefront in a quaint building not far from Faneuil Hall Marketplace. Business had been brisk enough to pay both the rent and decent salaries for all of them.
Candace's life was settled, secure. On an even, planned keel. She was twenty-seven, three weeks from being married, and her life was chugging along on the path she'd laid out.
Everything was perfect—except the cake.
“Maybe the eggs were spoiled,” Candace said. “I mean, look at this thing. It's an overgrown hockey puck.”
“It's a sign.” Maria nodded and her shoulder-length chestnut curls shook in emphasis. “Yep. Definitely a sign.”
Rebecca shushed her. “Will you stop with that? This is Candace's wedding we're talking about. Don't make her more nervous than she already is.” She took another look at the cake. “I think you just underbaked it. Besides, this was a trial run. We'll make another one before the wedding.”
“What if it
is
a sign?” Candace threw up her hands. “Look at all that's gone wrong with my wedding. The DJ I booked had a heart attack—”
“He said the wheelchair won't stop him from spinning CDs,” Rebecca pointed out.
“If he doesn't electrocute himself with the IV drip,” Maria added.
“And then last week Father Kenny ran off with the church secretary.”
“Who turned out to be a Daniel, not a Danielle like we all thought.” Maria grabbed a raspberry thumbprint cookie from the Tupperware container on the counter and took a bite. Maria Pagliano's method of dieting involved buying the latest issues of
Cosmo, Glamour
and
Woman's World
, picking and choosing the parts she liked from their diets of the month, then chucking the whole thing on weekends.
“Don't forget the fire at the dress shop. I still can't believe the store burned to the ground, and with your dress inside.” Rebecca twisted a scrunchie around her straight brown hair, creating a jaunty ponytail. On Rebecca Hamilton, almost any hairstyle looked good. She had one of those long, delicate faces made for Cover Girl. “It was kind of heroic, though, how that cute fireman kept you from going in after it. He saved your life.”
“I would have rather he saved my dress,” Candace muttered. “At least I have insurance. But I still need to find another dress. I can't get that particular one anymore and even if I could, there's not enough time to order it.”
“You haven't bought one yet?” Maria's jaw dropped. “But Candace, the wedding's only three weeks away.”
Since Candace had said “I will” to Barry, it had been one disaster after another. If she put stock in things like signs, she'd have called off the wedding months ago. But she didn't believe in any of that. The disasters encompassed a string of bad luck, no more. Marrying Barry was the right choice. When she’d weighed the options, Barry had come out high on the good idea side. She’d looked at her upcoming wedding as she had every major move in her life, with careful research, planning and analysis.
Only once had she stepped out of that box. A long time ago. Ever since then, Candace had subscribed to the “more control is better” life mantra. That was what made Barry perfect for her. They matched like plaid and stripes.
On her marrying Barry list the pros had far outweighed any cons. Now if Murphy's Law would just see that too.
Candace sighed. “Between the business and all those last-minute glitches, I haven't had time to find another dress.”
Rebecca looped her arm through Candace’s. “Tonight we're going dress shopping, and then we’ll get good and drunk because tomorrow is Sunday, our day off, and we don't have a single delivery due on Monday.”
Of the three of them, Rebecca’s status as the oldest by four months had made her the unofficial decision maker. She was also the thinnest and the only one who came equipped with both an iron will and a Blackwell-worthy fashion sense. And, as the sole married one, the wisest when it came to matters of weddings and bridal gowns.
“Wow. An instant vacation.” Maria grabbed a second cookie and finished it off in two bites. “I hope the bar is well stocked.”
Rebecca gave her a wry look. “You mean you hope the bartender is well built.”
“Yeah, that, too.” Maria smiled. “But if he doesn't know how to make a killer margarita, what good are looks?”
Candace laughed. She picked up the cake disaster and threw it into the trash, then dropped the springform pan in the sink to soak. The bell over the shop door jangled and a second later, an enormous backpack wrangled through the door into the kitchen.
“Grandma?”
Candace's petite grandmother twirled around, spinning the king-size bag in the kitchen with an ease that belied her age—and nearly took out the Cuisinart on the side counter. “I'm making a pit stop,” Grandma Woodrow said, swiping at her brow. The bag dwarfed her, and made her seem even smaller and thinner. “Lord, it's hot out there for June.”
“What are you doing with that thing?”
“Hiking. What else would you need a backpack for? George is taking me hiking next month along the Appalachian Trail. I'm following the Paul Revere Trail today so I can break it in.” Grandma lowered the dark green bag to the floor, slipping her arms out of the metal frame. She tugged off her Red Sox ball cap and fluffed up her short gray hair, using the toaster for a mirror.
Grandma was seventy-six but told everyone she was fifty-eight. Even Candace fell for the age lie once in a while and forgot her grandmother had been collecting social security for more than a decade. She'd inherited Grandma's hazel eyes and the long blond hair she'd had in her youth, but not Grandma's wild, adventurous personality. “When are you going to get old like other self-respecting retirees?”
Her grandmother waved her hand in dismissal. “Never. Old equals dead. Besides, I'd have to buy a rocking chair and I don't even like to rock.” She grinned and gave Candace a wink. “Unless I'm rocking with George, of course.”
“Stop! Too much information.” Candace poured a tall glass of lemonade from the refrigerator and handed it to her grandmother, then pushed the container of cookies across the counter. Grandma scooped up three. Candace smiled. Grandma never could resist any of the shop's baked goodies. Every evening after work, Candace brought home a few cookies and dropped them off at her grandmother's apartment before going to her own half of the duplex they shared.
Six years ago, Candace had moved in at her grandmother's suggestion, to help save money. And, Grandma Woodrow had added, to look after her because she was getting up there in years. Candace suspected the real, unspoken reason hit a little closer to home. Grandma, who had more energy than Carrot Top on steroids, missed the echoes of other people in the house.
Candace's father, Grandma's only child, had headed for a permanent tan in Florida years earlier, making occasional seasonal visits on his way up to his summer lake cottage in New Hampshire. Candace's mother, who seemed to be trying to break Elizabeth Taylor's husband record, was always away on one honeymoon or another.
That left just Candace and Grandma Woodrow. Truth be told, Candace liked it that way, despite Grandma's habit of offering quirky advice on everything from buying watermelon—look for one that thumps when you smack it—to kissing men—look for one that doesn't smack you when you thump him.
“So, what are you girls cooking up today?” Grandma asked.
Rebecca gestured toward the trashcan. “A groom's cake. But it refused to stay up. Maybe we should have added some Viagra to the mix.”
Grandma shook half a cookie at Candace. “It's a sign.”
“I just undercooked it. It's not a sign of anything.” Candace recovered the cookies and put them away.
Grandma's face took on a stricken look. She pouted.
“Okay, two more. We need these for orders.” She peeled back the lid and held out the container. Grandma grabbed four before Candace snapped the top shut again.
“I'm an old woman,” she said. “You have to indulge me.”
Candace laughed. “You're only old when it's convenient.”
Grandma ignored her. “Are you sure Barry is your soul mate?”
Too often, they retreaded this familiar ground. Candace wanted the wedding to be over, so all of them would stop quizzing her. “Grandma, you know I don't believe in signs or soul mates or harbingers of evil. You meet a guy who doesn't have any outrageous fetishes or a criminal record, you marry him and you hope you can hang on for a few years before the lawyers start dividing the toys.”
“What about romance? True love? Undying devotion?”
“That only happens in Meg Ryan movies. Not in my life.”
Across the room, Maria and Rebecca kept mute. As the maid and matron of honor, they supported Candace marrying Barry, but both still held this deep-seated belief in love at first sight, a statistical improbability according to the article Candace had read in
Newsweek
last month.
Candace knew her friends didn't quite agree with her numerical analysis of her future. The other two lived life on the right side of their brains. Rebecca had settled down, now married and with a three-year-old. Maria had a new love of her life on a regular basis. Right now, it was David, a cute gynecologist who'd moved into Maria's condo last month and pledged his undying devotion with a pearl necklace and one-half the rent.
Candace considered herself too levelheaded to get caught up in that wine and roses stuff. At three years from turning thirty, she told herself she needed to give up on the Cinderella fantasy.
Besides, any woman who had mice for best friends was probably legally insane anyway.
Click here to purchase THE BRIDE WORE CHOCOLATE by Shirley Jump!