Sweet on You (The Wilde Sisters #1)
Read Sweet on You (The Wilde Sisters #1) Online
Authors: Marianne Rice
Sweet On You
The Wilde Sisters, Book 1
Marianne Rice
Sweet on You
Copyright © 2015 by Marianne Rice.
All rights reserved.
First Print Edition: January 2016
Limitless Publishing, LLC
Kailua, HI 96734
Formatting: Limitless Publishing
ISBN-13: 978-1-68058-468-4
ISBN-10: 1-68058-468-5
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to locales, events, business establishments, or actual persons—living or dead—is entirely coincidental.
Dedication
For my baby sister. You’ll always be the youngest and I’ll always be the middle, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. Smooches.
Table of Contents
Trent
“There’s no way in hell I’m making good on this freakin’ bet.” Trent Kipson glared at his best friend over the rim of his glass and chugged the rest of his beer.
“Dude. You lost. Man up. Pay up.” His best friend Brian Smart, who he’d been making ridiculous bets with for the past twenty years, laughed and tilted his glass back.
“Seriously, Bri. This has to be the dumbest bet you’ve ever come up with. Consider yourself disowned.” Trent signaled the bartender, who immediately filled another mug with Guinness and slid it across the bar.
“You’re the idiot who agreed to it. I told you you’d be hit on before you finished your first beer. It’s not my fault you’re—” A blonde college girl with mountains of perky boob busting out of her low-cut shirt sidled in between them, interrupting Brian.
“Hey, aren’t you that guy? Like the Cake Boss or something?”
Trent scowled at Brian. Now would be the perfect time to strangle his brother-in-law.
“No.” He gritted his teeth and pried his eyes from the cavern of cleavage she flaunted.
“Yeah, you are. My roommates and I saw you on TV last week. You’re even cuter in person,” she drawled, running her nails down his arm. “Care to come on over to our table? Next round’s on me.”
He never thought he’d grow tired of the song and dance of a woman hitting on him, but the past month had tried his patience.
Brian snorted, making Trent regret coaxing him into a guys’ night out. Ever since his fifteen minutes of fame last month, Trent had been inundated at the bakery. Who knew that a quick write-up in a paper and a mug shot of him decorating a celebrity wedding cake would go viral? The world was a strange place. Between the articles in
Yankee
and a few other high-end magazines in the New England area, and the airtime on the local news channels, he hadn’t had much time for hanging out with the guys—or girls.
At first Trent was uncomfortable being in the spotlight, but when a producer from the Cooking Network contacted him last week about a possible job in California, he’d nearly fallen into the third tier of the McKennys’ wedding cake. He’d be able to pay off his sister’s medical school bills and crawl out from his own debt.
Social media had its perks.
“Whatdayasay?” The blonde stroked his cheek with one of her long talons, bringing him back to the present.
“Um, sorry. I’ve got plans tonight.” He smiled and turned on his barstool to face the rows of liquor bottles behind the bar, signaling his disinterest. The girl huffed and marched off.
“I take back what I said last night about you and the ladies. You haven’t a clue.”
“I’m glad you’re having so much fun with my fifteen minutes of fame, Bri.”
“I hear your name’s trending on Twitter.”
“Shut the hell up and finish your beer. The game’s starting soon.”
“Wanna make another bet on how long it will take for another desperate publicity-seeker to hit on you at the stadium? Let’s see…the blonde was the third in…” Brian checked his watch. “…the twenty minutes we’ve been here. I wager you won’t make it to the opening pitch before some chick recognizes you.”
“Forget it, wiseass. No more bets.”
“Don’t be such a sore loser. I didn’t cry last week when I had to hose down the fire truck in my boxers.”
Trent rolled his eyes. “I beat you to the top of the mountain because you’re a pansy ass. It’s not my fault you were stupid enough to challenge me while breaking in a new pair of hiking boots. I, however, had no control over this bet. I can’t help it if the ladies love me.” He grinned.
“Ah, you’re paying up, Kipson. I’m gonna
love
watching this one,” Brian said, slapping down a few bills on the bar.
No, Trent would not allow Brian to watch him pay his dues. It was going to be embarrassing enough as it was. God help him.
***
Rayne
Rayne Wilde cranked up the music and tightened the elastic that held her thick, long hair off her neck. Ever since opening
In Motion
two years ago, her life had been a constant whirlwind of accounting, decorating, and choreography. Her early morning workouts were the few hours during the day when she could ignore the business side of owning her own fitness studio and do what she enjoyed: socializing and exercising.
Gleaming hardwood floors, enormous windows, rows of mirrors on brightly painted walls, and themed workout rooms made the studio fun, fresh, and hip. The Zumba room was her favorite. Zebra prints hung on a bright pink wall while three paler pink walls were decked out with inspirational sayings. Nothing calming in this room. Save that for yoga and Pilates.
Running her own business entailed so much paperwork and organizing, and thankfully her older sister, Sage, had good business sense and helped her with the spreadsheets and taxes. Her younger sister, Thyme, taught kickboxing and filled in at the front desk when Rayne was in a jam.
Her sisters rocked. And hopefully someday soon Rayne would have her own little family to dote on, to love and play with. Something she and her sisters grew up without. She may be only twenty-eight, but if she wanted a huge family, she needed to find the right man, Mr. Perfect, her soul mate.
Neil and Suzie Wilde never intended to have children, their
mistakes
happening when they were in their late thirties and early forties and already too invested in their own life to sacrifice anything for their three daughters. Rayne had been playing house and looking to settle down since she graduated from high school. Hopefully the man of her dreams would walk into her life soon and make all her fantasies come true. As if.
The six a.m. class filled up quickly. Monday mornings were typically the smallest class, but Tuesday through Saturday made up for the slower day. This Tuesday was no different. She hummed and wiggled as she went through the playlist for the class. Last week the girls were complaining about bathing suit season coming full-force this year. It was only early June, and Maine had been hit with three major heat waves already.
Pleased with her playlist and the two new songs and routines she worked on over the weekend, Rayne connected her iPod to the surround sound and Beyoncé echoed off the walls. Soon the room filled with tired moms, college girls home for the summer, and a few thirty-somethings still searching for Mr. Wonderful. Just like her.
“’Kay ladies, you ready to burn some love handles? Tighten those butts? Rock those abs?” Rayne shouted above the music. “Let’s get our groove on! I’ve mixed some old with the new. We’ll start with our familiar stretching, though. Let’s move!” She clapped her hands and turned to face the mirrors so the twenty-four women could copy her motions. They danced to Taylor Swift and bounced and boxed to Rihanna before she allowed them a quick water break.
While the class gathered their breath, she stayed in front of the mirrored wall and gyrated her hips. “All right, girls. It’s booty time.” Rayne pulled in her belly button and swirled her hips to the left and then to the right. “This next routine is new. I want to see you work that booty of yours just like this.” She counted the beat and showed them the one, two, three-thrust, one, two, three-thrust, and added four squats.
After repeating the routine twice, she unpaused the music and made eye contact with the women through the mirror. “Ready to—”
A new addition to her class stood out like…like a hot guy in a Zumba class. Normally she was aware when someone came in late, but she had been concentrating on her new routine and didn’t see the man with the short, sandy brown hair and delicious five o’clock shadow in the back of the room arrive.
“Welcome.” She plastered on a bright smile. “If you can’t keep up with the class, it’s okay. As long as your body is in motion and you’re having fun, you’re doing it right.” She clapped her hands and danced her way through Katy Perry, doing her best to keep her mind on the next steps and not the handsome man’s eyes on her spandex-clad butt.
***
Trent
The rat bastard was going to die. And Trent was going to enjoy killing him. Losing a bet was one thing, having to endure two weeks of Zumba—whatever the hell that was—with a room full of soccer moms was another.
His gym in the Old Port offered girly classes like this, but there was no way in hell he could show his face there. He figured going to a place on the other side of town and signing up for an early morning class would be his best way to avoid his usual crowd. The guys he knew wouldn’t be caught dead here, and the girls he dated would never wake up this early in the morning.
Not that he knew first-hand. Trent didn’t do sleepovers, partly because he was used to waking up at the crack of dawn to start the baking, and mostly because he didn’t do relationships. And the best way to avoid commitments was to be one hundred percent up front with the women he dated.
After avoiding conversation and eye contact with the young girl at the reception desk, making no apology for being late to the class, he trudged toward the music. Trent could feel his manhood shrinking at the sound of a woman hollering directions over the chick music. He felt sorry for his sister, who would soon be a widow but, best friend or not, there was no way in hell Brian would ever live to see the light of another day.
The room screamed high-maintenance diva with its pink glow and girly script on the wall. And was that vanilla he smelled? It was one of Trent’s favorite scents, but not for a gym. Where was the sweat, the grunting, the AC/DC, the clank of weights and dumbbells?
Slipping in at the back of the room, he gawked at the crowd of women. They ranged from young to old, thin to slightly overweight. The younger women turned toward him and made no attempt to hide their surprise at his presence. An obvious party crasher, Trent was insecure for the first time in…ever.
The woman upfront hollering out directions was obviously the instructor. Lost in her element, she moved like no one was watching, the world her stage. The music suddenly stopped and the women flowed like synchronized swimmers to their water bottles, which rested on the strategically placed shelves on the walls.
He watched the instructor with the hot body do an erotic dance solely for him. Okay, maybe it wasn’t supposed to be erotic and maybe it wasn’t just for him, but it sure as hell felt that way. She wasn’t the anorexic bimbo he imagined the instructor looking like. This woman was tall and fit, her thighs were strong, her arms sculpted, and her butt...
H-o-l-y crap
. He could definitely bounce a quarter off her beautiful, curvaceous backside. It was as smooth as the fondant he fitted over the mayor’s birthday cake. It wasn’t his fault she called attention to it. Didn’t she just ask the class to watch her “booty”?
The instructor’s hair swayed with her moves. He could imagine wrapping his hand around it and pulling her head back as he explored her neck. Trent couldn’t make out her facial features too well from the back of the room, but he knew she wasn’t ugly. No, a woman with a sweet, yet authoritative voice and a body that could grace the cover of the swimsuit edition of
Sports Illustrated
had to have at least passable looks.
And then she turned.
Passable my ass.
The woman was flawless. A huge smile enhanced her cheekbones and somehow made her eyes larger instead of smaller as she welcomed him to class. Trent had suddenly died and gone to Zumba heaven.
Damn.
He needed to redirect his one-track mind before he tented his shorts. The next forty-five minutes dragged on as he awkwardly tried to mimic her moves, imagining them alone, bodies melded, doing a private dance of their own.
***
Rayne
As expected, the moms sped off to return home to their children and spouses and the single women flocked to the newcomer. Rayne pretended to ignore the excitement as she drank her water and dried her face on her towel. It would be rude of her not to introduce herself to her newest and unexpected student, although he was probably gay. Straight men never came into her studio unless they were picking up their wife or girlfriend.
Wiping her hand on her towel, she smiled and walked over to the poor man. The women obviously hadn’t figured out he played for the other team and were making spectacles of themselves, touching his arms and sticking their chests out like peacocks showing off their feathers.
“Sorry to put an end to the social hour, ladies, but the next class is due in ten minutes and I need to Swiffer the floors. You sticking around to help clean up?” She smiled as Zoe, the leader of the group of college girls already bored during their summer vacation, fled first. The other women slouched as if defeated and walked off as well. “So.” Rayne turned to the hunky man with incredible calves and stretched out her hand. “I’m Rayne Wilde. What did you think of the class?”
“Good.” The man’s gaze darted everywhere except at her, obviously expecting her to hit on him too. Finally noticing her hand, he stuck his out and made contact, sending rivers of electric lust through her body.