It’s never too late to make the best impulsive decision of your life.
Jo Masters isn’t the party girl she used to be, but now that she’s a woman without obligations, she’s
ready to recapture a little of her misspent youth. Her niece’s wedding, with its open bar and dark dance
floor, proves to be the perfect opportunity to let loose.
Gregory Stark is just trying to make it through his son’s wedding day... and make some time with the
gorgeous brunette on the bride’s side of the aisle. His kid’s wedding probably isn’t the best occasion to
put the moves on the sexy woman, who introduces herself only as ‘Josie’, but his best friend is closing in
on her too and he has to act fast. With a couple of tequila shots under his belt, Greg propositions Josie --
and neither wants to refuse.
SNEAK PEAK!
The line at the bar
wasn’t long, but she needed a drink--a real drink--and she needed it fast. Jo
twirled her empty champagne flute and tapped her toe as the DJ made a
cringe-worthy segue between Louis Armstrong and Pink. A pang of regret tweaked
her stomach when she spotted her eldest brother, Tony, leading his baby girl
from the dance floor, but that was nothing new. She’d suffered so many pangs in
her life they’d become a part of her autonomic system. Breathe in, breathe out,
pang. Blink, sniffle, sneeze, pang. Go to bed alone--again--pang!
At the tender age of
twenty-six, her niece had managed to accomplish everything Jo never had. Kaylin
had a career, a home of her own, and a man she loved so much she actually
glowed. Literally glowed. Jo hadn’t known such a glow since her mother stopped
slathering her sunburns in Noxzema.
Radiant happiness was
enough to drive a woman to drink.
Three groomsmen
bellied up to the bar and jockeyed for position in front of the pretty blond
bartender. Their voices rose as they trumped each other’s orders. Each
successive suggestion was an obvious attempt to prove the issuer was more
worldly, and therefore manly, than the last. The misguided boys must have believed
their ability to chug grain alcohol might make or break their chance at ending
the evening in the poor girl’s bed. The bartender eyed them with hardly-contained
disdain. The posturing little pricks didn’t notice. Jo couldn’t help but smile
when the girl rolled her eyes and went back to stacking glassware.
What little buzz Jo
had managed to eke out of two glasses of table wine and a flute of champagne
began to wane. She considered goosing one of the guys to shock him into gear,
but then another tuxedo-clad man, murmuring quiet excuses, slipped in front of
her. The groomsmen jumped when the newcomer gripped their padded shoulders.
“Three beers for these
guys, please. Give them the imported stuff.” Casually, he stuffed a twenty-dollar
bill into the pitcher serving as a tip jar. “Having fun, fellas?”
The groomsmen replied
in the affirmative, but their cheeks glowed pink. Bravado squelched, they
grabbed their beers and beat a hasty retreat. The hero of the hour turned to
face Jo. Recognition kicked in. Saliva pooled in her mouth and a tingle of
awareness prickled the fine hairs at her nape. Her savior was none other than
the father of the groom. It took a fraction of a second for her brain to source
the pertinent facts Kaylin had imparted on Ben’s father. Gregory. Greg.
Divorced, devoted dad, and hot as Hades on a summer day. Confronted with him
now, Jo was happy to confirm the acute case of the bright shinies hadn’t skewed
her niece’s powers of observation. Gregory Stark was all that and more.
He’d sneaked glances at her all through
the ceremony. Now, he grinned right at her. “Good to know I’ve still got it.”
His dark eyes glinted
with amusement. She wasn’t sure if he was referring to his ability to
circumvent a bar line, or the fact that she’d been unable to resist returning
every one of the furtive glances he’d tossed her way. Jo decided to play it
neutral.
Rolling her parched
tongue up off the carpet, she nodded the approbation he was obviously seeking.
“Effective.”
No lie. He was the
most attractive man she’d laid eyes on in forever. Which made perfect sense in
a bizarre Karmic way. Of course she had to meet this man after she’d poked a
nail through her last pair of control-top pantyhose.
Still, there was no
reason she couldn’t catalog every bit of him for later use. With a practiced
eye, she gauged him to be a few years older than her. Her guess put him
somewhere in his mid-fifties. Unlike most men, he hadn’t packed on any extra
cushioning for the slide into the AARP years. He was tall and lean, his
movements as taut and compelling as the lines bracketing his eyes and those
sculpted lips. His jaw was smooth and shiny, clean-shaven, but the shadow of a
heavy beard loomed below the surface. Jo wanted to know what else he kept
hidden under the slick exterior.
He’d been seated in
the front pew at the ceremony beside his ex-wife and her husband. Jo wondered
what he’d done to earn ex status. For the life of her, she couldn’t imagine any
woman willingly giving this man up for the paunchy redhead who’d taken his
place.
He nodded toward the
array of bottles behind the bar. “Champagne?”
“God, no.” The
response was automatic. She hated champagne. Pure desperation forced her to
resort to the glass poured for the toasts because the dinner wine was long
gone. Now he was offering her more. The sparkling wine seemed an apt choice for
him. He looked like Cary Grant, what with the wings of silver in his dark hair,
the crinkly brown eyes sparkling with mischief, and the tuxedo. Maybe he was
offering her champagne because Cary Grant would offer her champagne. Cary would
call her “darling.” Would Gregory Stark call her “darling?”
Something tugged at
her fingers. She stared in rapt fascination as he removed the forgotten flute
from her hand and placed it on the bar. “Oh. No. No more champagne.” She
managed a weak twitch of her lips. “Thank you.”
A proprietary hand
landed in the small of her back. Jo surrendered to the gentle pressure, closing
her eyes and imagining the pads of his fingers to be electrodes. Sparks sizzled
along her spine. He spread his fingers wide as he drew alongside her at the
bar. Arousal swept through her like a hot flash. Unlike those endless minutes
of core meltdown, this heat wasn’t something to be endured. His touch was a
treat to be savored. She opened her eyes and found him staring at her, his lips
parted and his eyes shining bright.
“What’ll it be, then?”
“Tequila. Three
shots.”
The answer popped out
before her brain engaged. It was a ghost from her past. A remnant of the
reckless youth she’d left buried under a pile of soul-crushing responsibility.
“Whoa. Three?” He
craned his neck and scanned the room. “Maybe I should get one of the younger
guys back.”
Once upon a time,
three was her magic number. The key to managing everything life had thrown at
her. Good and bad. The magic of three stopped being effective not long after
she’d turned thirty--a bitter disappointment she’d never managed to reconcile
with herself. Turns out, fate had her number in another way.
Well, screw fate.
She’d played the good girl long enough. Emboldened by the wine and the heat of
his hand scorching her back, she looked him square in the eye. “I have no use
for boys, thankyouverymuch. Don’t
worry. It’s okay if you can’t keep up. I won’t think less of you.”
He laughed. Not a
chuckle or a chortle, but a deep, rumbling, full-throated guffaw that wrapped
itself around her and drew her closer still. Or maybe he pulled her in with his
hand. Either way, she was within sniffing distance, so she took a hit. Pure
man. No flowery cologne masked the warm and musky mix of soap, shaving cream,
and some kind of whiskey. Thank God.
“Set ’em up,” he told
the bartender.
The girl lined six
tiny glasses along the side rail. Pale amber liquid dribbled onto the bar when
she moved from glass to glass. She piled wedges of lime on a napkin and plunked
a saltcellar beside it. The furrow of concentration between the bartender’s
over-tweezed eyebrows smoothed when Greg shoved another bill into the tip jar.
His hand fell away
from Jo’s back as they moved to the side of the bar. She kept her gaze
purposefully averted, trying not to pout over the loss. She raised one of the
shot glasses in silent salute then downed the tequila without benefit of salt
and lime.
The alcohol blazed a
trail of fire in her throat. Jo gave her head a toss to soothe the burn. The
frank admiration in her companion’s gaze made her pussy tingle with arousal.
Her body’s response to this gorgeous stranger startled her. Deep in her heart,
she feared she was past all desire.
He leaned in closer. “What’s
your name?”
The answer leapt to
her tongue, but she bit it back. For one night, this night with this man, she
didn’t want to be sad old Aunt Jo. She wanted to be the woman she’d been back
in the days before she had to be seated with one of her cousins to round out a
table. She wanted to be the girl who thought she had all the time in the world.
Fixing Kaylin’s new
father-in-law with a bold stare, she raised a challenging eyebrow. “Jose.”
“As in Cuervo?”
“Exactly.” When he
opened his mouth again, she held up one hand and dredged up the name she used
in those wild days of time and tequila. “But you can call me Josie.”
He blinked once then
cocked his head, studying her for one long moment. He reached for a glass. The
wry twist of his lips told her he was certain she’d given him a fake name, but
he didn’t seem to care too terribly much. He eyed her over the rim of the tiny
glass. “Nice to meet you, Josie. I’m Greg.”
Silver cufflinks
flashed as he tossed the shot back. He chased the booze with a low growl. A
golden drop clung to his upper lip. Jo wiped it away with the pad of her thumb
but froze as she pulled away. They stared at one another, arrested by her sheer
audacity. Mortification set the tips of her ears on fire. She tried to finish
her retreat, but he captured her wrist.
“Thank you.” He gave her
a gentle squeeze. “Tell me, Josie, are you a pussycat?”
Jo laughed. And, damn,
it felt good. She was flirting with a handsome man, and he was flirting back
with enthusiasm. Quite a rush for a woman long out of practice. She swallowed
the lump in her throat and lowered her gaze along with her wayward hand,
wondering if her rusty skills were obvious.
“Uh-uh. Don’t try to
play shy with me now,” he admonished. When she didn’t respond, he leaned close.
His breath stirred her hair and tickled her ear. “You’re the most intriguing
woman here, and you damn well know it.”
Pleasure ran warm and
thick in her veins. Jo closed her eyes, giving herself over to the vague pain
of her nipples tightening and the quickening of her pulse. “Do I?”
“I noticed you in the
church.”
A shiver tripped along
her spine. She tipped her head, surrendering to the moist caress of his breath.
“You did?”
“I couldn’t stop looking
at you.”
Though she’d noticed,
the bold confession still stunned her. In the way of women too used to being
invisible, she’d denied the tingle of knowledge. Hard to believe a man so
handsome might find her attractive. For too long she’d played the part of plain
old Aunt Jo.
“I can’t stop looking
at you now.” The husky admission pried her eyes open. “I had to find you.”
The urgency in his
tone gave her the boost she needed. Oh, how she wanted to be Josie with the
tequila shots once more. With him. For him. Flashing a sly glance, she reached
for a second tiny glass. “And now you have.”
He snatched a glass
from the bar and touched the rim to hers. His gaze bore into her, unwavering
and intense. “And now I have.”
Purchase the Book
About the Author
.jpg)
Maggie Wells is a deep-‐down dirty girl with a weakness
for hot heroes and happy endings. By day she is buried in spreadsheets, but at night she pens tales of
people tangling up the sheets. The product of a charming rogue and a shameless flirt, this mild-
‐mannered married lady has a naughty streak a mile wide.
Fueled by supertankers of Diet Coke, Maggie juggles fictional romance and the real deal by keeping her
slow- ‐talking Southern gentleman constantly amused and their two grown children mildly embarrassed.
Connect with Maggie
.jpg)