Page 37 of Dahlia Made A List

I’d come out here to The Royal to work on the Firebird and forget about last night. About the way Dahlia looked in her yoga pants and T-shirt. About how much I liked having my hands on her. And most of all, forget about the way her lips softened beneath my own. The honey sweetness of her mouth, the velvet caress of her tongue sliding against mine. The way her breath hitched when I gave her a second to breathe.

But I couldn’t concentrate on the car when I couldn’t stop thinking about her. I’d speculated about her since day one. More since we’d made our bargain of driving lessons in exchange for her cooking experiments. But yesterday, seeing her fierce determination to succeed in the tryouts, taking in her joy when she understood she’d done well. Add that to her closeness during dinner, and my fuckin’ my resistance had been nonexistent. When she leaned in for a perfectly innocent kiss to my cheek, I couldn’t leave it alone. I’d had to taste her.

And now I had oil all over my pristine garage floor, my shirt, my skin.

And it did nothing to smother the memory of her bee-stung lips. Her blue-gray eyes, bright and round and sucking me in.

I’d seen her in everything from flippy little skirts and ultra-feminine lacy dresses to denim shorts and halter tops, but last night’s soft yoga pants and falling-off-her-shoulder shirt wrecked me. Loose and gaping away from her chest enough I could see the shadow between her breasts. The way the pants followed the shape of her ass had my dick at full attention as though I’d sat down in front of live action porn, instead of a hockey game on mute.

The little wet swirls of hair along her nape sent a tightness through my chest I couldn’t shake. And when she settled down beside me at the coffee table, her fresh-from-the-shower scent overwhelmed the smells of the meal she’d cooked. I wanted to shove my face against the curve of her neck and inhale every bit of her in. Or pull her into my lap and lick every inch of her, which I’d damn near done in the end.

But Dahlia Whitcombe wasn’t meant for me. She wanted a family. Promises I could never make. And despite the way her lips softened under mine last night, and the way her body leaned into mine, making my gut seize up and my jaw pull tight, she’d made it clear jumping into bed with me wasn’t on herlist.

I shucked my shirt and undershirt, tossing them aside to deal with another time, and headed bare-chested out to the Silverado. A minute of rifling through the back rewarded me with a wrinkled green and blue flannel, which would have to do. I was still buttoning up the front when Millsy’s dark grey E-Class pulled to a halt beside my truck.

“Knew I’d find you out here.” She nodded toward the open garage. “Working on the Firebird and ignoring your cell?”

My phone sat in the cup holder in the truck. “Had work to do.”

“Is that your way of telling me to get lost?”

I stepped to the bed of my truck, flipped up the lid of the cooler and pulled out a couple bottles of water. Passing one to Millsy, I twisted open the other and sucked back a swallow of icy liquid.

My fussy cousin held the sweaty plastic bottle in front of her as though the droplets would burn her skin like acid. She was just like my brother and the rest of the cousins. Suited up in a custom wardrobe as though donning battle gear and heading to war, even on a sunny Saturday in the peace and calm of Weston Mill. “It’s water, Millsy. Pretty sure it won’t burn through your clothes and contaminate you.”

She rolled her eyes, but twisted her own cap off and pretended like the rivulets of perspiration weren’t driving her crazy. I narrowed my gaze on her. She hadn’t come out here for a friendly visit.

“The Firebird is sure lookin’ fine. Granddad would be proud.”

“Yup.”

She stared into the garage, her fingers clenching around the water bottle until the plastic crinkled under her hold. I sucked back another swallow. I could wait her out, let her get to her point, but the sun was bearing down on us and this flannel was getting hot. I pushed away from the truck and strode into the shade of the garage. “Spill it, Millsy. What are you doing out here?”

“Mom and Grams want you to come to Sunday dinner.”

“Forget it.” I tossed my empty bottle into the trash and stalked over to the side of the Firebird. I stepped on the end of the creeper, rolling it into position so I could slide back under the car.

“I don’t see why you don’t want to come. It’s been months since you came out to Pop’s place.”

“Not long enough.”

“Jasper’s gonna be there. You know he’ll have your back. And me, of course.”

I didn’t need anyone to have my back. Made my peace with my place in the family years ago. Being the family outcast had its perks. Like missing these family dinners and no one being surprised. But for Millsy to make the effort to come all the way out here, there had to be more to the invitation than she’d said.

“Fess up, Millsy. What gives?”

She sighed, spun on her shiny heel and leaned against the nearest metal and wood workbench. “Grams and Aunt Steph cornered me this morning down at Sugar Squared. Made me swear to track you down and twist your arm into coming tomorrow.”

“What’s so important they want me there all of a sudden?” I’d been denying these invitations for months. I only caved and made an appearance when Grams created a stink. In the past, she’d always done the harassing herself, though. She’d never sent Millsy.

Millsy played with the label wrapping her water bottle. “I guess Pop and Junior and Jasper are all going to be here this weekend. Along with all the rest of the brood. Aunt Steph said your brother would be coming, my mother, of course, and sister and brother and all their little hoodlums.”

On the positive side, with such a houseful, it would be easy to get lost in the crowd. On the flip side, it would be more pitying looks. But I did like Millsy’s nieces and nephews. My own brother hadn’t deigned to marry yet, much less procreate, despite my mother’s concerted effort to pair him up. She’d lost out in the race to grandchildren's stakes, as much as she had with the kids to be proud of competition. Waylon’s successes couldn’t outshine the embarrassment of an illiterate son. Guilt chipped away at my resolve.

“What time?”

Millsy leapt away from the bench and flung her arms around me, squeezing tight. “Yes! Thank you, thank you, thank you, Wy!” She did her best to rock us back and forth. “Grams bet me a pair of Prada slingbacks I wouldn’t convince you.”

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