Page 27 of Tempting Fate
He smiled because the woman was as stubborn as he was—and as proud. So damn proud he couldn’t help but admire her. “That’s the old spirit.”
They sat there for a few seconds, her legs awkwardly splayed across the console, and it seemed like the best thing to do in that moment was kiss her. He cupped the back of her head, pulled her in, and claimed her mouth. That was the thing about Ray, she couldn’t resist a dare. And the kiss was definitely a dare.I dare you to kiss me back. And she did, long and slow, exploring his mouth with her lips and her tongue.
He tugged her in closer and took charge, letting his hands wander a little. Even through her jacket, he could feel firm breasts and the curve of her waist. If she wasn’t such a pain in the ass, he’d say she was near perfect. And a phenomenal kisser. She tasted good, too, like Mexican food, hibiscus, and her own brand of sass.
He moved over her, taking the kiss deeper, sifting his fingers through her hair. It was soft and fine and smelled like lavender. Her lips were also soft, and he liked the way she gripped his shoulders, clutching him as if she never wanted to let him go. He continued to devour her mouth and heard Raylene whimper. It took all his willpower not to take her right there, in the front of his SUV. But he heard a little voice reminding him that they were in Logan’s driveway, and that Raylene was his best friend’s sister, and he managed to pull away.
“We should probably go inside,” he said, adjusting himself.
She scrambled back to her side and opened the door before nudging her head pointedly toward his crotch, where he was so hard it hurt. “That’s for your moronic version of ‘Jolene.’ Jeez, Moretti, you know how many times I had to put up with that in junior high?” She slid out of the passenger seat, gave his package one more glance, and smirked. “Consider us even.”
He wanted to shout that he was the one who’d put the brakes on, that if it wasn’t for him she’d be on her back right now with him inside her. Sweet relief. But that would’ve been even more junior high school than his rendition of the song, so he suffered in silence.
* * * *
Raylene got through the rehearsal dinner without a drink, which was a staggering achievement. She thought Wednesday’s potluck had drained every ounce of her willpower. That night in the bathroom, she’d gone as far as to touch her mouth to the edge of the glass until wine lapped at her lips. The taste had been sweet with the promise of escape. Or better yet, oblivion. But a voice inside her head had reminded her how awful she and alcohol mixed, and the last thing she wanted to do was get drunk, make a fool out of herself, and ruin Logan and Annie’s big week. So, she’d forced herself to dump the wine down the toilet just in time for Gabe to come banging on the door.
Ninety days sober.
She wiggled her toes, hitting the iron footboard, and let her eyes adjust to the light. According to the clock on the side table, it was a hair past six o’clock. Despite growing up on a ranch, she’d never been an early riser, languishing in bed sometimes well past nine. That’s what happened when you didn’t have a job or much of a reason to get up in the morning.
She gazed around the room. The walls were a cornflower blue, the curtains a tattered sunny yellow. Rag rugs covered the floor and a chipped white French provincial dresser flanked a black salvaged fireplace mantel. Old, empty picture frames had been glued to the door. Though a hodgepodge, it somehow worked, wrapping Raylene in a great big bear hug every time she entered the room. It was all Annie. Everything her brother’s fiancée did was done with love. Raylene had never known anyone like her.
Growing up, Raylene’s mother had hired a legion of decorators in their mammoth log home on the ranch. Custom cabinetry, marble countertops, handmade linens, museum-quality Navajo rugs, and Olaf Wieghorst paintings. Everything top-of-the-line, because Ray had to have the best.
If I wanted cheap I would’ve married a whore, then at least the sex would be good.
Her father had been a real class act. Raylene’s mother should’ve told him to go to hell and back, but she was Ray’s personal servant. Raylene couldn’t blame her, because she’d also done Ray’s bidding no matter how morally bankrupt it was. Whatever Ray wanted, Ray got. She’d once seen a documentary about Jim Jones, and icy fingers had crawled up her spine because she understood with such frightening clarity why all those people had blindly taken their own lives in his name. She understood because for her entire life she’d belonged to the cult of Ray Rosser.
And when it came time for her to build her own house with Butch in Denver, she’d followed the same philosophy. Bigger is better, glitzy is glamorous.
In the end, both houses had been soulless mausoleums, so cold and loveless they made you feel frozen inside. All the money in the world couldn’t buy what Annie had accomplished with a full heart and few trips to a thrift store. A real home.
Raylene stretched, threw her legs over the side of the bed, and padded to the window. The sun had barely risen, but it looked like a promising day. Not the summer wedding Annie had wanted, but clear and breathtakingly beautiful. Even as an indulged girl who thought she was too good for a railroad town in the middle of nowhere, Raylene had known these mountains were special. Even magical.
Pressed against the glass, she wished Gunner was here and she could take him for a ride across the fields and up the hills. But Gunner was in Colorado and Raylene had a wedding to attend. A wedding that started in less than eight hours.
She showered, dressed, and made her way downstairs. Logan’s truck was gone and Raylene figured he and Annie were already at the Lumber Baron in town, making sure everything was in order for the ceremony. Chad and Annie’s parents appeared to still be sleeping and the Winnebago was dark.
Perfect. She could slip out without being noticed. Five minutes later, she was cruising down the highway with Carrie Underwood singing about bashing out her cheating man’s headlights with a Louisville slugger and hummed along. It had been a while, but she found Donner Road without any trouble and climbed the steep grade. A recollection of her and Lucky parked up here in the woods, the windshield of his old rusty truck fogged from their make-out sessions, flitted through her head. Their adolescent kisses had been sweet and clumsy—nothing like Gabe’s. The man was too practiced for his own good and had gotten her hot and bothered. She wouldn’t let that happen again. As far as reminiscing about Lucky, she quickly shut it down. She didn’t deserve a walk down memory lane.
She deserved nothing.
The driveway was a craggy mess from last week’s snow and she slowly nosed down, careful not to get stuck in a rut. There was a spot next to Gabe’s SUV and she slid in, surprised to find him awake, lifting weights on his front porch. She sat awhile, watching his muscles bunch as he hefted what had to be at least three hundred pounds. His skin glistened with sweat and a picture of him kissing her, the way his hands had deftly moved over her breasts, popped into her head.Stop it!
She hadn’t been with a man since Butch, who never made it past the eight-second bell anyway, and she told herself that was the only reason Gabe had affected her like he did. With abstinence from sexandalcohol, she was simply hard up. Then she took another look at Gabe, shirtless, muscles flexing under all that golden skin, and knew she was a big fat liar.
He put the barbell down and came over to her truck and motioned for her to unroll the window, which she did. “Hey, Ray, here for a booty call?”
For a second, she feared that he’d read her mind. “I came for coffee. You better have some, Moretti.”
He eyed her for a second, opened the door, and waved his arm for her to get out. “I could probably make that happen.”
She skipped down from the running board and felt the morning chill bite through her jeans. “Aren’t you freezing?”
“Nope.”
The man thought he was a superhero, working out in twenty-degree weather.
