Page 46 of Brewing Temptation

Once my skirt was safely tucked under my legs, he offered a small smile and an equally small nod before carefully closing my door. My mouth went dry, eyes locked firmly on the car parked beside us to avoid looking at his face as he rounded the hood. I blew out a long, steadying breath, beating the flame of arousal to death as quickly as I could. Simple chivalry was not enough to undo my resolve. Especially not for Jameson—the grouch—Rhodes. If I sucked down a breath and then held it when he turned on the heat in the cab, would that save me from having to smell him? Because Lord knows pheromones and basic masculine kindness could not be combined without an implosion of my willpower. Because that’s all that was. Basic, human—

“You alright?”

I cleared my throat, forcing myself to meet his concerned eyes as he hovered precariously in his door. “Yeah, just tired.”

He nodded, as though that was a perfectly adequate explanation as he took his place in the truck. When the engine rumbled to life, it was accompanied by Blake Shelton and Gwen Stefani’s “Nobody But You”, and I quirked my head.

“Not a country fan?” He asked, hand halfway to the radio dial like he’d change it if it irritated me. Hell, Eric never even bothered to ask.

“No, I am. I just…didn’t think you’d be that kind of guy.”

“What kind of guy is that?”

“Homegrown hero, hound dog on the front porch, little pregnant, barefoot blonde in the kitchen kinda guy.”

He laughed, turning the song up, throwing the truck in reverse, and stretching his arm behind the back of my seat. The bastard had rolled his sleeves up, just below the elbow, freeing his gloriously inked skin. Like Rhyett, the tattoos on Jameson all spoke stories of the sea and mountains—stories of Mistyvale, I realized now. Unlike his brother, his ink came clear down to his wrist. Those gorgeously corded forearms, the scent of him filling the cab, the casual ease in his body as he maneuvered his truck…any one part of Jameson was enough to make the best woman question her sensibilities. Combining them? For crying out loud, I needed to get the hell out of this truck. Riding in the back would be wiser, if I wasn’t going to freeze to death between the restaurant and the house. Sex appeal was not enough to outweigh the fact that we drove each other absolutely crazy.Was it?Of course not.Wait, was it?

Jesus, Noel.

He cleared his throat. “And if I told you I had been exactly that kind of man?”

“I’d emphasize the past tense and ask for an explanation.”

“Hmmph.” He scowled out the front window, removing his hand from behind my head to shift, and then having the fudging audacity to put it back. Like he didn’t know, or planned to exploit, the effect that had on my body.

“Got more than a grunt in there on that one?”

“Nope.”

“You’re the one that brought it up.”

“Hypothetical.”

“Mine wasn’t.” I tried to picture natural disasters, tried to remember that this man had basically done nothing but insult my taste since I’d arrived on the island. But my very lonely lady parts were feeling things they absolutely shouldn’t feel around anything remotely resembling a bad boy or black sheep. That would be a drastic over-correction to the posh and polished dick weasel next-in-line to a family empire I’d just escaped. “Come on, Jameson. Why was it past tense?”

“Things change.”

“Things like…?” I fished, but he just deadpanned, as though it was ridiculous to ask, and turned up the music. He had clearly baited me with that, and for what? Irritation poked my traitorous vagina in a sharp reminder of the level of hell-no we should feel around Jameson Rhodes, the whiplash-inducing yoyo of the dirty dozen. If Axel rolled up the windows and cranked the heater with a good country song, would my blood thrum for him, too? Or was I damned to be attracted to theGrinch’sof the world?

I was still mentally berating my terrible taste in men when Jameson pulled onto our black gravel road, the crunch under our tires oddly satisfying as he eased toward the house, his scowl still firmly in place.

So, I was a little startled when he turned the music down and blurted out, “Her name was Stephanie.”

I blinked, turning toward him fast enough it shot a stab of pain up my neck. Wincing, I closed my eyes and rubbed at my spine, then jaw, opening them to see amusement playing on his mouth. Listen, in no world should I drink tequila and champagne and then stare at Jameson’s mouth.

“What?”

“The reason for the past tense.”

“Was named Stephanie?”

“My pregnant blonde in the kitchen fantasy.”

“What happened?” I asked as he pulled into his driveway.

“My entire football team.”

“What?” My eyebrows and hairline may or may not have kissed, secondhand humiliation burning my cheeks.

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