I wondered if it would be more of the same tonight. Judging by the cinema-worthy kiss he delivered . . . I would wager that would be a yes.
As the car crunched over the gravel driveway, I barely felt a bump—a testament to the amazing craftsmanship of the Mercedes. Lines of cars were already here, and the driveway was lit up with solar lights that led the way to their newly painted bright red door.
When I came here for the painting party, Leo and I weren’t a thing. Now we were, and were announcing it to the town. Shit, wait, what were we announcing? Were we a thing?
Leo pushed a button to shut off the car. This was some serious techno stuff—no key, just a button.
“Are you ready?” he asked, turning toward me. Tucking a strand of hair behind my ear, he twirled the end between his fingers.
“As I’ll ever be,” I answered. I moved in and gave him, one, two, three pecks on the lips.
He groaned when I finally pulled away, his lips chasing me halfway back across the console. “If I don’t get out of the car now, I’m taking you into the backseat, and I don’t care who witnesses it.”
I looked at the number of people milling about the driveway. It appeared that most of the town would be getting quite a show. “Later. I’ll make it worth your while.”
Satisfied, he adjusted himself and hopped out of the car, then circled around the front to open my door. He held out his hand and helped me out, his eyes never leaving mine.
They said so much, held so many filthy promises, that I was tempted to toss him onto the front of the car and mount him like a hood ornament.
“You’re here!” Chad shouted, coming down the stairs with two mason jars in his hands. Beautiful, fitting, and charming, they held some sort of punch with raspberries, mint, and ice floating around.
“We’re here!” I answered, as full of enthusiasm as he was. I welcomed the interruption, before we were tempted to put on an X-rated movie of Old MacDonald Had an Orgasm. A movie that, based on how good Leo was looking tonight, I’d be proud to star in.
Chad led us into the house, taking my hand as we walked through the front door. But no one was looking at his hand. No, ma’am. They were all looking at the hand that Leo had placed firmly and succinctly in the small of my back, announcing our relationship more publicly than if we’d arrived with his tongue down my throat.
Eyes widened, hands covered open mouths, and elbows jabbed to alert others. And I’m fairly certain that those who couldn’t attend were alerted via Facebook and Twitter, since people were snapping pictures of the happy couple.
The happy couple being us. Or at least one of us.
Don’t get me wrong, it was great, feeling so wanted. And Leo had no problem letting me feel just how much he wanted me. He came up behind me while Archie Bryant, fifth-generation son of the Bryant Mountain House, was telling me how much he’d enjoyed the coconut cream cake one of his chefs had purchased the other day from the diner, and he wondered if there might be an opportunity for us to work together.
An opportunity to work with the Bryant Mountain House? The place was legendary, iconic!
I nonchalantly told him yes, I’d be interested in talking about it, trying to keep from squealing. It was also hard to keep from squealing as Archie was incredibly cute. Wavy auburn hair, dancing blue eyes, and a quick smile made him easy to squeal over.
But beyond the squealing, I also had to keep from swooning, as Leo was behind me, announcing his presence with a very specific and very hard part of him pressing into my backside.
Fighting a blush, I thanked Archie for his interest and promised to go see him sometime.
Leo was good at this. I’d go left, and he was right next to me with the hand brand on my back. I’d go right and, you guessed it, he fell right into step with me. And no one was the wiser that he was rocking a silo in his pants while he was shaking hands and laughing at jokes.
This all should have annoyed me. I waited for the prickly sensation at my neck or between my shoulders when he’d run a finger down my spine . . . but it didn’t come. Only a deep desire to have him naked and underneath me at the earliest possible moment. And yeah, there was a part of me that liked being claimed so publicly too.
Feeling hot, almost feverish, I finally separated from Mr. Happy Hands to visit the ladies’ room, which was designated by chalkboard saying No Dicks Allowed. Cooling the back of my neck with a wet towel, I looked at myself in the mirror. Flushed and wild-eyed—oh, Lord, I had it bad.
And when I exited the bathroom, I stepped right into my own John Hughes movie.
There stood Leo, leaning against the wall across from me, one leg bent at the knee. His head was down, and he did a slow, knee-bucklingly sexy look up to see me. Then he kicked off from the wall and walked—no, stalked toward me like the sexiest predator you’ve ever seen.
He pinned me to the wall. To the wall! His body covered all of mine, his hips positively owning me. Just around the corner, the rest of the party was just a canapé away from finding us up against a wall and out of our minds. But with this much Leo pressed against me, it stayed on the edge of my mind. Lost in a fog of hormones and pure carnal need, I focused on Leo’s lips running up my neck as he whispered the filthiest promises I’d ever heard. Lick. Suck. Bite. Lift. Spin. Turn. Spank. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
A glass dropping startled us both and we turned our heads at the sound, the tinkling of glass followed by a muffled giggle. It was enough to snap us out of it, and we peeled ourselves off the wall and headed back to the party, where everyone seemed to know exactly what we’d been doing.
“I need a drink. You need a drink?” I asked, flustered. I needed a moment without the intoxicating Mr. Maxwell so close and under my skin. And very nearly under my dress.
He licked his lips, grinned at me, and headed into the fray to get our drinks, smiling and chatting like a pro.
Then I heard a voice that had haunted my high school days.
“Well, well, look whose back in town and turning all the heads.” Krissy Jacobson—Class President, Prom Queen, and Most Likely to Succeed at Being a Bitch for the Rest of Her Life—clicked over to me. Behind her trailed her faithful four lemmings. How many years since high school, and they still followed her like baby ducks?
I braced myself for the catty quips and jabs about High School Roxie and the backward mess that I was.
“Hi, Roxie!” Maureen chirped. She was always the friendliest of the bunch.
Loren pulled me into a hug. “It’s so great to see you!” she cheered, kissing me on the cheek before passing me on to Paula, who repeated the embrace before passing me on to Lece.
They oohed and aahed over my dress and my hair and my “sun-kissed” glow, which I’m pretty sure they all knew came from making out with Leo, not the sun. None of them had left Bailey Falls, choosing to raise their 2.5 kids here, and my head swam as they told me about their families, husbands, and kiddos.
Then they riddled me with questions about California. Did I go to the beach every day? Did the Kardashians go to my gym? Did I cook for any famous people?
I never ever cook and tell, but these were the girls who made life miserable for me back then. So I might have showed them the picture of me and Jack Hamilton, his arms around me in his kitchen, his hands full of my pound cakes. They all squealed, staring at my phone.
“And Leo . . .” Krissy let his name float out there for me to catch it.
“Yes, Leo,” I replied, sipping my drink and avoiding eye contact.
“You’re so lucky,” Lece said. “Women have been trying to snag him for years!”
I nodded, taking it all in. How invested he was in the community, how cute he was with Polly.