“One of the guys lent me his car.” Leaning back, he dug into the bag for another carton of fries.
“How many of those have you had?”
“This is my second super-sized helping.”
“Maybe we should get your cholesterol checked.”
He laughed. “Are you worried about my weight?”
She slid her gaze down his body, and he could tell by the way she sucked her bottom lip into her mouth and how her eyes dilated that she liked what she saw.
“You know damn well you don’t have a weight problem,” she finally said. “You don’t have an ounce of fat on you, you lucky bastard. Your body couldn’t get more perfect.”
“It’s the salt.” She sighed and stared at the fries, clearly wrestling with herself. After a moment, she grabbed the carton and dug in, and then let out a hum of pleasure that rocked through him.
He grinned. “Yeah?”
“Oh, yeah.” She licked her fingers. “Almost as good as an orgasm.”
He stared at her mouth. “Baby, nothing’s as good as an orgasm.”
“French fries are,” she said firmly. “Well, mostly.” She sighed. “Honestly, it’s been so long I can’t remember. French fries might actually be better.”
“Aw, now you’re just daring me to remind you how good it was in that Atlanta elevator.”
She slid him an assessing gaze. “You’re fishing.”
He smiled. “Guilty.”
“Are you that insecure about your manhood?”
“Yeah. Reassure me.”
She just shook her head.
With a grin, he patted the grass next to him, wanting her to sit with him, to just relax. Be.
Make him laugh some more.
Her black suit was dressier than her earlier one, the skirt shorter, the heels higher and strappy and pretty much blowing his mind as she shook her head and gestured to her hem. “I can’t get down there without flashing everybody.”
Probably true. He eyed the few people wandering around, then got to his feet, took off his jacket, and held it around her.
She hesitated. “We should go back inside.”
“Is there still fish in there?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Then not yet. Come on, sit.”
“You have another phone number written on your hand.”
“The server at McDonald’s. You weren’t there to protect me.”
She rolled her eyes, then let him guide her down to the grass, cocking her head to look into his eyes. “Red meat agrees with you.”
“I know it. Other things agree with me. Want to guess what any of them are?”
“Ha,” she said. “And no. I don’t need to guess. I already know.”
“Well then?” he asked hopefully.
With a low laugh, she put her finger on a corner of his mouth.
The touch was like a bolt of lightning straight through his gut. As she lightly rubbed the pad of her finger over his lip, he had to make a correction. The bolt hadn’t gone to his gut, but parts south.
“Ketchup,” she murmured, then let out a throaty gasp when he sucked the tip of her finger into his mouth.
She closed her eyes as he lightly raked his teeth over the pad of her finger. “I’m not going to have sex with you, Wade,” she said, her voice husky. “Not out here on the grass. Not inside. Not anywhere.”
“Sam I am,” he whispered, but he couldn’t help it. He was feeling odd. Uneasy. Restless.
Aroused.
Slowly he pulled her in using the lapels of his jacket. She resisted but was little match for his strength, going into a controlled freefall against his chest.
“Don’t make this into something it’s not,” she said very softly as she fit against him like she was made for him. “It’s just a moment. A weird sort of chemical attraction moment that can’t really be explained.”
“All chemistry can be explained. You plus me equals combustion.”
She flashed a quick, tight smile. “Dangerous combustion, don’t you think?”
“I’m not afraid of you.” He lowered his head to see into her eyes. “Is that it, Sam? Are you afraid of me?”
“Don’t flatter yourself.”
But she didn’t look sure, and he took mercy on the both of them and dropped the subject.
“I’m surprised at how long you’ve stayed out here,” she said after a moment. “You’re missing all kinds of photo ops at the rehearsal dinner.”
“Can’t have that.”
“No.”
She was practically in his lap, her hand on his chest, whether to keep him at bay or to hold on, he wasn’t yet sure.
“Wade.”
“Right here.” He dipped his head, his lips a fraction from hers.
“There’s no one around,” she said shakily, gripping his bicep with one hand, his chest with the other, like he was her only anchor in a churning sea. “No paps, nothing.”
“Then this one will have to be just for us.” Leaning even closer, he stopped only a millimeter away from her lips when she tightened her fingers on his chest, getting a few chest hairs in the mix. “What now?”
“I didn’t know your father was alive.”
Like a cold bucket of water. With a sigh, he set her away from him. “Where did this come from?”
“Mark mentioned it.”
“Mark has a big mouth.”
“What’s the secret?”
“There is no secret.” There really wasn’t. Wade had been born in a trailer and had nearly died that same day. Would have, if John O’Riley hadn’t gathered his son in a towel and brought him to the closest doctor at an Urgent Care nearly an hour away. Wade had been cleaned up and fixed up and handed back over two days later to his father, who’d gone home and found his woman gone.
This had left the mild-tempered, easygoing John in a bit of a quandary. He’d been a small-bit character actor who’d traveled from tiny town theater to tiny town theater, not easy to do with a baby and no woman. So he’d adapted, as all O’Rileys were apt to do, and switched professions from acting to gambling, aka conning.
And had become a professional drunk while he was at it. He hadn’t been a mean drunk, or even a particularly difficult one. Just quiet and sad and utterly clueless about everything, including raising a kid.
“Where does he live?” Sam asked.
“Oregon.”
“Do you ever go back?”
Wade had few memories from his childhood worth revisiting, so no, he never went back. Not for sentimental reasons, and not for his father, who’d done far better with Wade a thousand miles away making enough money for the both of them. Wade had lost track of the number of times he’d tried to get his father to rehab, and in fact, no longer cared. Things had been fine, just fine, until recently when John’d had a medical problem. A weakened liver. Shock. His doctor had told him he could quit drinking or die. So suddenly John was looking his mortality right in the face, and fretting about his lack of a relationship with his son. “I don’t want to talk about it.” Wade gathered his trash and stood up, offering her a hand, watching from hooded eyes as she struggled not to flash him her goodies beneath that short skirt.
She wasn’t entirely successful; he caught a quick glimpse of something black and lacy. “Pretty.”
“You are such a guy.”
