Not Another Wedding. Jennifer McKenzie

She allowed him to help her out, stared at him when he didn’t move or let go of her hand. “You’re in my space.”

      “Yes.” He leaned harder, pressing her into the side of the car. Their eyes locked. His filled with a gleam she couldn’t identify. Teasing? Tingling? Terrifying? “My mother is probably watching. We need to make this look good.”

      “Make what look good? This is just brunch.” But she didn’t move. A bird warbled in the trees. Beck’s head tilted, moved closer to hers. Desire and panic swirled through her. She placed a hand on his chest, surprised to feel the rapid beat of his heart.

      He placed his hand over top hers. A pose she was sure appeared intimate from a distance. She should pull her fingers free, step to the side and suck in some fresh air to clear the mental haze from her head, but she stayed where she was, caught in the magnetism of Beck’s eyes.

      “If you think I’m kissing you—” she whispered.

      He smirked. “I wouldn’t ask.”

      Of course he wouldn’t. She glared at him and dropped her hand. “I’m only here to act as a buffer.” To make sure that his mother didn’t try to sic Emmy’s sister on him, though quite frankly, he deserved it.

      Beck murmured his assent, but didn’t move, his hips pinning her in place. She couldn’t break their connection without making a big production. And she was willing to do it. Completely willing. As soon as her heart slowed down.

      She watched Beck’s head turn to the side. She turned, too, trying to spot whatever, or whoever, he was looking at, but the house remained a beautiful blank facade. Apparently that was enough for Beck.

      He picked her hand back up and tugged her into motion. She almost stumbled. Would have had her fingers not been so tightly clasped in his. Or was that the reason she had stumbled in the first place?

      She blinked to clear her head as they walked up the driveway to the tall, oversize front doors. But he surrounded her on every level. The sound of his shoes slapping against the pavement, the outline of his body pressed into hers, his soft scent of leather and soap and the sight of his smirk when he turned to look at her.

      Maybe she should just focus on the house.

      CHAPTER FIVE

      THE HOUSE WAS as beautiful inside as out.

      The entry showed off glorious vaulted ceilings, the wood beams exposed, awash with the morning sun pouring through the windows. The pine floors were buffed to a high gleam and a cozy armchair sat in the corner, offering a spot for visitors to sit and slip off their shoes in comfort. A wide staircase spiraled out of sight to the upper levels, while the rest of the house opened up its arms: a dining area and kitchen at the back, an office to the right and a sitting area on the left. Poppy stood and took the sight in.

      The white Gatsby party took on a second life.

      “Come on.” Beck tugged her hand when she paused to study the space. “My mother will be waiting to meet you.”

      “Of course.” Poppy pulled her hand free and brushed her skirt. That’s why she was here. To assist Beck not to think about what kind of party she’d throw if she had access to this house.

      “By the way—” his voice was casual, which should have been her first clue “—she thinks this is a date.”

      Poppy stopped cold in the middle of the entryway. “Pardon?” She kept her voice pitched low, as every sound would carry to all rooms. She heard voices talking and laughing, the clink of glassware coming from the back of the house. “You told her this was a date.”

      A wicked grin crept across his face. “Does it matter?”

      “Yes, it matters.” She spun on him. “You didn’t say anything about a date. This was supposed to be a business proposition.” Wasn’t it bad enough she’d brought up sex in the car? Now she had to act as if she was on a date?

      “It is.” He brushed her hair off her shoulders, exposing her neck. She had a sudden memory of him kissing it. “And this was the easiest way to explain your presence.”

      She swallowed. It did make sense. In a twisted I-don’t-really-like-you-but-I’m-going-to-pretend-I-do sort of way. “Fine. Just don’t try anything.”

      “Like what?” His fingertips stroked down her neck and back up.

      “Like that.” She jerked her head away and turned toward the sounds of the gathering. “Well? Are we going in?”

      He studied her. She refused to drop his gaze. She might not know Beck, but she knew his type. He wouldn’t intimidate her. Not with his hungry stares, his delicious touches or his fabulous party property.

      “Right this way, Red.”

      The dining area and kitchen were as exquisite as everything else Poppy had seen. But it was the soaring views that left her breathless. Another deck spilled off the back, floor-to-ceiling glass welcoming the outside in. There was a large pool, surrounded by comfortable loungers in blue. A cabana and scattered umbrellas offered protection from the sun on those few months of the year the pool would be in use.

      “Poppy, hello.”

      She turned and spotted an attractive woman hurrying over to her. Her smile was a replica of Beck’s, though hers didn’t make Poppy squirm.

      “Poppy, this is my mother, Victoria.” Beck’s voice was formal and more than a little stiff. She glanced at him before turning her attention to his mother.

      “Victoria. Thank you for having me to your home.”

      “It’s my pleasure.” Victoria took Poppy’s outstretched hand and pulled her into a hug. “Beck doesn’t usually bring people home for us to meet.”

      “Oh.” Poppy wanted to check how Beck reacted to the information drop, but couldn’t without yanking away from Victoria’s warm greeting.

      “And this is my father, Harrison.” Beck turned her toward a tall, dark, mustachioed man who welcomed her in an equally friendly manner. Then there were all the other guests to say hello to as well. Jamie and Emmy, Jamie’s mom, Georgia, who Poppy hugged a long time before releasing—she’d always loved Mrs. Cartwright, the scent of cinnamon clung to her even when she wasn’t baking—and Emmy’s parents, Clive and Susan, and her younger sister, Grace.

      Poppy studied Grace closely. She was as pretty as her sister. The light caught the highlights in their golden hair giving the impression of halos surrounding them. Beside the sisters, Poppy thought she probably looked as if she’d come from the fires of hell.

      Grace was polite but uninterested, which was fine with Poppy. She wasn’t looking to make a lifelong friend.

      “Nice to meet you,” Grace said before turning to ask her mother about a shopping trip they had planned for later in the week. She certainly didn’t act like a woman plotting to trap Beck into marriage, but then, he hadn’t said that. He’d told her his mother was the one doing the plotting.

      Poppy glanced at Victoria and discovered she was the subject of an intensive stare. She forced herself not to fidget and begrudgingly hoped she met approval. And even when she reminded herself that it didn’t matter if Beck’s mother found her worthy or not, she couldn’t shake the desire to be found suitable. When Victoria smiled, wide and clear of any concern, Poppy felt as though she’d passed a test.

      There was a large living room off the dining area filled with soft couches and leather club chairs. A massive river-rock fireplace dominated one wall. They commenced to spend the next few minutes getting comfortable, drinking coffee and chatting while Victoria bustled about in the kitchen.

      Poppy had hoped to get a seat beside Jamie—if she was lucky, they might be able to steal a few minutes before the meal was even served—but Emmy wasn’t giving up her spot on the love seat and Poppy had to settle for taking the chair beside it.

      Emmy