His Not-So-Blushing Bride. Fiona Brand

Unless you want to tend to me as I’m laid out flat on my back with a pulled muscle, we gotta dial it down a notch.”

      She snickered. “What are you, sixty? Shall I run and collect your social security check from the mailbox?”

      Before she could protest, he grabbed her hand and twirled her into his arms, body to body. “No, thanks. I’ve got another idea.”

      Her arms came up around his waist and she clung to him. Progress. It was sweet.

      “Slow dancing?” she asked.

      “Slow something, that’s for sure.” He threaded fingers through her amazing hair and brushed a thumb across her cheek. Her skin was damp from dancing.

      As he imagined the glow she’d take on when he got her good and sweaty between the sheets, he went hard. She noticed.

      Her eyes widened, and all the color drained from her face as she let go of him faster than a hot frying pan. “It’s late. I have a shift in the morning, so I’m about danced out.”

      All his hard work crumbled to dust under the avalanche of her hang-ups. He let her go with regret. Should have gone with slow dancing, and, as a bonus, she’d still be in his arms. “Sure thing. Big day tomorrow.”

      The wedding. Realization crept over her expression. “Oh. Yeah. Well, good night.”

      She fled.

      He stalked off to bed and stared at the news for a good couple of hours, unsuccessfully attempting to will away his raging hard-on, before finally drifting off into a restless sleep laced with dreams of Cia wearing his ring and nothing else.

      In the morning, he awoke bleary eyed but determined to make some progress in at least one area sorely requiring his attention—work.

      The muted hum of the shower in Cia’s bathroom traveled through the walls as he passed by.

      Cia, wet and naked. Exactly as he’d dreamed.

      He skipped breakfast, too frustrated to stay in the house any longer. An early arrival at work wasn’t out of line anyway, as Mondays were usually killers. A welcome distraction from the slew of erotic images parading around in his head.

      At red lights, he fired off emails to potential clients with the details of new listings. His schedule was insane this week. He had overlapping showings, appraisals and social events he’d attend to drum up new business.

      An annoying buzz at the edge of his consciousness kept reminding him of all the balls he had in the air. He’d been juggling the unexpected addition of a full-time personal life and the strain was starting to wear. As long as he didn’t drop any balls or clients, everything was cool.

      Four o’clock arrived way too fast.

      As anticipated, Cia waited for him outside the courthouse, wearing one of her Sunday-go-to-meeting dresses a grandmother would envy and low heels.

      With her just-right curves and slender legs, put her in a pair of stilettos and a gauzy hot-pink number revealing a nice slice of cleavage … well, there’d be no use for stoplights on the street—traffic would screech to a halt spontaneously. But that wasn’t her style. Shame.

      Her gaze zeroed in on the bouquet of lilies in his fist. “You just come from a funeral, Wheeler?”

      So they were back to Wheeler in that high-brow, back-off tone. One tasty kiss-slash-step-forward and forty steps back.

      “For you.” Lucas offered Cia the flowers. Dang it, he should not have picked them out. If he’d asked Helena to do it, like he should have, when Cia sneered at the blooms, as she surely would, he wouldn’t be tempted to throw them down and forget this whole idea. Even a man with infinite patience could only take so much.

      But she didn’t sneer. Gently, she closed her fingers around the flowers and held them up to inhale the scent.

      After a long minute of people rushing by and the two of them standing there frozen, she said, “If you’d asked, I would have said no. But it’s kind of nice after all. So you get a pass.”

      He clutched his chest in a mock heart attack and grinned. “That’s why I didn’t ask. All brides should have flowers.”

      “This isn’t a real wedding.”

      She tossed her head and strands of her inky hair fanned out in a shiny mass before falling back to frame her exotic features. This woman he was about to make his wife was such a weird blend of stunning beauty and barbed personality, with hidden recesses of warmth and passion.

      What was wrong with him that he was so flippin’ attracted to that mix? This marriage would be so much easier if he let it go and worried about stuff he could control, like scaring up new clients.

      But he couldn’t. He wanted her in his bed, hot and enthusiastic, hang-ups tossed out the window for good.

      “Sure it is. We’re going to be legally married. Just because it’s not traditional doesn’t make it less real.”

      She flipped her free hand. “You know what I mean. A church wedding, with family and friends and cake.”

      “Is that what you wanted? I would have suffered through a real wedding for you.” His skin itched already to think of wearing a tux and memorizing vows. God Almighty … the rehearsal, the interminable ceremony, the toasts. Matthew had undergone it all with a besotted half smile, claiming it was all worth it. Maybe it was if you were in love. “But, darlin’, I would have insisted on a real honeymoon.”

      He waggled his brows, and she laughed nervously, which almost gave him a real heart attack.

      A hint of a smile still played around her lips. “A real wedding would have made both of us suffer. That’s not what I wanted. I don’t have a perfect wedding dress already picked out in hopes my Prince Charming will come along, like other women do. I’m okay with being single for the rest of my life.”

      “Hold up, honey. You’re not a romantic? All my illusions about you have been thoroughly crushed.”

      Romantic gestures put a happy, glowy expression on a woman’s face, and he liked being the one responsible. It was the only sight on this earth anywhere near as pleasurable as watching a woman in the throes of an orgasm he’d given her.

      He had his work cut out for him if he wanted to get Cia there.

      He put an arm around her waist to guide her inside the courthouse because it was starting to seem as if she wanted to avoid going inside.

      The ceremony was quick, and when he slid the slender wedding band of diamonds channel-set in platinum onto her finger, Cia didn’t curl her lip. He’d deliberately picked something low-key that she could wear without the glitzy engagement ring. The set had cost more than his car, but he viewed both as an investment. Successful real estate brokers didn’t cheap out, and especially now, with Lana’s husband on the warpath, every last detail of his life was for show.

      With a fast and unsexy kiss, it was over. They were Mr. and Mrs. Wheeler.

      The cool, hard metal encircling his finger was impossible to ignore, and he spun it with his pinkie, trying to get used to the weight. Uncomfortable silence fell as they left the courthouse and neither of them broke it. Cia had asked a friend to drop her off, so she rode home with him.

      Half-surprised Mama hadn’t crashed the event, he called her with the update before he pulled out of the courthouse parking lot. By the time the wheels hit the driveway of the house, Mama had apparently posted the news to Facebook, which then took on a life of its own.

      Text messages started rolling in, and he glanced at them as he shifted into Park.

      Pete: Dude. Are we still on for bball Sunday? Or do you have to check with the missus?

      Justine: REALLY Lucas???? Married???? REALLY????

      Melinda: **&^$%. Missed it by that much. Call me the second you get tired of her.

      Lucas