Knock Me for a Loop Page 12

  Snuggling up to him now just because her juices were flowing and there were a million tiny temptations singing in her ears would only confuse Zack and let him believe there was a chance they might reconcile.

  “I’ll think about it,” she agreed, ignoring the rest of Quentin’s suggestion, “but don’t get your hopes up.”

  “Sometimes hope is all I’ve got,” was his melodramatic reply. “Let me know what you decide.”

  For better or worse, she’d already decided, but nodded all the same, even knowing he couldn’t see. They said good-bye and she clicked off the phone, setting it beside the stovetop.

  “Who was that?”

  Eeep! Stomach lurching into her throat, she jumped, squeaked, and whirled around.

  Zack was standing directly behind her, leaning only slightly on a pair of apparently stealth crutches.

  “Jesus, Zack!” Hand on her heart, she fell back so that the edge of the counter bit into her spine. “I’m going to break your other knee just so I can hear you coming.”

  Rather than being offended, his mouth curved into a patented I’m-so-cute-girls-fall-at-my-feet grin. She had no intention of falling at his feet, but in all honesty, he was cute, and other women’s brains did tend to become the consistency of blueberry Slushie when he was around, so she supposed his cockiness was justified.

  “You’re the one who’s been hauling me to physical therapy so I can get better. Guess you’ve got no one to blame for my new catlike grace but yourself. Grace.”

  Shaking her head, she fought a grin of her own, linking her arms loosely beneath her breasts. Zack crutched past her, opening the refrigerator to retrieve a cold Miller Lite, which he was allowed to have now that he was off the painkillers (at least on a regular basis) and she was no longer concerned that he was trying to crawl inside a bottle so he wouldn’t have to deal with the outside world.

  He opened a drawer, removed a bottle opener, and popped the cap before tossing the opener back and closing the drawer with his hip. She watched every movement, feeling her body warm with a feminine appreciation of the pull of strong male muscle beneath his loose T-shirt. Today’s wardrobe selection was black with white lettering that said NATIONAL SARCASM SOCIETY. LIKE WE NEED YOUR SUPPORT.

  Handsome face, rock-hard body, and razor-sharp sense of humor—it was a combination she’d found irresistible from the moment they met.

  And it was no less resistible now, she realized as the urge to reach out and touch that flexing bicep caused her thighs to squeeze together and warmth to blossom in her bikini zone.

  Uh-oh. Bad hormones, down! No driving down that street. It was not only a dead end, but a steep drop-off, as well.

  Taking his weight off the crutches, Zack leaned back against the section of counter running perpendicular to her. He tipped his head, the cords of his throat working…and drawing her eager eye…as he gulped down several swallows of beer.

  “So,” he said, straightening, tongue darting out to lick away a drop of moisture stranded on his bottom lip.

  Whimper.

  “Who was on the phone?”

  It took a minute for her fuzzy mind to register what he was asking. And another few seconds to mentally kick her own butt for being distracted by her ex’s amazing physique and scrumptious mouth.

  “Oh,” she replied, striving for nonchalance while her insides continued to jitter and jump like they were dancing to Disco Inferno. “It was just Quentin.”

  The pale slash of brow over his right eye veed upward. “He called here? What for?”

  Zack knew Quentin from their goin’-to-the-chapel days, not to mention the fact that Quentin had attempted more than once to talk Zack into accepting his representation, too. Actors, musicians, writers, sports figures…If one was a public figure and had a career that needed to be managed, Quentin was more than happy to help—for a hefty commission, of course. But then, he was very good at what he did, and nine times out of ten, well worth the percentage.

  Zack had always passed on Quentin’s offers. Personally, she thought he might be a tad homophobic and feared receiving phone calls from a man who referred to him as “babes,” “luv,” or “Hot Buns.”

  That sort of thing didn’t bother Grace because those calls usually went something along the lines of “Have I got a deal for you, luv!” or “Babes, I’ve been trying to reach you all day. Wait until you hear this!” As far as she was concerned, he could use whatever endearments he liked as long as he kept her working, kept her name and face in the public eye, and kept those checks rolling in.

  Seconds ticked by while she debated sharing the reason for Quentin’s phone call with Zack. It probably didn’t matter one way or the other, but she was afraid that bringing up the Insides Out offer would also bring up memories of their past together and things better left buried and forgotten.

  Then again, what did it matter? He already knew Quentin had called her on his phone line rather than her cell, and she couldn’t take the deal even if she (really, really) wanted to.

  “We’ve apparently been spotted together on the street and word is getting around that we might have patched things up.”

  A shadow seemed to slip across his light blue eyes, but otherwise, he remained perfectly still, cradling his bottle of Miller Lite against his stomach, crutches still propped under his armpits.

  “And that would be Quentin’s business why?” he asked.

  With a negligent shrug, she did her best to keep the disappointment from her face. “Because Insides Out came back with the same offer as before—but only if we’re a couple again.”

  “That million-dollar endorsement deal?” he wanted to know. “The one with the newspaper and magazine ads, television commercials, and charitable donation?”

  She swallowed, then rubbed her lips together, surprised he remembered so much about it. He hadn’t seemed to care one way or the other the first time they’d come knocking at her door. He’d agreed to do it, said it sounded like fun, but hadn’t seemed overly interested in the money or added recognition it would bring him.

  He hadn’t cared what it would do for him, but was willing to do it for her.

  Funny how she hadn’t realized that until now. She’d been so wrapped up in herself, so excited about moving to a new level of her career, that she hadn’t noticed the role Zack was playing—his true role—in all of it.

  “That’s the one,” she said, and even to her own ears, her voice sounded thin and strained.

  He lifted a shoulder, let it drop again, took a quick sip of beer. “So what’s the problem?”

  She gave a snort—not the sharpest or most ladylike comeback ever, admittedly—and pushed away from the counter. Their arms brushed as she opened the refrigerator door to grab a beer for herself, and little tingles of electricity danced along her skin.

  “The problem,” she explained as she returned to her spot against the opposite counter, “is that we aren’t together anymore. Or again. And Insides Out only wants me—us—if we are.”

  For a minute, silence surrounded them. Silence broken only by the muted hum of the television and the occasional snoring dog snuffle coming from the living room.

  But in the kitchen, it was as though a bubble surrounded them, cutting them off from everything else. An underlying crackle of tension buzzed between them.

  Or at least she thought it did.

  Maybe not. Maybe she was the only one with a slow trickle of warm honey filling her belly, the only one clamping her thighs together to keep the sharp stabs of arousal at bay.

  In a tone normally reserved for small children and the mentally challenged, Zack said, “I repeat: what’s the problem?”

  With a frustrated growl and eye-roll, she just barely managed not to stomp a foot against the smooth white linoleum floor. In a truly juvenile attempt to get through his thick skull exactly what “the problem” was, she set the untouched bottle of beer on the counter and began a one-sided game of charades.

  She tugged the waistband of her pan
ties up out of her jeans so he could see them. “Underwear company,” she said in her best Tarzan of the Apes impression, “want you”—finger point at Zack—”and me”—point-point at herself—”to be mmwaa-mmwaa-mmwaa.” She wrapped her arms around herself, closed her eyes, and made big, wet, exaggerated kissing noises.

  “You”—jab-jab at Zack—”and me”—index finger to her chest…ouch, that hurt; she was going to have a bruise in the morning—”no mmwaa-mmwaa-mmwaa”—more disgusting kissy noises—”so underwear company”—a bruise on her chest and a wedgie up her bum; she was going to need tweezers to recover the damn things if he didn’t catch on soon—”no want Zack and Grace.”

  Point-point, darker bruise, another eye-roll, and a fed-up sigh as she returned to the counter, popped the cap on her beer (the old-fashioned way, by propping it against a hard surface and smacking it with the heel of her hand), and took a long, much-needed swig.

  When she returned her gaze to Zack, he didn’t look enlightened, but he didn’t look insulted, either. No surprise there; it took a lot to offend Zack, and treating him like a dumb jock didn’t even make the list.

  He’d told her once that he actually enjoyed people labeling him with that stereotype, and often played into it. Why? Because dumb jocks could get away with stuff smart, sophisticated guys couldn’t.

  No, he wasn’t offended. He was amused.

  His lips were curved in a grin, his eyes dancing with barely suppressed mirth.

  “I liked that,” he responded eventually. “Do the mmwaa-mmwaa-mmwaa thing again. That was hot.” He waggled his brows and affected a lascivious leer that was actually kind of sexy.

  Her feminine, internal muscles gave an involuntary flutter, and she nearly moaned.

  Bad cootchie—stop that! she ordered sternly. If you settle down and stop throbbing after the man who cheated on us and broke my heart, I promise to go home later and give you a little alone time with the Bunny (her bright purple jackrabbit vibrator). Please, please, please, please, please.

  “Ha-ha, very funny,” she said, because it was literally the best she could do. As it was, her voice rasped, her fingers clutched the cold brown glass of the beer bottle like a lifeline, and she teetered on the jagged edge of coming in her high-climbing panties.

  “What I meant,” he continued, as though she weren’t Sarcasmo, Queen of the Derisive Rejoinder, “is that if it’s something you really want, and that’s the only thing getting in the way, you should go ahead and accept the offer.”

  “You want me to lie?” she chirped, startled into sounding like a cartoon chipmunk. Just call her Alvin, Simon, or Theodore.

  “Lie, comply …” He raised his arm and took another sip of Miller Lite. “It’s a good deal, and I know how important that charity money was to you. So why not play along? Consider it an acting gig, like when you have neo-Nazis on your show and have to pretend you don’t want to pull a Geraldo and bash them over the head with a folding chair.”

  She studied him closely, wondering exactly when it was that he’d lost his marbles. Maybe he was still on those painkillers, after all, and mixing them with alcohol made him seven kinds of stupid. Because there was no way anyone with functioning brain cells would be standing across from her suggesting what he was suggesting.

  “And what do I do at the photo shoots when they’re expecting us to pose as a couple and I show up alone? Throw on a hockey jersey and grow a pair of testicles?”

  He threw back his head and gave a deep, rolling laugh, the solid wall of his chest rising and falling with his amusement. “Now that’s something I would definitely pay to see.”

  He straightened, his sea-blue gaze locking on her and causing a heated hair-to-toe flush to break out over her body.

  “The testicles part,” he clarified. “I’ve already seen you in one of my jerseys.”

  Oh, God. No rabbit vibrator needed. She was totally going to orgasm standing right here in his tiny, pristine, rarely-cooked-in kitchen.

  “No,” he went on, as though she weren’t squirming inside her skin, struggling to keep him from seeing how close she was to flying apart. “I figured we could pretend to be back together long enough to get through the contractual requirements, then have yet another very ugly, very public breakup.”

  Row 10

  Grace’s eyes went wide, her mouth flopping open like a flycatcher.

  Yeah. Zack kept his expression carefully blank, but felt pretty much the same.

  Brightest idea ever? Probably not. He couldn’t even say what made him think of such a thing, let alone why he’d allowed the words to slip past his lips.

  “You would do that for me?” she asked, regaining a bit of her equilibrium.

  A fist-sized ball of emotion clutched at his gut. She had no clue what he would do for her. Once upon a time, he’d have done anything, said anything, gone anywhere to make her happy.

  Pretending to be a couple again so she could settle a business agreement just didn’t seem like that big a deal. Not when they were going to be together—physically speaking, at any rate—for a while, anyway.

  But rather than tell her that, he set the empty brown bottle of Miller Lite on the counter, rearranged the crutches under his arms, and started to slowly hobble away. Casual indifference at its finest.

  “I’m okay with it, if you are.” Even though she was in her stocking feet, he heard her following him back to the living room. He rounded the end of the sofa and dropped down on his usual cushion. Bruiser lifted his head, gave a long sigh, and shifted slightly so that he could rest his chin on Zack’s thigh.

  “It might be fun,” he added. “And it could be a good way to keep my name out there, keep me in the public eye until I can get back on the ice.”

  Crossing in front of the television on the other side of the low coffee table, Grace folded her legs beneath her and took a seat on the opposite end of the couch.

  “What if someone finds out?” she asked, worrying her bottom lip the way she always did when she was mulling over an idea. Especially one that made her nervous and didn’t fit into a nice, neat little package.

  “Finds out what?”

  “That we aren’t really back together. That we’re just pretending to be…in love again for the sake of a business deal.”

  “A damn good business deal,” he pointed out. “And nobody’s going to find out. Even if they did, or if they suspected something, we could claim to be going through a rough patch. Fighting about dinner plans, or how many guests to invite to the wedding, or where to go on our honeymoon.”

  It wasn’t easy to utter those words, to talk about an imaginary wedding and honeymoon that had been real at one time.

  She shook her head, adding a thumbnail to the biting of her lip. “I don’t think it’s a good idea. I mean, we’d have to pretend to be in love. To be engaged again, and most likely living together.”

  He raised a brow and shot her a humorous glance. “News flash, princess. I don’t know if you’ve noticed or not, but we pretty much are living together. You’ve been here going on a month now, and we’ve been seen out and running around together—without you trying to kill, maim, or castrate me even once. I’d say we’re already doing a decent job of convincing people we’re on friendly terms again. All we have to do is keep that up, smile for the camera, and not get into a sparring match in public, and we’re golden.”

  “Golden, huh?” she repeated, her mouth curving in the hint of a grin.

  His own lips itched to lift in a matching smile. “Okay, bronze, then. My point is, it’s no big deal. We play the lovey-dovey couple for a while, and everybody gets what they want. You get your big break. Quentin gets his big commission and another feather for his big, gay hat. And Insides Out gets a gorgeous spokesmodel for its new line of fancy underpantsies.”

  Grace turned slightly, her luminescent blue eyes meeting his.

  It was no wonder Insides Out wanted so badly to have her as the face—and body—of their new intimates line. She really was incred
ibly beautiful.

  The flawless, porcelain skin, long lashes, and lush lips. The sexy, platinum-blond Marilyn Monroe curls. The Venus de Milo figure—with arms, thank goodness—in designer clothes.

  If ever there was a perfect woman walking the earth, it had to be Grace Fisher. Minus the mean streak that occasionally reared its head when she believed she’d been wronged.

  It definitely wouldn’t be easy to pretend to be in love with her without actually falling in love with her again. Or to live with her without wanting to partake of all the living-with perks.

  Not easy at all, if the low-level thrum behind his fly was any indication.

  But he’d opened his mouth and blurted a heck of an idea…well, it had seemed like a good idea at the time…and it was too late to back out now.

  “And what do you get?” she asked, still pinning him with that clear, intense gaze.

  The pleasure of her presence for a while longer.

  More time with his dog.

  Maybe a bit more recognition for his own career, which he hoped to get back to as soon as his knee was strong enough.

  But what he said was, “Free underwear?”

  She broke out laughing, the sound washing over him like a warm waterfall, but making Bruiser jerk.

  “If your underwear collection is anything like it was when I left, you could definitely use them,” she told him. “And if we go through with this …”

  She paused a moment, shaking her head in indecision. “I don’t know yet. I’m going to have to sleep on it, think about it a while. But if we do, I’ll make sure you get lots of free underwear in whatever styles and colors you like.”

  He wondered if she was picturing him in any of those fancy designer Underoos the way he was picturing her in hers. And out of hers.

  Maybe he’d even get the chance to see her in some of them while they were playing house and pretending to be Mr. and Almost Mrs.

  A guy could hope, right?

  “Fair enough,” he responded, nodding solemnly, as though a dozen Grace-related Victoria’s Secret fashion-show fantasies weren’t strutting through his mind—high boobs, firm buttocks, feathered angel wings and all.