Erin McCarthy - Full Throttle

Clinton shook his head. “This was wrong, all of it. I shouldn’t have been any part of it, and I should have told you the truth, Jameson’s wishes be damned.”

Shawn stiffened. “The truth about what?”

He leaned even closer, almost falling into her lap. “You didn’t have to get married. You could have contested the restrictions placed on that will, and I don’t doubt for a minute you would have won. You might have had to split ownership with your brother as dual heirs, but you would have won.”

The heat of the room suddenly felt stifling. For a very brief moment, she actually thought she might faint, but she was made of sterner stuff than that. “So you’re saying I didn’t need to get married?”

“No, probably not. I mean, it would have taken a few months and thousands in lawyer’s fees to contest the will.”

Thousands? Not a hundred thousand, which is what she owed Rhett when all was said and done. She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. She absolutely could not believe it. Save a few months of paper pushing and probably ten grand in legal fees, she could have achieved her goal of ownership free and clear? She wouldn’t have given a damn about sharing ownership with her brother. He wasn’t interested in the track. He wasn’t even particularly interested in her. He had sent his apologies for not attending this very wedding party, because he had claimed he’d been unable to get a sitter for the baby. When she had suggested he bring the baby, he had said she was afraid of crowds.

Shawn could have taken the hundred grand she was giving Rhett and could have bought out her brother. There wasn’t a doubt in her mind that he would have jumped at the chance to have the cash.

“You really think I would have won?”

“I’m certain it would have all shook out in your favor. You’re the obvious heir, and the will stated you were to inherit, just under stipulations that most judges would deem inappropriate.”

“Why didn’t you tell me this before?” she asked, finally freeing her hand from his hot and sweaty grip. God, when she thought about the anxiety she had felt, the panic, the fear that she was going to lose the last connection to her grandfather, Hamby Speedway, she wanted to scream at the top of her lungs.

“I was trying to respect Jameson’s intentions. I kind of figured you would marry Sam after all, but then when you didn’t and you were all set to get hitched with the younger Ford brother, I started to think that you might be making a huge mistake. I should have come to you, but I thought, well, hell, I’m an old man and what do I know about your dating life? Maybe you’re happy with Rhett and this just sped things up. You’re happy, right? I’ll never forgive myself if you’re not.”

Though she was mad as hell, Shawn couldn’t help but feel bad for Clinton. None of this ridiculousness had been his idea, and he had just been trying to respect his best friend’s dying wish. But he clearly felt guilty and he looked genuinely worried about her. She’d let him off the hook, but she wasn’t the least bit happy about his information.

“I’m happy,” she told him simply to ease his guilt, though she wasn’t sure she was, exactly. She was head over ass for Rhett, but she wasn’t precisely sure she was happy. It was exhilarating, but it certainly wasn’t peaceful. But maybe that’s how love went. She didn’t know, because she’d never been in love before.

Part of her questioned if she was even in love. How did one recognize that it was legitimately that elevated emotion? For all she knew, she was making that classic mistake of confusing lust with love. It wasn’t like this was a long-standing relationship. In the course of an average lifetime, she would spend more time renewing her driver’s license than the time she had been married to Rhett. What did she really know about love?

This felt like love.

Didn’t it?

She sought out Rhett across the room, but she didn’t see him.

“I’m glad to hear it, girl, glad to hear it.”

“Thanks, Clinton.” Feeling distracted, Shawn was actually hugely relieved when someone called out that the car service had arrived to safely shuttle home the bride and groom and anyone else who had been drinking.

Rhett appeared. “You ready to go?” he asked, holding on to the back of her chair like the room was swaying a little.

“Yes. Beyond ready.” Shawn stood up and braced herself for the round of good-byes that were about to commence when suddenly Rhett tried to pick her up. “Ack!” She swatted at him and scurried out of his reach.

“What? I want to carry you to the car.”

“Hell, no. You’re drunk, and I don’t want to be dropped on my ass.”

“I could carry you in my sleep,” he retorted.

That statement was so stupid Shawn didn’t even bother to reply. She just wanted to go home and go to bed. And not to have sex, to close her eyes and sleep.

But Grabby Hands was already trying to knead her ass cheeks like he was baking bread as they paused to speak to his parents. She smacked at him, irritated. He seemed to have forgotten their small wedding party had grown to seventy-five people, and most of them were watching them leave.

Sandy was handing her a large silver box.

“What’s this?” she asked.

“It’s filled with the cards everyone brought.”

“Oh.” Shawn blinked. “Oh, thank you . . . I didn’t think . . . I didn’t realize.” People had given them cards and probably some included money. Could she feel any worse? Not that she wanted to test the theory, because she felt pretty much like a huge asshole right now.

Sandy hugged her. “We’ll talk soon.” She rolled her eyes at her son when his hands slid across her backside again. “Rhett, wait three more minutes, for crying out loud. You’re embarrassing your wife.”

He didn’t look particularly concerned, and when they walked outside into the cold night air, Shawn’s jacket just draped over her shoulders, he opened the car door for her.

Murmuring, he said, “You’d better give your heart to Jesus, because your ass is mine tonight.”

What irritated her more than anything else was the fact that despite her annoyance, his words still aroused her.

And she wasn’t sure how she felt about that.

RHETT wasn’t as drunk as everyone seemed to think he was. He could still walk a straight line and get an erection. That was all that really mattered. In fact, he already had an erection as the driver took them home, his hand making inroads into Shawn’s inner thighs through the soft fabric of her dress. Or rather, not making inroads. He kept getting caught in folds of slippery whiteness.

“Damn it,” he complained. “This dress is multiplying.”

“It’s drunk-groom-proof,” she said, and her tone was not particularly lighthearted.

Rhett was starting to get the impression that Shawn was not best pleased with him. “Honey, I am not drunk. I’m relaxed. Relaxed Rhett. Everyone always tells me I’m too serious, so here I am, letting my hair down.”

“I’ve never said that,” she said, though the corner of her mouth did turn up slightly.

“How is your head?” he asked, suddenly remembering she’d complained about it hurting.

“It’s a little better, but I just feel exhausted.”

“Let me massage your head.” Because there was no way he was letting her go to bed without a wedding bang.

Shawn shook her head. “Don’t worry about it.”

But she did undo the bun and let her hair down. It fanned around her face in some weird hair-sprayed clamshell effect. Rhett was suddenly glad he hadn’t come of age in the eighties. That hair was terrifying.

“If you’re tired, lay down.” He urged her down onto his lap and was surprised when she didn’t protest. “Just don’t fall asleep.”