Rachel Gibson: I’m In No Mood For Love

With the corset hooked partway between her breasts, she reached for her pink fluff of a bridesmaid’s dress. She threw it over her head and battled yards of tulle, twisting and turning, fighting and pushing, until she had it down around her waist. Out of breath, she shoved her arms through the spaghetti straps and reached behind her for the zipper and little buttons on the back of the dress.

The water shut off and Clare’s attention flew to the closed bathroom door. She grabbed her clutch purse off the couch and in a rustle of tulle and satin raced across the room. She held up the front of her dress with one hand and scooped up shoes with the other. There were worse things than waking up in a strange hotel room, she told herself. Once she got home, she’d think of something worse too.

“Leaving so soon, Claresta?” said a rough male voice only a few feet behind her.

Clare came to an abrupt halt against the closed door. No one called her Claresta but her mother. Her head whipped around and her purse and one shoe fell to the floor with a muffled thud. The strap of her dress slipped down her arm as her gaze landed on a white towel wrapped around the bottom row of hard six-pack abs. A drop of water slid down the dark blond line of hair on his tanned stomach, and Clare lifted her gaze to the defined chest muscles covered in tight brown skin and short wet curls. A second towel circled his neck, and she continued to look up past his throat and stubble-covered chin to a pair of lips pulled into a wicked smile. She swallowed, then glanced into deep green eyes surrounded by thick lashes. She knew those eyes.

He shoved one shoulder against the bathroom door frame and folded his arms across his broad chest. “Good morning.”

His voice was different from the last time she’d heard it. Lower, changed from a boy to a man. She hadn’t seen that smile in over twenty years, but she recognized that too. It was the same smile he’d worn as he’d talked her into playing War or Doctor or Dare. Each game had usually ended with her losing something. Her money. Her dignity. Her clothes. Sometimes all three.

Not that he’d had to do all that much talking. She’d always been a sucker for that smile, and for him. But she was no longer a lonely little girl, susceptible to smooth-talking boys with wicked smiles who blew into her life each summer and made her little heart melt. “Sebastian Vaughan.”

His smile creased the corners of his eyes. “You’ve grown since the last time I saw you naked.”

With her hand clutching the front of her dress, she turned and pressed her back into the door. The cool wood touched her skin between the open zipper. She pushed a dark brown tangle of hair behind her ear and tried to smile. She had to dig down deep inside, into the part of her that had been pounded with good manners. Into the part that brought gifts to dinner parties and sent thank-you notes the second she got home. The part that had a kind word-if not thought-for everyone. “How are you?”

“Good.”

“Fabulous.” She licked her dry lips. “I suppose you’re visiting your father?” Finally.

He pushed away from the door frame and reached for one end of the towel around his neck. “We covered that last night,” he said, and dried the side of his head. As a boy, his hair had been blond like the sun. It was darker now.

Obviously they’d covered quite a few things she couldn’t remember. Things she didn’t even want to think about. “I heard about your mother. I’m sorry for your loss.”

“We covered that too.” He dropped his hand to his hip.

Oh. “What brings you to town?” The last she’d heard of Sebastian, he’d been embedded with the marines in Iraq or Afghanistan or God knew where. The last time she’d seen him, he’d been eleven or twelve.

“Ditto.” His brows lowered and he looked at her more closely. “You don’t remember last night. Do you?”

She shrugged one bare shoulder.

“I knew you were shit-faced, but I didn’t think you were so gone you wouldn’t remember anything.”

It was just like him to point that out. He obviously hadn’t developed manners along with those abs. “I’ve never really quite understood that term, but I’m sure I wasn’t ‘shit-faced.’”

“You always were too literal. It means you were drunk off your ass. And yeah, you were.”

Her smile slid into a frown that she didn’t even try to stop. “I had reasons.”

“You told me.”

She hoped she hadn’t mentioned everything.

“Turn around.”

“What?”

He made a turning motion with one finger. “Turn around so I can zip your dress.”

“Why?”

“Two reasons. If my father found out I’d let you run out of here with your dress half off, he’d kill me. And if we’re going to have a conversation, I’d rather not stand here wondering if you’re going to fall the rest of the way out of that thing.”

She stared at him for several moments. Did she want him to help her out? It would probably be best if she didn’t dash from the room with her dress open in the back. Then again, she really didn’t want to stick around and converse with Sebastian Vaughan.

“In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m only wearing a towel here. In about two seconds it’s going to be real obvious I’m hoping I get to see you naked.” He smiled, showing a perfect row of straight white teeth. “Again.”

Her cheeks caught fire as she got his meaning, and in a rustle of satin and tulle, she turned and faced the door. It was on the tip of her tongue to ask him exactly what they’d done together the previous night, but she didn’t want the details. She also wondered what she’d told him about Lonny, but she supposed she didn’t want to know that either. “I guess I drank more than I intended.”

“You were entitled to tie one on. Finding your fiancé on all fours like a bronc would drive anyone to drink.” The tips of his fingers brushed her spine as he reached for the zipper. He chuckled and said, “I guess the Maytag man isn’t the loneliest guy in town after all.”

“It’s not funny.”

“Maybe not.” He brushed her hair aside and slowly slid the zipper up her back. “But you really shouldn’t take it so hard.”

She pressed her forehead into the wooden door. This could not be happening.

“It’s not like it’s your fault, Clare,” he added as if it were a comfort. “You just don’t have the right equipment.”

Yes, there were worse things than waking up in a hotel room with a stranger. One of those things was seeing the love of your life with a man. The other was zipping up her dress. She sniffed and bit her bottom lip to keep from crying.

He let go of her hair and fastened the two hooks at the top of the zipper. “You’re not going to cry, are you?”

She shook her head. She did not show excessive emotion in public, or at least she tried not to. Later, after she’d confronted Lonny and was alone, she would fall apart. But, she figured, if she’d ever had an excuse to cry, this was it. She’d lost her fiancé and slept with Sebastian Vaughan. Barring a flesh-eating disease, she didn’t think her life could get any worse than it was at that moment.

“I can’t believe I slept with you,” she moaned. If her head hadn’t already been pounding, she would have beat her forehead against the door.

He dropped his hands to his sides. “There wasn’t a whole lot of sleeping going on.”

“I was drunk. I never would have had sex with you if I hadn’t been drunk.” She looked at him over her shoulder. “You took advantage of me.”

His gaze narrowed. “Is that what you think?”

“It’s obvious.”

“You didn’t complain.” He shrugged and moved toward the couch.

“I don’t remember!”