Rhonda Nelson - The Sex Diet

And, as an added bonus, she felt at home here, in her element and comfortable enough with the clientele along this end of the beach to know that she couldn’t go terribly wrong with whomever she chose.

In addition to packing a few key snacks for her diet, she’d brought along an arsenal of various protection. She’d prepared for this week like a general prepared for war. She was ready. Past ready. Hell, it was unnatural for a woman her age to have never had an orgasm, to have never experienced the legendary Big O.

Samantha swallowed a frustrated groan. She wanted to get laid—properly! She wanted to know what it felt like to have a man’s mouth feeding at her breast—Ted, her lackluster first and only, hadn’t even bothered to cop a feel, had moved with alarming rapidity to the grand finale.

Sam wanted someone to make love to her, to feel a man’s body, his hard weight against hers, have him touch that secret place inside her that throbbed from neglect. She wanted to know what all the fuss was about. Why so many books, shows and magazines made such a tremendous deal about doing it right, doing it wrong, the where, the when, the how and the who.

She’d been with a guy who’d done it wrong—she wanted to be with a guy who would do it right. It wasn’t too much to ask.

Hank’s handsome image loomed instantly to mind. Frankly she’d like nothing better than to experience it with him, but knew that no matter what she’d shocked him with her new and improved self—she most definitely had. Gratifyingly, his jaw had dropped and she’d seen a true glimmer of male interest flicker before realization had snuffed it out.

She knew that no matter how much she’d changed and despite the fact that he’d noticed those changes, he’d still look at her and remember the frizzy hair, freckles, bottle-bottom glasses and scrawny body. Sadly, to him, no matter how many improvements she made physically, he’d always look at her and see an ugly duckling, not the swan she’d managed to turn herself into.

He’d always see a friend, not a potential lover.

Samantha stared glumly at her reflection and a pang of regret pricked her heart, but she determinedly squelched the sentiment. There would be no regrets on this trip. This trip was going to be the most memorable week of her life and she wasn’t about to let a little thing like unrequited lust—or love, as the case may be—get in the way.

After all, she had bigger fish to fry. Her lips quirked with perverse humor.

But first she’d need to eat some.

SHE CAUGHT HANK KICKING a pile of dirty clothes against the wall when she came out of the bathroom. He looked up and those bright eyes glittered with sheepish humor. “I made a foot of space available in the closet, and those top two drawers in the dresser are ready.” He passed a hand over his face. “I really hate what happened about your room. Things have been crazy around here since Gladys left. Tina will eventually get it.” His voice sounded more grim than hopeful, making Samantha’s lips twitch. “But between her frequent screwups and this Belle of the Beach contest, I’ve been stretched pretty thin.”

Samantha waved off his concern. “Don’t worry about it.” She conjured a playful grin. “I’m sure I’ll be perfectly comfortable in your bed.”

Of course, she’d be more comfortable if he were in it with her, but that wasn’t a likely scenario so she needed to put the idea out of her head. If she didn’t, she might as well kiss that orgasm goodbye. She cast a glance at the smallish couch and tried to imagine Hank’s big muscular frame sprawled over it. She winced. “But I don’t know how comfortable you’ll be.”

Hank grinned, slouched casually against the bedpost. “I’ll consider it penance for screwing up your reservation.”

“With that sort of logic, I should have gotten Tina’s bed.”

Hank grunted. “Trust me, if she lived in the house, she’d be giving up her bed ten times over.”

Samantha winced. “That bad, eh?”

He nodded, blew out a breath. “That bad.”

“If she’s so horrible, then why do you keep her?”

“She’s Gladys’s granddaughter.”

“Oh,” Samantha said knowingly. That explained it. Hank adored Gladys. He’d never do anything that might hurt her, even if it meant he paid the price for it. In this case, literally. An inept desk clerk in his line of work could be devastating. Still… “She didn’t train her before she left?”

“She tried.” Hank lifted one shoulder in a negligent shrug. “Said that no amount of training would be better than on-the-job experience.”

Translation: Tina didn’t get it and Gladys had given up. Poor Hank, Samantha thought, not envying his predicament. “So what’s the deal with this Belle of the Beach contest?” she asked after a moment. “I saw a flyer next to the front desk.”

Hank crossed his arms over his chest, rolled his eyes and snorted. “It’s hell.”

“Surely it’s not that bad. Business certainly seems to be booming.”

Hank blew out a heavy breath, rubbed a hand over his face. “It is, and it’s all due to the pageant. Nevertheless, I wish that Mayor Flannagin could have come up with another way to boost the end-season besides this.” He rolled his eyes. “Hell, anything but this.”

“Funny,” Samantha said. She arched a brow and regarded him with amusement. “I would have thought that a bunch of gorgeous women on your sand would have been right up your alley.”

He flashed a smile, unwittingly kicking her pulse into overdrive. “Me, too, but it’s not.” His altogether-too-hot gaze did a lengthy sweep over her body, causing a tornado of tingles in her belly. “You should enter.”

A nervous flutter winged through her chest. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Nah,” she hedged. “I’m not the beauty pageant type.”

“You might be surprised,” Hank told her. “Besides, this is no ordinary pageant.” His amused gaze tangled with hers. “‘There’s more to being a Belle than just a pretty face.”’

Samantha grinned, recognizing the line from the flyer. “Is that right?”

“That’s right,” he told her, warming to his subject. “The official contest kicks off tomorrow and secret judges will be milling around grading contestants on personality, charm, grace and graciousness. The final contestants will compete in Redneck Jeopardy. And there’s no swimsuit competition. Instead Belle contestants will have a fried chicken and iced tea cook off.”

“What?”

He nodded and poked his tongue in his cheek. “You heard me,” he repeated, laughing. “Hell, every southern belle should know how to fry chicken and make iced tea.”

“That is so sexist,” Samantha replied, appalled.

A deep, wholly sexy laugh rumbled up his throat. “Take it up with Mayor Flannagin. This was his brainchild.”

Smiling, Samantha shook her head. “Unbelievable. Simply unbelievable.” Still, she wasn’t surprised. This was exactly the sort of thing she could expect from her little hometown. It was as exasperating as it was endearing.

“Yeah, well, an unbelievable prize package goes to the winner. An all-expenses-paid trip for two to the Bahamas, a fully loaded SUV and ten grand in cash.” The corner of his mouth tucked into a grin. “Hard to beat that. The contest committee decided to keep the entry fee minimal in order to increase participation.” He shrugged lazily. “More entries, more tourists. More tourists, more money.”

Made sense, she supposed. Still, a fried chicken and iced tea contest? Please.

Hank pushed away from the bedpost. “There are entry forms at the front desk and registration ends today,” he said, matter-of-factly. “You should enter. What have you got to lose?”