Carla Neggers - Red Clover Inn

He settled back and observed tomorrow’s maid of honor. He didn’t know much about the Bennetts. Samantha’s grandfather, Harry Bennett, had earned an international reputation as an adventurer and explorer when he’d ventured to the Antarctic under dangerous conditions. He and some in his party had almost frozen to death. Greg gave an involuntary shiver. He figured he’d done well by not freezing to death in Minneapolis.

Laura, his ex, wouldn’t think that was funny, either.

No wonder they hadn’t been a “forever” match.

Greg focused on eyeing the curve of Charlotte Bennett’s hip under her sleek outfit.

“Do you wear dresses very often given your work as a diver?” he asked, not sure if she’d heard him. Her dagger look as she swiveled to him ended any doubt. He grinned. “No, huh? Did you have that one hanging in your closet or did you buy it special for tonight? Borrow it? Wait. Let me guess. You don’t have a closet.”

“I’m not indulging you.” She swiveled back to her drink, giving him her back again.

“That’s not apple juice you’re drinking, is it?”

No reaction. Greg decided to shut up before Ian Mabry tossed him out for being an ass. The pilot/barman delivered the Scotch himself, a smoky-but-not-too-smoky single malt from, according to Mabry, an Islay distillery.

“So it’s Eye-la not Iz-lay,” Greg said.

Mabry smiled. “I have a feeling you knew that.”

The Englishman withdrew before Greg told him yeah, he’d known. About a decade ago he’d mispronounced Islay in front of a UK-security type who’d relished trying to make him feel like a dumbass. It hadn’t worked, and they’d become friends, drinking expensive Scotch to nonexcess and deliberately mispronouncing one booze name after another.

Greg debated asking Charlotte to join him. Probably not a good idea.

One sip into his Scotch and his fatigue blanketed him, suffocating him. He should have seen it coming, but he hadn’t, instead distracting himself by teasing an obviously smart, tough marine archaeologist.

He could have tackled the fatigue, fought it off and forced himself up to his room, but he took another sip of Scotch.

And he was done.

Toast.

His weariness took him under. He didn’t fight it. There was no reason to fight it. Everyone around him was safe, and he was off duty, secure, in a quiet English pub.

Next thing, he felt something frigid-cold and wet on his neck and then rolling down his back. He bolted upright and noticed Charlotte had moved onto the bench next to him.

He shivered, the wet cold reaching the small of his back. “That was too cold to be your tongue.”

“It was ice.”

“They have ice here?”

“I asked for ice for my glass of water. I was tempted to pretend I didn’t see you pass out.” She dumped the rest of her handful of melting cubes into his Scotch. “You’re done drinking.”

“You just ruined the rest of my excellent single malt.”

“That was the point. Come on. I’ll help you up to your room.”

He debated protesting, but instead he stifled a yawn, his eyes half-shut. The ice had given him a jolt but he was still struggling to stay awake. He could have made it up to his room on his own, but damn. Having attractive, sexy Charlotte Bennett help him? An opportunity not to be missed. He figured he couldn’t go wrong.

“I am feeling a bit woozy,” he said.

“I wonder why.”

“I haven’t had too much to drink.”

“Doesn’t matter.” She slid an arm around his middle. “Up you go.”

She inhaled sharply as she tightened her hold on him. He liked to think it was because she was reacting to being in such close contact with him, but maybe he smelled or something. He offered no resistance as she helped him to his feet, using her legs for leverage. He was a big guy but she clearly knew what she was doing. Another good tug, and she had him on the other side of the table, near the base of the stairs.

“Not bad,” he said.

“I’m used to dealing with inebriated divers.”

“You’re a tough cookie, aren’t you?”

She gave him a steely look, the kind he’d given countless times in similar situations. “You need to call it a night, Agent Rawlings.”

“You aren’t going to dump more ice down my back, are you?”

“Would it help get you up the stairs to your room?”

“There are better ways.”

Her cheeks reddened but it could have been exertion. Probably unhelpful that he was thinking in physical terms, but maybe she was, too.

“You’re going to have to help me,” she said. “I can’t carry you.”

“No piggyback ride?”

“Not unless you...” She shook her head. “No. No piggyback ride.”

She steadied her arm around him and edged him to the stairs, then took his right hand and planted it on the rail. He glanced at her. “You’ll catch me if I fall backward?”

“I’ll get out of your way.”

“Heartless.”

“Practical. We’d both stand a better chance of not getting hurt.”

He looked up the steep, narrow stairs and grimaced. “Sure you can’t carry me?”

“Positive.” Charlotte smiled with understanding. “Might as well be the last few yards climbing Everest, huh?”

“But it’s not. It’s a set of stairs in an English pub.”

“This is true.”

He made no comment. As he started up the stairs, she eased her arm from around him and placed her hand on his hip, obviously hoping that would help stabilize him. “Are you sure you can manage?” she asked him.

“Absolutely. I can do stairs.”

He faltered only once but Charlotte didn’t have to intervene. When they reached the second floor, he grinned at her. “Are you sorry I didn’t fall backward and get tangled up with you?”

“No.”

Her brown eyes were enough to melt him. His grin broadened. “I bet you’re not as cool and heartless as you’re making out right now.”

“Let’s just get you to bed.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

“You know what I mean, Agent Rawlings,” she said, starchy.

“Brody and Heather have gone to the wedding hotel. I’m at your mercy. Brody would have left me under the booth. Nowhere near as fun as having you put me to bed.”

She sighed. “What’s your room number?”

“Crisp and efficient, aren’t you, Charlotte Bennett?” He pointed vaguely. “It’s the second door on the right.”

“Key?”

“I can manage the key.”

“Actually, I’m not sure you can, and I suspect you aren’t sure, either.”

He decided he must look even worse than he felt. He reached into his jacket for the old-fashioned key and handed it to her. She nudged him down the hall, but he was more awake, or at least more alert. Maybe it was having a wall next to him should he collapse, or maybe mounting the stairs had perked him up. Whatever the case, they arrived at his door without incident.

“Where’s your room?” he asked her.

“Down the hall.”

“Do we have connecting doors?”

“No. There’s a room between us.”

“Ah.”

“I don’t know if you’re teasing or just making small talk in an awkward situation, but it doesn’t matter. Two seconds and you’ll be in your room and can get some rest before tomorrow. I don’t want you to make a scene.”

She shoved his key in the lock. One try and she had the door open.

“Efficient,” Greg said.

She tucked the key into his jacket pocket and held the door open. “In you go, Agent Rawlings.”

“Greg. Gregory is fine, too. So is Agent Rawlings, but it’s too formal now that you’re in my hotel room.”

“I’m not in your hotel room.”

“Right. It’s a pub that lets rooms. It’s not a real hotel or even a B and B or an inn.”