Hotshot and Hospitality by Nora Everly

Sneak Peek: Love in a Pickle by L.B. Dunbar, Green Valley Library Book #9

Scotia

March

A heaviness presses over me but not as weighty as my head feels.

Lord have mercy did I drink too much last night.

My brain weighs fifty-million tons as does my pasty, swollen tongue behind teeth that feel as fuzzy as a cattail. I roll said tongue over dry lips, smacking them in my dehydrated state.

You sure were thirsty last night. My stomach roils, and I discover something equally heavy resting over my side, just above my hip. I squirm under the weight, pressing back into something long and thick and protruding into my backside.

“Karl,” I mutter. “Get off me.”

My hand reaches for the arm over my midsection, the movement taking all my strength until I touch something else long, thick, and slightly coarse and curly. My palm skims the length of a solid forearm, allowing the tight curls of hair to prickle my skin.

Karl? I’m slow to register the silliness of my thoughts. My husband has been dead for nearly seven years.

“Who’s Karl?” a rugged, rumbly voice asks, and two things surprise me at once—the depth of the tenor and the unfamiliarity of it. I twist, knocking my shoulder into a brick wall of male chest, not putting a dent in his position but making my clavicle ricochet and my head pound harder

“Who are you?” I squeak, wondering how in tarnation a man got in my hotel bed.

“You answer me first,” he mumbles still sleep-rough and with his eyes closed.

“He’s my husband.”

I never knew how fast a big-bodied man could move, but the speed with which this man scrambles from behind me is record-breaking. He stands at the end of the king-size bed staring back at me a long moment, eyes blinking until I come into focus to him, and the reality of who he is becomes clear to me.

“You have a husband?” He chokes, swiping a hand the size of a dinner plate over thick midnight-colored locks. Despite several swift wipes, his hair refuses to stay in place, and I wonder what it would feel like to run my fingers through those reckless waves.

Silence settles between us. He’s waiting on an answer from me.

“Had. My husband is dead.”

He blinks, eyes dark as rich coffee searching mine. The sympathy in them tightens my chest. “I’m sorry.”

“It was mistaken identity. He was murdered.” I don’t know why I offer this information to a complete stranger, but there it is. My husband, Karl Simmons, was wrongfully killed.

Is there a rightfully killed?

Shaking my head, I dismiss both my crazy question and my sorrowful memory. Karl and I might not have had the best marriage, but we had an understanding. I didn’t want to discuss him.

The stranger nods, and I take a second to assess him. Broad shoulders under a tight white tee. Black dress pants minus a belt. A well-trimmed beard that looks as if it would be unruly like his hair within another day.

“You’re Chester Chesterfield,” I blurt.

The corner of his lip tweaks upward, crooked and sarcastic. “That’s right. Thanks for remembering.”

How could I forget?Chester Chesterfield was the esteemed guest and keynote speaker at the Tennessee Entrepreneur Conference yesterday evening, where the honor for outstanding female-led small-business owner of the year was awarded. I was a nominee, but I didn’t win. I’m not bitter. Nope. Not at all.

Chester Chesterfield, however, is a prize in and of himself. Rumored to be a petroleum oil tycoon, and not to be confused with petroleum jelly—the moisturizing kind—he spoke about the benefits and necessity of locally owned small businesses as important to a community and to Tennessee as a whole. Easy for him to say, though, as he’s worth millions from a business I can’t imagine remains small.

“I’m Scotia Simmons,” I tell him as if he might not remember me. Then again, he was in my bed, so I hope he knows my name at least. My eyes travel to his belt region, noting once again the lack of one.

“Did we?” I clutch the bedsheet I’d already been grasping higher up my chest, realizing how very naked I am underneath the soft material. Minus all but my underwear, I’m as bare as the day I was born.

He shakes his head, and relief washes over me. Thank goodness.

Then another thought occurs. “Why didn’t we?”

I mean, he’s Chester Chesterfield, known rogue lover at this event. The night started as I met up with a few other female entrepreneurs, and the first round of drinks included a discussion on the famous one-night lover.

Who will be his lucky conquest this year?One woman snickered.

Oh Leslie, you only wish it could be you,another snarked.

If only he was a repeat offender. The last one sighed, and the other two turned to her, wanting details.

My eyes found him sitting quietly by himself at the bar. A large, solitary man giving off a vibe as though he was untouchable, but it looked sad. Not pathetic, just sad. He was dark everywhere—hair, eyes, facial expression—and I was curious. I didn’t know if any of the ladies’ remarks were true, but somehow, Chester Chesterfield became my mission for the night.

Get laid.

What would uninhibited passion feel like? Would two sweaty bodies combining in raw desire be a fulfilling connection, or would I be disappointed again by a man?

Recalling the stiff length pressed into my backside only moments ago, I should know satisfaction would be guaranteed. I also should have immediately known it was not Karl, not in girth or firmness or enthusiasm. Karl rarely got it up for me. Ironic, considering where he was when his death occurred, but that’s neither here nor there for now.

I’m staring at Chester as all these thoughts race through my head, and I’m waiting on an answer.

“Your art of seduction needs some polishing.” His teasing voice is gravel while his body is a boulder.

“Meaning?” I snap, but I wince. My head throbs too much for sass. My art is just fine. I work out six days a week. It takes dedication to be this physically fit at almost forty-eight. I wear pretty lacy things under my clothing to empower me. Then again, I can’t fully recall how we ended up in this bed after three strong gin and tonics. Perhaps, my verbal finesse faltered somewhere.

“Puking on a man’s shoes isn’t sexy.”

“I didn’t.” I huff in disbelief while appalled with myself when I realize I did. I recall lots of flirty banter and eye contact in the bar. We made it up the elevator and down the hall to my room. Then that’s where I get fuzzy. “Where’s my dress?”

Becoming hyperaware of my nakedness under the sheet, I glare back at him as his left brow rises higher and a spark comes to those swirling brown eyes. Eyes that drew me to him for some reason.

“No,” I whisper, awareness slowly dawning on me. I made a mess on my dress.

“It’s hanging over the rod in the shower.”

“You washed out my dress?” I’m surprised at the sweet gesture while biting back my mortification. I threw up on my own dress. Well, there’s your lack of seduction skills, Scotia.

He shrugs, looking away from me, and I take in his profile. Burly and buff, I want to curl myself around that barrel chest and feel his heartbeat next to mine. I wonder if said chest has hair on it like his arm—prickly, springy, and sexy as . . .oh my. Last night, he wore a tuxedo and had slicked back hair. This morning, that tight T-shirt shows off muscles I want to explore. My curiosity wonders if more fine hairs trickle from his belly to below his beltline. I shiver with the thought and the desire to discover him. My eyes stroll his form, landing on the glorious riot on his head. I surmise it can only be contained for so long.

What else is uncontained on him?

“But we didn’t . . . you know . . .?” I’d whistle what I mean if I could whistle. Then again, whistling is vulgar behavior. I think puking on your own dress might surpass a little tweet from wet lips.

What did I say to him last night? I remember we were discussing something but don’t recall the subject.

I said, “I beg your pardon.”

He said, “You don’t need to beg.”

Our eyes met, and I sensed his statement went deeper than proper conversation. Did I beg him? Did I tell him how desperately I wanted to rub my body against his? I wouldn’t know how to ask for what I wanted any more than I’d know how to beg a man to take me.

Then he asked me to tell him three things. He probably meant tell him three things about me, but instead, I said, “You. Me. A bed.”

It’s the boldest thing I’ve ever done, yet here I lay—naked, alone, and unsexed.

Doesn’t anyone want to sleep with me?I’m successful. I’m wealthy. I’m physically fit  I fling myself backward, the heaviness in my head thumping as I hit the pillow and stare up at the ceiling.

“Maybe it’s your approach, darlin’.” He chuckles, and I realize I’ve asked my question aloud.

I just wanted him to sleep with me.

One night.

It’s been so long.

My head lifts, noting he’s still standing at the foot of the bed with his hands in his pockets, gazing down at his feet. I drop my head back one more time and close my eyes. He rustles around the room, and I roll to my side, opening my eyes to stare toward the window. The sun beams through the sheer curtains. We never closed the room darkening ones, and I see it’s going to be a glorious spring day here in Nashville. Soon, I’ll need to make the trek back to Green Valley, my hometown, but I’d give anything to remain in this bed and curl into myself.

More restlessness occurs. The sound of a shoe tapping on the floor as though he’s struggling to place his foot in it. The clink of a belt. He wore a tuxedo jacket and a bow tie. Where are those things? I don’t look. I just stare at the window.

My heart aches, which seems silly, considering we didn’t even have sex. I realize that’s the clincher. At one point during the night when he looked at me, I really thought he saw me differently than others do. Of course, the reminder remainder of the evening is a bit fuzzy, but his eyes will haunt my dreams and my fantasies as I’ll be back to self-pleasuring after this mortifying moment.

The women said he wasn’t selective. I wasn’t too old. Too graying. Too anything. He’d do me, they teased.

“Who said such a thing?”

I still as if I’d been moving, which I wasn’t. I’m even holding my breath.

“Umm . . .” Did I say all that out loud again?

“Was it those biddies you were sitting with? Is that who spoke such a thing ’bout me?”

Glancing at him over my shoulder, I meet his eyes, which toss axes back at me. I don’t have the strength to spar with him although fighting is one of my finest assets. I can pick and poke at the best of them, making certain I always have the last word. But not today.

“They told me you weren’t discriminatory, and I would be good enough for you.”

He huffs, shaking his head, and I notice he holds his tux jacket over his forearm. The belt and tie drape his arm as well. His fingers curl into a fist at the edge of his belongings, and for a second, I wonder if he liked holding me last night. Did he enjoy having his arm over me? Did he even know he did it?

“What does it matter?”

“Forget it,” I snort-huff. It’s an unattractive sound, but I don’t care. I don’t care because he wasn’t attracted to me after all, and I’ll likely never see Chester Chesterfield again. I twist my body away from him, returning my gaze to the gauzy curtains.

“No, I want to know. Who cares what those ninny know-it-alls think?”

My head rolls to peer at him over my shoulder once again. “It isn’t that I care what they think. It’s that I cared to have sex with you, and you didn’t care to have sex with me.” It’s been such a long time, and I put myself out there, propositioning him in some manner to get him back to my room. Now, I’m just embarrassed while missing the full memory of my behavior.

“Who said that?” he huffs.

“Who said what?”

“Who said I didn’t want to have sex with you?”

“Well, you . . .” I blink at him. He said we didn’t have sex. Isn’t that what he meant?

“I have another question. Why sex with me? And I want a real answer. Be real with me.”

I continue to stare at him before taking a deep breath and answering, “Because I haven’t had sex in over a decade, okay? Not with a real man. A man who wants me. One virile and passionate and solid in the . . . you know . . .” I wave a hand toward the general direction of his . . . you know.

“Say the word.”

“Pardon me?” I blink at him, but he holds firm, daring me to say one word.

I’m not saying that word.

We glare at one another for what feels like an eternity. The weight of those eyes is as heavy as his arm over my waist had been, but there’s something deeper in those midnight orbs. A vulnerability to him that mirrors mine.

Fine, I’ll say the word.

“Dick. There, satisfied? I wanted your dick.”

He shakes his head as he softly chuckles. This will definitely go down as the worst seduction ever. I close my eyes, mortified. I have no idea what he looks like underneath those tuxedo pants. He could be all of a pencil, sharpened down to just above the eraser for all I know, but the stature of him suggests otherwise. He’d be as solid as the tree trunk necessary to make a dozen pencils.

Admittedly, the discussion with those ladies at the bar got out of hand, and then I wanted him in my hand. I wanted to know what it would feel like to hold and be held. To caress and be caressed. To be penetrated by a man who was not Karl, and Chester seemed like the perfect specimen.

Suddenly, I hear the drop of the belt to the floor and feel the strain of the bed near my feet. My eyes open, and I watch as he tugs his T-shirt over his head by the back of his collar, removing the white material like a curtain for the opening act. On display before me is a broad chest smattered with dark hair and a thick trail leading lower. He tosses the T-shirt on the floor. His feet shift, kicking off his shoes, which make a soft thud near the foot of the bed. When he begins to crawl up the bed and over me, I can’t think.

“What man doesn’t want you, darlin’?”

Huh? Oh. I mentioned that, didn’t I? But words escape me as he hovers over me.

His brawn body blocks out the sun like a thunderous cloud, and I want him to rain down on me. He lingers over me but doesn’t lower. I want to spread my legs for him, but he has them trapped between his. My body hums for a connection with him. His body remains on all fours, a predator over his prey, and I’m ready to scream devour me. I’m so turned on, and he hasn’t even touched me. There’s a feral appeal to him. His nostrils flare, and he licks his lips. My heart races, and my breasts heave under the sheet hardly covering me.

“You sure about this, darlin’?” He attempts to whisper, but that rugged sleepy tone returns, and the depth rumbles over my skin like the rush of a rainstorm.

Yes.

No.

I shouldn’t do this.

But who am I kidding? I’m Scotia Simmons. I want to do this, and I always do what I want. Despite the throbbing in my head, I hold my chin higher and answer him.

“Definitely.”

** END SNEAK PEEK **

Love in a Pickle is coming soon!