Too Hot to Handle (Romancing the Clarksons #1)(47)

Jasper turned his face away before Rita could see how her question—posed in her typical self-conscious fashion—affected him. Every time he swallowed, someone fed a new golf ball into his mouth, until he finally stopped trying. Had any man in history ever gotten choked up over being turned down for sex? Leave it to him. Make no mistake, his willpower was being brutally tested. If Rita hadn’t said the word no, he might have spread her legs wide and used his mouth until she turned willing. But damn if lying there under the huge sky, talking to Rita—knowing she wanted conversation with him, of all people—didn’t take a mighty big bite out of his thwarted arousal.

When Rita lay back, stacking both hands beneath her head, Jasper followed suit. She looked in his direction and every cell in his body went racing.

“So, Jasper Ellis.” Seeing Rita comfortable enough to flirt with him—without hesitating or rolling her eyes—made Jasper ache to pull her close. “What is your—”

Jasper stared at his hand, which had reached toward Rita without prompting to brush a stray hair from her lips. “You ruined the sky for me today, Rita,” he said gruffly. “It’s flat-out mediocre without you up against it. I reckon it always will be now.” He took back his hand, using them both to prop up his own head, his booted feet hanging over the tailgate, beside Rita’s. “Now what were you going to ask me?”

She appeared dumbstruck for a time, which Jasper decided was a good thing, before answering. “What is your favorite song?” Her breath rushed out. “I thought we were starting slow.”

He smiled. “That would be ‘Great Balls of Fire’ by Jerry Lee Lewis.”

Laughter shattered her pensive expression. “That’s a good one.”

“Isn’t it?” He laid his hand down in the truck bed and Rita took it slowly, intertwining their fingers.

I have to make an impression on this woman.

I have to try and give her a reason to stay.

Maybe…I even have a chance to accomplish that.

“Your turn, Rita,” Jasper murmured. But in his mind—after the ledge she’d just pulled him back from—he was thinking, Now it’s my turn.





Chapter Twenty-Two



Was it self-destructive for Rita to find herself walking along Hurley’s main avenue that afternoon, toward the Liquor Hole? Absolutely. She should have been in the waiting room with Peggy, reading People magazines from the Bush era while Aaron went through his dental procedure. Or perhaps an even better use of her time would be trying to get the goods from Belmont regarding his obvious infatuation with Sage. These were the people she would be spending the next two thousand miles sharing Suburban air space with. And yet. Here she was. Probably resembling the roadrunner-pursuing coyote, her eyes trained on the establishment ahead.

With the Clarksons Plus One leaving tomorrow—for real this time—she and Jasper were at the end of their plank, leaving very little room to explore the relentless samba in her stomach when she thought of him. But after he’d dropped Rita back at the Hurley Arms—claiming the bar needed his attention—she couldn’t have sat still with a boulder on each shoulder.

Pretty much a first for her.

After his attempt this morning to rush them into what surely would have been brain-cell-depleting sex—even if was outdoors—she continued to replay the story Jasper told her last night about what he’d overheard in his own establishment two years ago. The bride-to-be asked if I was going to be the paid entertainment. If one thing was clear, as she marched toward the Liquor Hole, it was that she couldn’t leave Jasper with that impression of himself. Perhaps she’d made a point this morning on the mesa, but it didn’t feel like enough. No amount of time felt like enough.

So she was fixing him for the next girl?

Fuck. That stung like a wasp on steroids. Her step faltered on the dusty sidewalk, and a passerby gave her a concerned smile. Oh, she liked the idea of Jasper being brought out of celibacy by some local chick about as much as she’d enjoyed the view count on her YouTube video this morning. Also known as, not at all.

“Nothing to be done,” she murmured under her breath just as she reached the Liquor Hole parking lot. Since the bar didn’t open until evening time, she was surprised to see so many cars parked in the lot. Maybe last night’s customers had been driven home by a designated driver? At the end of the row, she spotted Jasper’s truck and released a pent-up breath. God, even little remembrances such as the capable one-handed way he drove, or the way he’d helped her climb out, as if she were a Fabergé egg—those memories worked her pulse into an insane tempo. Truth was, she didn’t need a reason to be there at that very moment. Her feet had carried her there because who knew when such a small distance would separate them ever again?

It took Rita a full three minutes—and several irritated curses—to paste a casual expression on her face before testing the front entrance door, even though she suspected she’d have to knock. When it opened with no problem, Rita pursed her lips and stepped inside.

The sight that greeted Rita sent her stumbling back, shaking the wooden door on its hinges. Behind the bar and spilling out onto the dance floor, at least thirty senior-citizen women stared back at her, lips peeled back in bright, welcoming smiles. In front of each of them—on the bar or on folding card tables—little cooking stations had been set up. No stoves or ovens, but an assortment of ingredients, mixing bowls, kitchen utensils. It was like she’d entered a completely different dimension than the bar she’d stood in last night watching her brothers try to off each other.