Match Me If You Can (Chicago Stars #6)(60)

She danced with Darnell and Kevin, Heath with their wives. After a while, the couples drifted back together, and they stayed that way for the rest of the evening. Eventually, Kevin and Molly disappeared to check on their kids. Phoebe and Dan wandered away, hand in hand, for a stroll along the beach. The rest of them kept dancing, shedding their sweatshirts, mopping their brows, refreshing themselves with a cold beer or a glass of wine while the music urged them on. Annabelle’s hair whipped her cheeks. Heath pulled a Travolta move that made them both laugh. They drank more wine, came together, slipped apart. Their hips touched, their legs rubbed, the blood surged through her veins. Krystal ground her bottom against her husband like a freak-dancing teenager. Darnell took his wife by the hips, gazed into her eyes, and Charmaine no longer looked prim at all.

Sparks shot into the sky. Outkast launched into “Hey Yah!” Annabelle’s breasts brushed Heath’s chest. She gazed up into a pair of half-lidded deep green eyes and thought about how being drunk could give a woman the perfect excuse to do something she normally wouldn’t. The next morning, she could always say, “God, I was so hammered. Remind me never to drink again.”

It would be like having a free pass.



Somewhere between Marc Anthony and James Brown, Heath started forgetting that Annabelle was his matchmaker. As they headed back to the cottage, he blamed the night, the music, too many beers, and that wild auburn rumpus dancing around her head. He blamed the impish amber sparks in her eyes as she’d dared him to keep up with her. He blamed the feisty curve of her mouth as her small bare feet kicked up the sand. But most of all, he blamed his training regimen for marital fidelity, which he now realized had been way too strict or he’d be able to remember this was Annabelle, his matchmaker, his—sort of—buddy.

She fell silent as they approached the darkened cottage. Granted, tonight wasn’t the first time his thoughts toward her had turned in a sexual direction, but that had been a normal male reaction to an intriguing female. Annabelle as a potential bed partner had no place in his life, and he needed to get a grip.

He held the cottage door open for her. All evening, her laughter had chimed like bells in his head, and, as she brushed his shoulder, an unwelcome surge of blood shot straight to his loins. He smelled wood smoke, along with a light, floral shampoo, and fought the urge to bury his face in her hair. His cell sat on the end table, where he’d left it before the cookout so he wouldn’t be tempted to use it. Normally, he’d have checked for messages first thing, but he didn’t feel like it tonight. Annabelle, however, was busy as a bee. She slipped past him to turn on a lamp, knocking the shade askew in the process. She opened a window, fanned herself, picked up the purse she’d left on the couch, set it back down. When she finally gazed at him, he saw the damp spot on her top where she’d spilled her third glass of wine. Bastard that he was, he’d refilled it right away.

“I’d better get to bed.” She nibbled on her bottom lip.

He couldn’t look away from those small, straight teeth sinking into that rosy flesh. “Not yet,” he heard himself say. “I’m too wired. I want somebody to talk to.” Somebody to touch.

Being Annabelle, she read his mind, and she confronted the situation head-on. “How sober are you?”

“Almost.”

“Good. Because I’m not.”

His eyes settled on that moist blossom of a mouth. Her lips parted like flower petals. He tried to come up with a smarmy comment that was sure to offend her, which would snap them both out of this, but he couldn’t think of a thing. “And if I weren’t almost sober?” he said.

“You are. Almost.” Those melted caramel eyes didn’t leave his face. “You’re a very self-disciplined person. I respect that about you.”

“Because one of us needs to be self-disciplined, right?”

Her hands twisted at her waist. She looked adorable—rumpled clothes, sandy ankles, that hullabaloo of shiny hair. “Exactly.”

“Or maybe not.” To hell with it. They were both adults. They knew what they were doing, and he took a step toward her.

She threw up her hands. “I’m drunk. Really, really drunk.”

“Got it.” He moved closer.

“I’m totally wasted.” She took a quick, awkward step backward. “Hammered out of my mind.”

“Okay.” He stopped where he was and waited.

The toe of her sandal eased forward. “I am not responsible!”

“I’m readin’ you loud and clear.”

“Any man would look good to me right now.” Another step toward him. “If Dan walked in, Darnell, Ron—any man!—I’d think about jumping him.” The bridge of her nose crinkled with indignation. “Even Kevin! My best friend’s husband, can you imagine? That’s exactly how drunk I am. I mean…” A gulp of air. “You! Can you believe it? I’m so wasted, I couldn’t tell one man from another.”

“You’ll take whatever you can get, right?” Oh, this was too easy. He closed the remaining distance between them.

The muscles in her throat worked as she swallowed. “I have to be honest.”

“You’d even take me.”

Her narrow shoulders rose, then fell. “Unfortunately, you’re the only man in the room. If somebody else was here, I’d—”