Seducing the Bridesmaid (Wedding Dare, #3)(3)
No, what she needed was a strong and steady man who’d be a partner. The dare might have been aimed at more temporary fun, but if she could kill two birds with one stone… Well, Regan was all about more bang for her buck.
Logan, the best man, was the kind of man who’d meet both needs. He was classically handsome, driven enough to be CEO of his own climbing company, and generally seemed like a nice guy. He was the one she had set her sights on.
That was before she’d pulled the ballsy move of switching the room keys on Julie last night, though, sending her to the wrong room to seduce the wrong man. Or the right one, if Regan was right—and she was always right when it came to reading people. It had been a spur-of-the-moment impulse she couldn’t deny. But when her best friend said she had her eyes set on Logan, Regan had seen it for the mistake it was—and not because he was the only one she considered suitable. The man was great, but no man was great enough to sever a friendship between her and one of her girls. Chicks before dicks, and all that.
But as much as Julie liked to kill herself aiming for perfection, she needed someone to balance her out. Mister Danger, Reed, fit the bill. He was dark, gorgeous, and brooding. The kind of guy who needed a bright spot in his life as desperately as Julie needed someone who could look beneath the surface and call her out for putting everyone else first.
Regan shook her head and took the shot—her favorite, a Short Southern Screw—she’d just ordered. It didn’t matter. There was no point obsessing over what she could or should have done. She’d done it and, by the time she finished her little switch, Logan was nowhere to be seen. The upside was that Julie hadn’t gone for her eyes today at dinner, so that, at least, must have all worked out well enough.
Turning to survey the rest of the room, she propped her elbows on the bar. It was a damn shame Logan had left the party at Spago earlier and didn’t appear to be planning on making an appearance at the bar tonight. The man was seriously hard to pin down.
Oh well. The night was young and she hadn’t had a real vacation in two years. She might as well enjoy herself. She motioned to the bartender. “Another one, please.”
“I hate to be the one to tell you this, darlin’, but you’re setting your sights too low.” The Southern drawl rolled through her like the best kind of bourbon, making a small feminine part of her swoon in delight.
It was a good thing she wasn’t ruled by such stupid impulses, especially when she knew exactly whom that voice belonged to. Regan glanced over, careful to school any expression from her face. “You again? I thought I’d made myself clear when I left you staring after me outside the hotel half an hour ago. Besides, if you paid attention, you’d realize I never set my sights too low.”
“A Short Southern Screw? So I was right. You’re craving something south of the Mason-Dixon Line.” He moved closer, crowding her even though there was still a good twelve inches between them. “I can assure you, though, I’m a man who isn’t short in any sense of the word.”
Holy shit, he blew right past self-confidence and overshot arrogance by a mile. She held up three fingers, dropping them one at a time. “Arrogant. Playboy. Ass.”
“You know, I heard you do that neat little trick of summing people up.” He didn’t look all that torn up about it. What a shame. “Darlin’, you’ll need a whole lot more than three words for me.”
She smiled, well aware it wasn’t a nice expression. Unlike this guy, she’d done her research before she got on the plane from NYC. It was how she’d narrowed down her options to Logan within five minutes of seeing Colton’s group of friends. “Brock McNeill. Good friend to Reed Lawson. Grew up with Kady’s soon-to-be husband, Colton. From a wealthy family down in Tennessee and is the favored younger son. So I guess you’re right—I should add lazy and rudderless to that list.”
Instead of storming off in a huff like she’d hoped, a slow grin spread over his face. And what a face it was. His tanned skin hinted at countless hours spent in the sun—or possibly some exotic lineage. It wasn’t the almost-too-long dark hair or the hazel eyes that made her stomach drop, though. It was that damn smile. Wide and white and bracketed by laugh lines. Even his eyes lit up, as if this were a man who knew how to enjoy the pleasures life offered.
God, what was she thinking? He probably did practice that grin in the mirror. Regan made a shooing motion with her hand. “Go on now, Scarlett. I already have a drink.” Did I seriously just call him Scarlett? As in Scarlett O’Hara? What the hell is wrong with me?
“I might be pretty, but I don’t have the shoulders to pull off a hoop skirt.”
Brock turned to the bartender, giving her the opportunity to eyeball the way his button-up white shirt hugged said shoulders and, holy shit, those back muscles were nothing to sneeze at. He’d gotten rid of the suit jacket he’d been wearing during their walk, and the tucked-in shirt only served to accent his slim hips and an ass that probably had lesser women salivating. Because she most certainly wasn’t. Much.
She’d gotten herself under control by the time he turned around, but it was a close thing. For his part, his grin hadn’t slipped. “Generally when a fella asks to buy a lady a drink, she doesn’t respond so vehemently.”
Probably not when he asked.
She’d dealt with Southern good ol’ boys more than once in her line of business, and she’d never been anything but cool and professional. Fifteen minutes alone with this man and she alternately wanted to slap that grin off his face and bite his shoulders. Get a hold of yourself. She took the offered drink. “I heard you had a reputation with the ladies.” It wasn’t exactly true. But she didn’t have to be a genius to realize most women would have problems being in the same room with this man without throwing themselves at him. As hot as he was, she’d never been a fan of being one of the faceless masses.