Penni chuckled at the two of them. The sound was low and sexy. It must’ve hit Dan Man’s eardrum like a wet tongue, because Zoelner watched the guy gulp and immediately adjust his stance.
“In reality,” Zoelner told her, reclaiming his seat, “men tend to feed each other regular helpings of shit because, simply put, it’s fun. And it’s the only way this asshole and I”—he hooked a thumb toward Dan—“have entertained ourselves these past few months.”
And that was the straight-up truth. There were very few men Zoelner could spend ninety-three straight days with. Dan Currington was one of them. Probably because they shared the same warped, slightly dark sense of humor, were completely comfortable with hours, sometimes days, of silence, and knew each other well enough to agree that chitchat about the past was strictly off-limits.
Dan pulled out Penni’s chair so she could sit. After settling himself, he threw an arm around the back of her shoulders. Zoelner cocked a brow when Dan’s fingers started twitching like he was tempted to twirl them in the ends of the silky brown hair that trailed over his hand.
Dude has it so bad, he thought.
And then Penni adjusted her chair, causing her hair to tease Dan’s wrist, and Zoelner saw the exact moment the poor guy couldn’t stand it a second longer. A muscle jumped in Dan’s jaw before he gently caught a lock of hair between his thumb and forefinger, rubbing the strands together.
Okay, so the dude didn’t just have it bad, he was flat-out ass-over-teakettle. Maybe not in love, but at least in lust.
Zoelner couldn’t be happier. He’d been there the evening Dan’s wife was murdered. It’d been heartbreaking, soul-shaking, one of the hardest things he had ever witnessed. Harder still had been standing by and watching Dan sink into a pit of self-destruction and despair so deep that Zoelner thought there was no way Dan would ever pull himself back out again. But miraculously, he had.
By his motherfuckin’ bootstraps.
And now here he was, back in fighting shape and on an assignment some might consider the most important of his career. Add to that the fact that Dan seemed willing to open himself to another woman—enter Penelope DePaul—and it spoke of an inner toughness, an intrinsic courage and strength, that Zoelner could only marvel at.
In short, Dan “The Man” was one ballsy, brave, brutally badass sonofabitch, able to take life’s hard knocks and not only keep standing, but also thrust out his chin, ready to take another punch. Zoelner was proud to be able to call him his friend.
He glanced across the table at Penni, noting how her cheeks were flushed with heightened awareness, her eyes sparkling with desire. The sexual tension between her and Dan was so thick you could slice it with a butter knife. The pheromones hanging in the air so heavy Zoelner thought he could almost smell them.
Good for you, bro, he thought. Fuckin’ good for you.
Then all thoughts of Dan and Penni disappeared when Chelsea burst through the front door of the hotel like a pint-sized wrecking ball. Carrying a backpack and her ever-present monstrous satchel purse, she was dressed in leggings, a long wool sweater that came to just above her knees, and a pair of hiking boots with thick socks rolled down over the top.
On any other woman, the tree-hugging/granola/backpacker getup would not have been flattering. But Chelsea was blessed with more curves than a barrel full of rope, so she could make a garbage bag look good.
Holy fuck. He silently whistled, watching her trudge toward their table. That must be jelly because jam don’t shake like that.
He’d made the mistake of actually saying that to her once. He would never be that stupid again. His shoulder still hurt from where she’d drilled him with a tiny balled-up fist and accused him of calling her fat.
Fat? Oh, hell no. She was delightfully plump. In. All. The. Right. Spots.
“Hello everyone!” she said cheerily, taking the seat beside him. She leaned toward Penni, lowering her voice so only the three of them could hear. “Nice to meet you.”
“You too.” Penni nodded and smiled widely. Just a quartet of old chums on a holiday together.
Which was sort of funny when Zoelner thought about it. Considering Chelsea would probably say she’d been put on this planet not so much to be his chum but to torment his every waking hour. Case in point, how her subtle perfume reached out to him, tunneling up his nose and hitting whatever part of his brain controlled the thermostat on his blood. The stuff started to boil. And just like that, he went from coolheaded and composed to inexplicably hot and horny.
It was a problem.
One he’d yet to find a solution to, despite the fact she busted his balls every chance she got.
She turned to smile at him. And the ball-busting will commence in 3…2…1…
“Did you miss me?” she asked.