The way he said friend, like it was the most important thing he’d said all night, pushed all that other stuff out of the way. The person he’d been was still in there, drawing her closer. She wound her arms around his neck, wanting to dig deeper, to bring out more of the guy she’d loved so deeply.
“That’s better. It’s just us, babe. No one else matters.”
His hands slid to the base of her spine, and she felt herself melting against him, believing him, feeling safe with him. Wanting him. She rested her cheek against his chest and closed her eyes. It had been a long time since she could be herself with a man, and if Zane was nothing else, he had always been that guy. He accepted her for all her quirks. It felt incredible to be in his arms again. Her mind tiptoed down a dangerous path.
Maybe just one night . . . ?
ZANE CAME OUT of the men’s room and heard Willow’s feathery laughter tickling his ears. He scanned the crowd in the bar, which had thinned out over the last few hours as they’d drank and danced. He wasn’t sure if he’d imagined the wanting looks Willow had been casting his way all night or if he’d conjured them up with wishful thinking, but the longer he had her in his arms, the harder it was to remember they weren’t a real couple.
They’d met Liz and Mark, the happy couple celebrating their upcoming wedding, which was taking place tomorrow morning by the lake. After a few awkward moments of them and their friends gushing over Zane’s celebrity status, Willow had held up her hand and announced that they were engaged, shocking the hell out of him. She’d finally embraced their ruse, and good-time Willow had come out to play. He was sure the alcohol helped, but damn, he loved the way she draped herself all over him, playing up their relationship for their audience.
She laughed again, and he followed the sound to a tall table at the other end of the bar, where she stood with a handful of people. She wore Liz’s crown, and everyone else was watching her.
What are you up to now, baby doll?
Endearments came so easily when he was with her and when he thought of her. He never called women anything other than their names, but he’d called Willow just about every affectionate name under the sun for as long as he’d known her. He grinned, recalling her annoyance at his use of sweet cheeks. She’d always hated that one, which made it even more fun to say.
As he approached the table, two good-looking guys stepped up beside her, one unabashedly leering at her cleavage. Zane curled his hands into fists.
Willow tossed something up in the air, and it landed on the table. A coin, he realized as everyone leaned in to see it and cheered. Her eyes widened, and a gorgeous smile spread across her face as she reached down and untied her belt.
What the . . . ? Zane quickened his pace and narrowed his eyes as she whipped the belt around over her head like a lasso and tossed it in the air with a loud whoop!
The leerer snatched it out of the air and leaned down, whispering something to Willow. Zane grabbed his shoulder, dragging him backward.
“Dude!” the guy hollered.
“Hands off my fiancée, buddy.” He grabbed Willow’s belt from his hand and pushed past him.
Willow, oblivious to him, tossed the coin in the air again.
He put his arm around her and said, “Time to go, Wills,” as the coin landed on the table and cheers rang out again.
Eyes wide and glassy, Willow grabbed his shirt and tugged him closer. “Z! You’ve got to play this!”
The others began chanting, “Drink, drink, drink!”
Willow downed a shot, grabbed Zane’s face with two hands, and smashed her mouth to his. It happened so fast he didn’t have time to think past the heat blazing a path straight to his groin. She pulled back, blinking those unbearably long lashes up at him with a shocked look on her face.
He hauled her to her feet—her bare feet? “Time to go, Wills. Where are your shoes?”
“Aw, come on. We were just getting started,” a guy called out.
Zane ignored him, focusing on Willow. “Shoes, baby. Where are they?”
She looked down and giggled, turning those mischievous green eyes on him again. Then she shrugged and wrapped herself around him like a second skin. “Lost them in Flip, Sip, or Strip.”
Flip, Sip, or Strip? Holy shit. He made a mental note not to let Willow drink without him. Ever. “Come on, sweet stuff.” He slid his arm around her waist and guided her toward the resort.
“But we were playing.” She pointed over her shoulder.
“And now you’re done.”
“You didn’t kiss me back.” Her lips were pouty, and her brows furrowed.
Aw, hell. She was killing him. He wanted to kiss her, and not just to see her smile again. Grinding his teeth against the urge to do just that, he focused on getting her to the resort.
“Why didn’t you kiss me?” She stumbled off the edge of the patio and into the grass.
“You’re drunk.” He swept her into his arms, nearly groaning at the feel of her warm, lush curves pressed against him. Heaven and hell collided, and he was the lucky recipient of their torturous impact.
“So?” She wound her arms around his neck. “I bet you make out with drunk girls all the time.”
“Wills.” His warning was clear. He focused on the music fading in the distance, the water lapping at the shore. The sound of the frigging adrenaline rushing through his ears. Anything except the woman in his arms who was too drunk to realize what she was saying. She pressed her hands to his cheeks and turned his face toward hers. Jesus, she was too sexy, all pouty and angry, a flush from too much alcohol pinking her cheeks. He tried to ignore the thrum of heat building inside him, but when she licked her lips, he felt it below his belt.
“Why. Won’t. You. Kiss. Me?” she demanded.
He shifted his eyes away. “Put your head on my shoulder and chill, Wills.” Before I take you up on your offer.
“Am I not hot enough for you?” She pulled his face toward hers again. “Not skinny enough? Not pretty enough?”
“Willow, stop.” He carried her into the resort and directly to the elevator.
“Put me down.” She pushed against his chest.
“Sweetheart, you’re drunk. Just let me put you to bed.” Fuck. Now he was thinking about her in bed. The elevator arrived, and they stepped inside. He pushed the button for their floor.
“I’m not drunk.” She struggled until he finally set her on her feet. She swayed, and he gathered her in his arms. Sadness replaced the anger in her eyes. “Am I not slutty enough?”
He was this close to giving in. “Stop.” His demand came out as a whispered plea. He thought he was strong, but she tore at him in ways no other woman ever could, breaking him down one word, one look, one blink at a time.
“That’s it, isn’t it? I’m not slutty enough. You probably like those girls who flaunt their boobs and get down on their knees without asking.”
“Damn it, Willow,” he snapped. “Stop this shit.”
“Then tell me!”