An Accidental Gentleman by M.Q. Barber Page B

attractive to a woman who liked bad boys. “This is my badass scruff.”
    “This?” She touched him. With gentle fingers, she danced across his cheek and down his throat. “Fuzzy and blond is not badass scruff, Prince Charming.”
    Feeling up his face and giving him cutesy nicknames. Forget dating—they’d jumped to sickeningly sweet honeymoon coupledom complete with gagging bystanders. Their next date, first date, whatever the hell he called the damn thing, was an absolute lock.
    “What you have is sweet cottonball fluff.” She ran her short nails up under his chin and let go too soon. A few seconds more, and her fingertips would’ve been in kissing range. “Maybe give it a few days before you try calling it a beard. Or scruff.”
    “This here is five days of primo beardification.” He hadn’t taken a razor to his face since she’d come in his arms. Endured the good-natured ribbing of the rest of the chair jockeys in data analysis all week. Worth every minute to get her hands on him. “It’ll be more impressive when I dye the beard to match my lucky shorts.”
    Collapsing into giggles, she landed with her forehead pressed to his shoulder. A sweet sound and a sweeter weight. He’d carry both a mighty long while, see if he didn’t.
    * * * *
    As thunder boomed, the skies opened up. The ping of sprinkles on the pavilion roof surged into a roaring downpour, drowning out conversation.
    Good thing, since Brian’s so-called beard lacked the substance to survive the teasing. Hell, the minute he stepped out in the rain, the hair would rinse from his face like so much Magic Marker.
    Men. Brian. Ridiculously proud of his scruffy face and his color-riot shorts. God. He’d make her life simpler as an out-of-shape hound dog with a sagging belly and a balding scalp. If she didn’t want to fuck him, he’d make a great friend.
    He smelled different today, musky and male under the sharp storm and fresh with grass stains as spring green as his eyes. The swirling mix of comfort and arousal called for his arm around her as much as his shirt peeled from his back and dropped to the floor.
    “You all using these?”
    Kit shot up straight. Draped on Brian like a lovesick puppy, ugh.
    The shouter, a smiling guy in a soaked tan T-shirt, waved at the four empty benches filling out their table. The rain had driven two score players and families onto the covered concrete slab. The crowd, hemmed in and adding to the humidity, pressed closer on all sides.
    “Not a one.” Raising his voice, Brian piled their trash in a small stack and snapped his cooler shut. “Looks like tables are going for premium prices just now, but I’ll let you have the rest of this beauty for an overnight sat shift sometime when Daniel’s in Prague and wants a morning briefing.”
    “Shit, that price might be too high for me.” But he swung into a seat and extended his hand as Brian flipped the trash into an open-barrel can. “Aaron. You’re the gal who got a double off my slow scramble in center, but I won’t hold it against you. Next time you come to the game, though, I won’t be sleeping.”
    “Kit.” She shook extra-firm. Next time didn’t scare her a bit. Wouldn’t be a next time anyhow, because she’d fuck Brian tonight and get him out of her system. That’d be the right play. A shame, because he—but absolutely the best option. “I might have to stay off the field so my victory isn’t ruined.”
    “Oh, now that’s an unfair move.” Aaron bounced his fist off Brian’s forearm. “C’mon, Surfer Boy, manly pride on the line here. Tell your girlfriend she’s gotta give me a chance to even the score.”
    His friends needed to stop fucking calling her his girlfriend. The easier the word rolled off their tongues, the better the idea sounded circling in her head. The better Brian looked. Not the entitled white-collar office jockey she’d imagined him, the college guy who played racquetball in a sweatbox or golf on manicured lawns and