idea. I want to get down. I want us both to go back down to the ground, okay?"
"Shhh," he said. "Joan, come on, breathe. I'm up here all the time. Remember what I told you? For me, it's no big deal."
"Yeah, but you're not usually up here with me. I'm a total klutz. I'm going to knock you off of this thing, I know it. In case you haven't noticed, I need to lose about twenty pounds. I'm not some delicate lightweight."
"Well, actually," he said into her ear, as calmly as if they were having a conversation back on the ground, "I have noticed. Kind of hard not to, considering our physical proximity and, well, you want to know the truth, I don't think you need to lose anything. You feel pretty perfect to me."
Chapter 5
Muldoon held on to the ropes as Joan didn't say anything. As she still didn't say anything. As she continued not to say anything.
Oh, man, he'd never done this before. He'd never had to, never wanted to. And now he knew why. Facing potential rejection like this was no fun.
Especially when she smelled so damn good and fit so well in his arms. Man, this woman was incredibly sexy and she apparently didn't even know it. Her skin was beautiful, smooth and soft on her cheeks, but crinkling slightly around her eyes. He loved laughter lines on women. From now on it was going to be the first thing he looked for when he checked out a woman. He'd wasted far too much time on far too serious women who wouldn't laugh even if they were dating Adam Sandler. Yeah, he was forever done with women who didn't have a solid sense of humor.
He was done with women who didn't fill his arms, too. No more bony, half-starving, pencil-thin women who wanted him to escort them to dinner—which was ridiculous because once they got to the restaurant, they barely dented a salad.
No more blondes, either. He liked hair like Joan's—thick and dark with a hint of red highlights. Chestnut, he thought it was called. Yeah. And he liked brown eyes, too. Just like hers.
Right now her brown eyes were closed. But then she opened them and glanced back over her shoulder at him. And then, finally, she spoke. "Are you fricking hitting on me, Muldoon, sixty feet off the ground?"
"Thirty-five feet," he corrected her. "And no," he lied, because she didn't look particularly happy at the idea. "I'm not. I'm ... You said you weren't a lightweight, like there was something wrong with that. And I just thought you should know that a lot of guys don't like women who look like they'll blow away in a strong breeze. A lot of guys like women who actually look like women, and have, like, women's bodies, and well, I'm one of those guys, and I happen to think that you've got, you know, a really fabulous body. So don't go ruining it by losing twenty pounds and turning into a walking skeleton, okay?"
He'd surprised her. He'd surprised himself as well. Despite his initial lie, he'd never been so completely honest with a woman before—at least not about what turned him on.
A great smile, laughter lines, lots of curves, and legs just like Joan DaCosta's.
"Well," she said rather faintly. "Thank you. That's ... the most compelling argument for not skipping dessert that I've heard in a long time."
She glanced at him again, smiled weakly, then looked away.
Ah, come on, Joan. Say it. This was where she was supposed to take his incredibly unsubtle cue and invite him to her hotel room to share some of that dessert. And breakfast, too.
She cleared her throat. Here it came...
"You're a very nice young man," she said.
Ah, jeez. That was even worse than being called Junior. He knew from experience that calling someone—or being called—nice promised a relationship filled with exactly zero sex.
Yes, buried inside of her innocuous-sounding vague words of dubious praise was his answer. The No Sex Tonight buzzer sounded with seeming finality. He wasn't going anywhere near her hotel room any time in the near future. Nice young man was a full one-eighty degrees from steamin' hot
"Shhh," he said. "Joan, come on, breathe. I'm up here all the time. Remember what I told you? For me, it's no big deal."
"Yeah, but you're not usually up here with me. I'm a total klutz. I'm going to knock you off of this thing, I know it. In case you haven't noticed, I need to lose about twenty pounds. I'm not some delicate lightweight."
"Well, actually," he said into her ear, as calmly as if they were having a conversation back on the ground, "I have noticed. Kind of hard not to, considering our physical proximity and, well, you want to know the truth, I don't think you need to lose anything. You feel pretty perfect to me."
Chapter 5
Muldoon held on to the ropes as Joan didn't say anything. As she still didn't say anything. As she continued not to say anything.
Oh, man, he'd never done this before. He'd never had to, never wanted to. And now he knew why. Facing potential rejection like this was no fun.
Especially when she smelled so damn good and fit so well in his arms. Man, this woman was incredibly sexy and she apparently didn't even know it. Her skin was beautiful, smooth and soft on her cheeks, but crinkling slightly around her eyes. He loved laughter lines on women. From now on it was going to be the first thing he looked for when he checked out a woman. He'd wasted far too much time on far too serious women who wouldn't laugh even if they were dating Adam Sandler. Yeah, he was forever done with women who didn't have a solid sense of humor.
He was done with women who didn't fill his arms, too. No more bony, half-starving, pencil-thin women who wanted him to escort them to dinner—which was ridiculous because once they got to the restaurant, they barely dented a salad.
No more blondes, either. He liked hair like Joan's—thick and dark with a hint of red highlights. Chestnut, he thought it was called. Yeah. And he liked brown eyes, too. Just like hers.
Right now her brown eyes were closed. But then she opened them and glanced back over her shoulder at him. And then, finally, she spoke. "Are you fricking hitting on me, Muldoon, sixty feet off the ground?"
"Thirty-five feet," he corrected her. "And no," he lied, because she didn't look particularly happy at the idea. "I'm not. I'm ... You said you weren't a lightweight, like there was something wrong with that. And I just thought you should know that a lot of guys don't like women who look like they'll blow away in a strong breeze. A lot of guys like women who actually look like women, and have, like, women's bodies, and well, I'm one of those guys, and I happen to think that you've got, you know, a really fabulous body. So don't go ruining it by losing twenty pounds and turning into a walking skeleton, okay?"
He'd surprised her. He'd surprised himself as well. Despite his initial lie, he'd never been so completely honest with a woman before—at least not about what turned him on.
A great smile, laughter lines, lots of curves, and legs just like Joan DaCosta's.
"Well," she said rather faintly. "Thank you. That's ... the most compelling argument for not skipping dessert that I've heard in a long time."
She glanced at him again, smiled weakly, then looked away.
Ah, come on, Joan. Say it. This was where she was supposed to take his incredibly unsubtle cue and invite him to her hotel room to share some of that dessert. And breakfast, too.
She cleared her throat. Here it came...
"You're a very nice young man," she said.
Ah, jeez. That was even worse than being called Junior. He knew from experience that calling someone—or being called—nice promised a relationship filled with exactly zero sex.
Yes, buried inside of her innocuous-sounding vague words of dubious praise was his answer. The No Sex Tonight buzzer sounded with seeming finality. He wasn't going anywhere near her hotel room any time in the near future. Nice young man was a full one-eighty degrees from steamin' hot
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