Real Women Don't Wear Size 2 by Kelley St. John Page B

bursting free.
    He laughed heartily, and the luxurious sound rippled down her skin like hot shower water, touching her everywhere. “I have no doubt you’re ready, but is Tampa ready for you? Clarise Robinson, letting her hair down?” He tipped his head to the side, lifted his Coke, then paused. “I remember a time when you said you’d never be caught dead at one of those parades.”
    “That was last year, and I had a case of cold feet. This year is—different.”
    “Different how?” he asked, his curiosity still evident. His eyes examined her with that same intensity she’d witnessed at the Christmas party, as though he was looking at her for the first time . . . and liking what he saw. Was he? “Different how, Clarise?” he repeated, his voice lower, sexier.
    She swallowed thickly. She’d always had a hard time hiding things from this man. Truthfully, the big 3-0 had been a major factor in the decision to bare the Robinson Treasures at Gasparilla, but the truth was that she needed a wild setting to try to set her rowdy side free—and to try to take this relationship with Ethan to the next level. She turned away and glanced at a watercolor, a beach scene, on one of her walls. She’d meant to keep him from viewing her face, but she’d only managed to recall her
sex on the beach
addition to her list. Their friendship had developed so steadily over the past three years that Ethan could typically look at Clarise and know her every thought, dream and desire. Matter of fact, it amazed her that he hadn’t instinctively recognized her obvious attraction, but he hadn’t, and she thanked heaven above for that small miracle. So, right now, did he know that when she looked at that painting, she visualized the two of them, naked and writhing, hot and heated, wet and ready on that sand?
    Dismayed at where her thoughts had once again headed, she swiveled around to glare at the object of her every fantasy. Didn’t he realize how difficult this conversation was? And was he trying to talk her out of going to Tampa? Didn’t he want her there? Because it would be extremely difficult to have wild and crazy beach sex with him if she were still in Alabama. “You told me repeatedly I should take this trip, and now that I’ve decided to go, you’re trying to talk me out of it. I’m old enough to have some fun, and I’m going to,” she added, her frustration at having been caught midstrip wedging its way into the words. Then again, was she frustrated that Ethan had caught her, or that he evidently hadn’t realized the one she really wanted to strip for . . . was him?
    He took another drink and scooted closer to her on the sofa. “I’m glad you decided to go.” The corner of his mouth dipped down, and he shrugged. “I just hate it I’m going to miss the show.”
    “The show?” she asked, confused. “What show?”
    “Clarise Robinson, unplugged. I’ve got to tell you, I’m jealous.”
    “Jealous?” she asked, her vocabulary taking a momentary nosedive while he moved even closer.
    “Of all the guys in Tampa. I’ve been waiting to see you let that airtight guard down for years. Now you decide to set the wild side free, and I’m stuck in Birmingham with a major acquisitions meeting. I’m not going to make the trip this year, Clarise, and hell yeah, I’m jealous.”
    “You’re—not going?” she asked, her heart rate skidding to a near stop, from that fast and giddy thump-thump-thump to a slow, thick ka-dunk, ka-dunk. This was
not
happening. Ethan wasn’t going to Gasparilla? “This is the corporate bonding trip,” she said, trying to sound informative, rather than argumentative, because right now, she wanted to argue; in fact, she wanted to hit something. He wasn’t going? “How can we bond, if the owner doesn’t show?” she continued. “You’re joking, right?” She playfully shoved his arm, partly because she wanted this to seem like a friendly conversation, but mostly because she really did want