Texas Fandango: Texas Montgomery Mavericks, Book 3 by Cynthia D’Alba

high-fives were slapping. One guy picked up KC and swung her around in the water. She screamed and laughed.
    A white-hot spear of jealousy pierced Drake’s gut and sizzled through his system. Drake’s jaw clenched. He had to bite his tongue to keep from yelling at the guy to get his damned hands off his woman.
    Fuck.
    The two teams climbed out of the pool. KC’s tiny bikini barely covered her butt. Aw, hell. It didn’t cover it. Her cute cheeks were there for all the guys to ogle.
    And that top. He didn’t remember her boobs pushing out of the top as though they were trying to escape. One little tug and her breasts would be free for everyone to see…and he ought to know.
    The clench in his jaw grew harder. His teeth ached.
    Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
    He grabbed a random towel off a chair and marched over to her.
    “Put this around you,” he ordered.
    “That’s not mine,” she said, her brows drawn down in confusion. “My towel is in the kitchen. I’ll go get it.” She turned to leave, but he grabbed her and wrapped his arms around her, effectively wrapping her in the towel.
    “Drake. What are you doing?” She struggled to get free.
    “What in the hell are you doing wearing that suit in public? You look…you look like a…a…” His whisper was a harsh hiss in her ear.
    She froze and then turned her head slowly around until their gazes met. “I look like a what?” All the color leached from her face. “You think I look like a slut in this suit? It’s so bad you think you need to cover me with a towel? You bought me this because you saw me as a slut on vacation?” She gasped and fought to get free of his hold. “Excuse me. I need to get dressed.”
    “Wait, babe. No. I didn’t mean that. I—”
    She slammed her heel down on top of his foot. With him wearing only sandals, she caught him pretty good on his toes. He loosened his hold long enough for her to twist out of his arms, leaving the towel dangling from his hands. A resounding crack sounded when she slapped him before storming across the pool area to the house.
    “Hey, thanks, man,” a guy said grabbing at the towel. “I wondered where it went.” The man glanced toward where KC had disappeared through a doorway. “Whatever you said, I think you screwed up. She’s pissed.”
    Drake relinquished the towel to its owner. Rubbing his stinging cheek with his hand, he said, “I noticed.”
    He began to make his way to the kitchen to find KC, but he kept being stopped and chatted with. By the time he got to the house, she was gone.
     
     
    Drake had fucked up. He knew it as well as he knew his own name, which might as well be Dead Meat. He called her as soon as he took Elsie Belle home. She answered and hung up before saying anything. Great. His name came up and she knew who was on the line.
    After hearing the phone click off in his ear five times, on the sixth call he got a recorded message that told him the number he was trying to reach had a call restriction that prevented the completion of his call. Sonofabitch. She’d blocked his number.
    On Thursday, he sent a large floral arrangement to KC at her office. On the card, he just wrote one word. Sorry .
    He thought—hoped—the flowers would weaken her resolve enough that she would at least talk to him on the phone. No such luck. The silence from her end continued.
    Friday afternoon, he called KC’s office. When told she was out, he left a message, one of too many he was embarrassed to admit. But this was the last one, he decided. He was done.
    The damn woman had him tied up in knots and totally confused, but he was done running after her. He’d apologized for his careless remark. Granted, the apology was by floral delivery rather than in person, but the damn woman wouldn’t talk to him. What was he supposed to do?
    Maybe he was the dense one. Maybe she was telling him exactly what she wanted from him now, which was absolutely nothing. Hadn’t she done precisely the same thing before they went to