Liz has finally put the teenage pounds, dysfunctional family and embarrassingly one-sided high school crush behind her. And then she’s called home…
STACKING THE DECK
by CHERI ALLAN
~ Book Two ~
A Betting on Romance Novel
COPYRIGHT
Copyright © 2014 Cheri Allan
ISBN: 978-0-9904815-2-2
Editing by Orchard Edits
Cover Image Credits:
House porch with flowers & logo © Elena Elisseeva | Dreamstime.com
Apple blossoms © Soyka | Dreamstime.com
Kindle Edition
This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any reproduction or other unauthorized use of the material or artwork herein is prohibited. This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without the prior written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Books don’t simply emerge fully-formed from the imaginations of the author. They are pulled into the world kicking and screaming (and sometimes demanding boxed wine) where they must be shaped, chiseled and buffed into respectability.
And so, I must acknowledge my debt to those who helped make this book worthy of you, dear reader.
My husband and children who, in the name of writing, withstand dust bunny storms and thrown-together meals that would make Julia Child cringe, and who understand what I mean when I ask: “Are you bleeding? Vomiting? How big a flame are we talking?” because the creative mind does not take interruptions lightly.
To the dear ladies of NHRWA who cheer so supportively and are a generous and knowledgeable resource for every writing-related issue. And when they don’t have the answer, bless them, they have chocolate.
As always, I thank the Plotbunnies for hashing out plots and conflicts and inspiring and challenging me with “what if….”
I thank Charis, my editor. You always seem to know the story I meant to write. Thank you for keeping me on track.
A huge thank you to my beta readers for raising their hands and being willing to read on short notice. I owe you each a giant Whitman’s Sampler!
And, because I know you are not a figment of my imagination, I thank my readers for taking a chance on this new author and then (Squee!) asking for my next book. Here it is. Just for you!
~ Cheri
DEDICATION
For my dad,
I’m so glad you were here to see my
happily ever after come true.
~ Your Chickie
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Acknowledgements
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Book One, Luck of the Draw, Sneak Peek — Available Now!
Book Three, All or Nothing, Coming Spring 2015
Dear Reader
About the Author
CHAPTER ONE
____________________
Twelve years earlier…
SHE’D NEVER FELT MORE EXPOSED.
Beth tried to focus, but her brain was misbehaving. As in not working. Instead, she was acutely aware of the creaking of his aged leather jacket, the heat radiating from his lean, muscular, oh-so-swoon-worthy body and the knowledge that she was going to have to give Mrs. Peabody, the school guidance counselor, an extra-large Whitman’s Sampler at Christmas this year for the gift of assigning her to tutor [insert choirs of angels singing here] Carter. McIntyre.
“Twizzler?”
Beth started and realized Carter was looking at her expectantly. “We’re not supposed to have food in the library,” she blurted.
Stupid! What was she saying? Everyone ate in the library! You just couldn’t get caught eating in the library!
He shrugged and snagged a long, strawberry-scented strand from somewhere in his backpack and took a bite. She watched as if in slow motion. He had good teeth. Not that he was a horse or anything, but they were nice and straight without being perfect-straight like all the girls that went to Dr. Lewalski’s Orthodontics in the old mill building. She didn’t think Carter ever had braces. That’s how perfect he was.
Perfectly unattainable.
Beth licked her lips and frowned hoping she wasn’t having a reaction to the new lip gloss she’d bought just for this occasion. Like he wanted to stare at inflamed lips for an hour. The thought made her stifle a nervous giggle.
She shouldn’t be nervous. She could do this. She’d had two full days to prepare for this moment, and even the weather gods were on her side, for Pete’s sake. There wasn’t a hair-frizzing storm cloud in sight.
It was a picture-postcard late September day. The leaves of the giant sugar maple outside the library rustled softly, and a light breeze drifted through the open window, carrying with it the scents of leather, Twizzler and something intangible, hopeful and slightly wild.
Beth held her breath in her lungs and pressed her hands down her thighs, willing herself not to fidget. She wasn’t prone to fidgeting as a rule, but she’d never been this close to Carter McIntyre before either. And he was here. Next to her. Talking to her. Asking her, God help her, questions...
“So, ah, do you tutor a lot?” Carter waited for her to answer, his lips tilting in that slight, irresistible, not-quite-a-smile way that made every sophomore girl’s heart beat like a chipmunk’s. He swallowed his bite of Twizzler, his long, tanned throat working. Beth gl
anced up at his eyes, then away again. My God. His eyelashes were to die for.
“Um. No. You’re my first,” she murmured. Then she froze.
Oh God! That sounded so…!
“I’ll try not to be hard on you.”
She flushed, a tidal wave of awareness and shock flooding up her neck and into her cheeks. Ohmigod, she did not do innuendo! She dove for her backpack on the floor to avoid looking at him and pulled out a highlighter as if it were a vital piece of tutoring equipment she’d nearly forgotten.
His leather jacket creaked as he moved restlessly in his chair. “I meant, I’ll try not to make it hard. Tutoring me. Shit.” He muttered that last word softly, and Beth realized with a start that maybe they were both uncomfortable. Obviously him for other reasons than that he was intensely, madly crushing on her, but still.
She cleared her throat and busied herself tidying the books and notebooks on the library table in front of them. “Of course! ” she said, not quite sure whether to believe him. One never knew what to believe where Carter McIntyre was concerned. Rumors followed him around like swooning girls and the smell of freshly-applied Lip Smackers.
She set the highlighter parallel to her notebook and tried to breathe through her nose, quietly and calmly. How could she find his mumbled swear a turn-on?
She would not survive. This guy was so hot, so unsettling and so out of her league, she’d burn to a teenaged, hormonal crisp by the end of the quarter, for sure. They’d find her charcoaled remains in this very seat….
“So, what is your current grade?” she asked briskly, trying to pretend she knew what the heck she was doing.
“Twenty-eight.”
She made a noise which she hoped sounded like a small chuckle. “No, not the date. Your grade.”
He shrugged and rat-a-tat-tapped a pencil on his thigh.
She stared at him. Closed her jaw. “I see.”
He tossed the pencil on the table and pushed his chair back, a loud scrape on the hardwood floor. “If you don’t want to do this…”
She grabbed his arm. “No! No. It’s okay. I like a challenge.”
He turned and raised one dark eyebrow. He had the shadow of what would one day be stubble across his upper lip. The shadow of impending manhood coupled with the arch of that brow made him look… unpredictable. Dangerous. Like the bad boy you’re not supposed to want, but do. Oh, yes, by all that’s holy, you most. definitely. do.
The leather of his jacket was smooth and warm under her palm, and she didn’t let go, even though she probably should have, until he settled back in his seat.
“A challenge,” he repeated. “I don’t think you know what you’re getting into.”
“Are you stupid?” she asked, the question blurting out of her.
His eyebrows slashed down and his jaw hardened. “No.”
“Neither am I. I know perfectly well what I’m getting into. Chapter two. Rational numbers.”
He didn’t move, so she opened the thick text and lay it in front of him. Her hand shook slightly as if a current of electricity was coursing through her. “Don’t underestimate me, and I won’t underestimate you. Deal?”
Her heart beat like a wild thing in her chest as she waited for his response. Had she pushed him too far? He’s out of your league, Beacon! the rational part of her screamed. What do you think you're doing? And even though she’d never felt more vulnerable in her life, she did the unthinkable.
She smiled at him.
He watched her a moment, his dark green eyes inscrutable. Then he reached into his backpack, pulled out another Twizzler, and held it toward her like a dare. “Deal.”
CHAPTER TWO
____________________
LIZ BEACON’S TOES DUG into Grant’s bedroom carpet as she watched the single drop of water slither down his baby-smooth chest.
Huh.
Why had she always pictured his chest with more, well, hair? Did he shave it? Wax it? Did men just not have chest hair anymore? And how is it that after more than four months of dating, she’d never actually seen his naked torso?
She stood, staring at Grant’s chest, puzzling over whether he man-sculpted or simply had naturally non-hairy genes, when he dropped the towel he’d been holding around his waist and reached for her.
She inhaled. Oh my.
Swallowing quickly, she sucked in her stomach, arched her back and tried not to tug at the fancy, new, “special-occasion” underwear that seemed designed to cut off the blood supply to her femoral arteries. Not now, she told herself. Do not ruin this beautiful moment!
She hadn’t put in all those long hours working on the merger, fit in extra workouts to tone and smooth, and nursed Grant through that nasty bout of bronchitis for nothing! No! This night would be nothing less than perfect. So perfect, in fact, that in years to come, she and Grant would share a cup of Earl Grey in the Limoges china they’d gotten for their wedding, stare warmly into each other’s eyes and reminisce over the utter romantic perfection of this very night.
And, she deserved this night, didn’t she?
For all the chocolate binges she’d denied herself and youthful indiscretions she’d avoided… For all the nice-enough-but-go-nowhere-in-life guys she’d dated and, let’s be honest, ditched over the years… well, let’s just say it was no accident that she was standing here in pale pink, lace hipsters and matching push-up bra.
Liz Beacon knew where she was headed. She’d known, in fact, since that sweltering August afternoon when she’d stood in her parents’ backyard in an unflattering sea foam green dress and watched her sister parade her pregnancy-enhanced breasts in an ironically white gown found at a local thrift shop. Liz had vowed then and there never to let this kind of careless disaster happen to her.
No. Liz had plans. She’d walked away from Sugar Falls, NH, ten years ago and never looked back. She’d shed her awkward teenage pounds, dysfunctional family and hokey lawn-ornaments roots for a fab career, killer abs and a man every woman would envy.
Yes, she still talked to her mother daily and had a hidden stash of Easter peeps in her underwear drawer. Okay, and maybe they weren’t exactly killer abs, more toned. Okay, smooth. Ish. But none of that mattered now, because she was this close to consummating her relationship with Grant—the man who represented the cherry on top of everything she’d worked to become. Nothing could derail her now.
Not even ill-fitting underwear.
Resolutely ignoring her personal discomfort, Liz smiled at Grant. Dear Grant! From his polished, yet carelessly tousled hairstyle to that elegant, lean physique, it was as if he’d stepped right out of a Ralph Lauren ad and into her life. He was the ideal combination of style, ambition and athleticism. The man played racquetball twice a week and ran daily. Daily!
Swoon! Their children would be gorgeous.
She licked her lips, Grant’s favorite Pinot Grigio still tart on her tongue, and threw herself into the moment. A soft adagio swept the room with romantic violins. True, she would have preferred Norah Jones or even a little Phillip Phillips, but this night was about Grant.
Grant ran his hand up her arm, and Liz closed her eyes. “Your skin is so soft,” he said into her ear. Mmm. It had better be for all she’d shelled out for that seaweed/aloe/vitamin E wrap in anticipation of this night.
Liz marveled over the sliver of picture-perfect Chicago skyline just visible through Grant’s bedroom window. They sank to his bed, kissing, Grant’s hands sliding over her shoulders, her back.
She fingered the sheet behind his head as she debated whether the volume of the stereo was too loud. “Your sheets feel like butter,” she said.
“They’re bamboo.”
“Really? Wow.” She should have known he’d choose eco-friendly bedding material. What an incredible man.
“So,” Grant said, rolling her onto her back, “where were we? I don’t think it was discussing my sheets.” He nuzzled behind her ear again.
“The light’s still on,” she said over his shoulder. She sq
uiggled free and leapt from the bed. “I’ll be right back.” She flicked off the switch by the door and remembered the scented candles she’d brought over just for tonight.
“I’m getting chilly here all alone,” Grant cooed from the bed.
“I’m just lighting the candles,” she cooed back.
“I don’t need candles.”
“It’ll put us in the mood,” Liz said, blowing lightly on the last candle until a neatly flickering flame appeared. There. Perfect. She let out a smooth exhale and turned.
Grant lay on his back, his face in shadow. “I’m already in the mood,” he said, reaching for her hand.
Liz smiled down at him and gave his hand a squeeze. “I just want our first time together to be absolutely perfect.”
“I know.” Her heart gave a delighted lurch as he pressed a kiss to her knuckles. So sweet! “But you don’t have to try so hard, Liz. It’s just sex.” He gave her arm a tug, pulling her on top of him, then he growled—growled?—and rolled her beneath him.
“It’s more than just sex,” she insisted, catching her breath.
“You know what I mean,” he said against her lips.
She kissed him, once, then pressed her palms to his chest, thinking. “Actually, I don’t. What do you mean?”
“I mean, just enjoy it. It doesn’t have to be this Big Event.”
“It’s our first time!”
“Not unless we actually do it.”
She gave him a little shove, annoyed at the silky feel of his chest under her palms. “Meaning?”
Grant rolled to his side. “Meaning, I’ve been ready since you walked in the door, but you insisted you needed time to make things perfect. So I took a shower. Now we have to do the whole music and candles thing? Will we have to jump through these hoops every time we have sex?”
Liz scooted to a sitting position. “I was making an effort to make things romantic.”
He ran a hand through his hair. “I know. It’s just… I’m a sure thing, Liz. I appreciate the effort, but you don’t have to work this hard.”