Walking on the beach in January in heels and a dental-floss bikini for her first Sports Illustrated cover? That was awkward. Having to tell her ultra-conservative boss at her first non-modeling job that her douche of an ex-boyfriend had posted pics of her playing with her tits to a revenge-porn site? Most definitely awkward. Meeting her sisters’ true loves for the first time while covered head to toe in mud? Totally awkward.
Sitting here trying to pull words, let alone ideas, out of Mr. Grumps-A-Lot bypassed all of that. She’d nearly bitten her tongue off in an effort not to call him on his silent and glowering bullshit. Judging by his attitude, he bore some inner scars to go with the one’s crisscrossing the left side of his face, but damn, a woman could only gnaw the inside of her cheek to stop from screaming for so long before she ended up with a hole in her face.
The waitress paused by the table, ticket in hand. “Can I get you folks anything else? How about a free refill?”
“No.” Mateo didn’t bother to look up or even make a pretense at civility.
The waitress blinked her wide eyes a few times, slid the ticket to the middle of the table and skedaddled away.
Screw this. The man had gone from gregarious heartthrob to man most likely to hit you with the gigantic chip on his shoulder. How in the hell she’d ever fucked him on a semi-regular basis—let alone fallen in love with him—mystified her. There were snarling beasts she’d rather work with more than Mateo Garcia. In fact, she had. She’d done a magazine photo shoot with a lion. The big cat’s teeth had looked eight-feet long when she’d snuggled up to him, but it had still been a pussy cat compared to Mateo.
“This isn’t going to work.” Olivia crumbled the straw wrapper and stuffed it under the corner of her plate. “Let’s agree to let Luciana think we’re working together on the fundraiser…”
That got his attention. His head snapped up and his hazel eyes sizzled with a dark intensity that made her breath catch. “But we won’t be.” He finished for her.
“Nope.” She grabbed the ticket, completed a quick tip calculation and doubled it as way of an apology for Mateo’s attitude.
His large hand engulfed the coffee mug as he lifted it for a drink, every motion measured and efficient. Then he set it back down on the saucer without even the slightest clink. “You think you can just put together an event all by yourself?”
“Absolutely.” Flaming lava sizzled through her veins. He could push all he wanted; she’d never backed away from a challenge or a dare. She’d earned her reputation as the wild Sweet triplet.
He shook his head, not even a single strand of his dark-brown hair moved out of line. It was as if his entire self—not just his abs—was carved out of granite. “Good luck with that.”
She raised her chin and stared him down just like she had every handsy photographer who thought she was too dumb to realize he didn’t need to feel her up to get the right shot. “You don’t think I can do it?”
The bastard didn’t even blink. “Negative.”
Anticipation pushed her forward in her seat. Oh, this was going to be classic. “Why not?”
His gaze dropped down to the deep V of her cherry-red top and the pulse in his temple pulsed. For a second she didn’t think he was going to say anything, which was good because she’d just forgotten her own name. His focus inched northward across her generous cleavage, up her neck and to her lips—leaving a heated trail across her skin without ever making a move. The last dry spot on her panties surrendered.
“Why not?” He dropped his attention back to the coffee mug in his white-knuckled grasp. “Because you’re all unicorns and rainbows and puffy pink clouds.”
“What does that even mean?” Besides the fact that Mr. Tough Recon Marine had watched a few too many Disney movies.
“That this is a job that takes organization.” He flipped up a finger. “Discipline.” Up went finger number two. “And follow through.” A third popped up. “None of which are your strong suits.”
She didn’t need to count off with three fingers in response to his ridiculousness. She only needed one—but she kept that middle finger sheathed. Instead, Olivia added enough sugary sweetness to her voice to knock Mateo into a diabetic coma.
“It also takes creativity and a willingness to try something new—not to mention something more than a piss-poor attitude and a cute butt.”
He smirked. “Don’t be so hard on yourself. At least you have the hot-ass part down pat.”
And to think she’d cried— cried—over him.
He reached to pull the bill from her grasp.
She swiped it away before he could get it and slid across the booth. Her bank account balance may be pathetic, but there was no way he was buying her lunch. She wasn’t about to owe him anything. “Well, don’t worry. You don’t have to put up with my questions or idiotic attempts at putting together a fundraiser that would actually help this community. And I’ll find somewhere else to shower so I won’t be darkening your doorstep.”
His hand clamped down on hers, setting off an electric jolt that went straight to all the places it shouldn’t. “We’re in this together.”
“Why?” Now that came out shakier than it should have.
“Because I gave Luciana my word that I’d help you with the fundraiser, and I always keep my word. Always. Come on, I’ll drop you off at the brewery.” He tugged the bill free from her grasp. “I’ll meet you at the veterans’ center at ten a.m. tomorrow, then you can see for yourself that this project is too much for you.”
Since Olivia’s office at the Sweet Salvation Brewery looked like Armageddon at the dust bunny convention, she marched down the hall to Miranda’s. Her oldest sister’s office was all chrome and dark wood—perfect for the fast-rising Harbor City business executive she’d been before they’d inherited the brewery from their crazy uncle Julian. The only thing that kept the office decor from perfectly toeing the company line was the Live Free, Die High poster leftover from when their uncle ran it.
Miranda and Natalie