Free Weddings Can Be Murder by Christie Craig Page B

cry, or admit they like quiche. They may even know how to cook it. Men who put up with overbearing moms. Or”—she pointed at him—“who admit they could like a poodle.”
    He set another box down beside her. “I’m not afraid of being sensitive. Hey, I donate blood.” Her expression drew his gaze and kept him talking. “I didn’t actually cry, but giving blood almost brought a tear to my eye.”
    She laughed again and he wanted to lose himself in that sound. “I wouldn’t know how to cook quiche—not sure I’d know a quiche if I ran over one—but I’ll eat just about anything that doesn’t bite back. And not to brag, but I cook a mean scrambled egg and can grill burgers and steaks better than any man this side of the Houston Ship Channel.”
    Lifting the box lid, he discovered more knickknacks, but his eye quickly went back to her. “I’ll admit I’m not proud of having a sissy dog following me around, but I haven’t used his fuzzy butt for target practice. Doesn’t that make me part metro?”
    She studied him. “You can’t admit you like him, can you?”
    “I don’t hate him. And hey, I feel bad when I step on him. Which I don’t do on purpose. The damn thing has a foot fetish.”
    She shook her head and her red hair shimmered. He let his mind drift to what it would be like to feel it on his naked chest. To feel that mouth moving south. His gazecut to the door. They were locked up, it was colder than a witch’s tit, what better way to stay warm than have a few rounds of hot sex?
    She brushed her hair back. “Poor dog.”
    His dick started reacting to his wayward thoughts. Then he remembered all the reasons getting it on with her wouldn’t be smart. Ahh, but he’d always been more brawn than brains.
    Silence fell, and he let it linger before asking, “Your fiancé, is he metro?”
    Her attention lifted from the box, and he could swear he spotted half of a frown. “Joe’s a very nice man.”
    “But does he cry, cook you quiche, and own a sissy dog and admit to the world that he loves it?”
    “He doesn’t cry.”
    She pulled the jacket tighter. Carl liked seeing her in it. He’d love seeing her out of it, too. “Does he cook?” The cold made his shoulder ache.
    “No.” A puff of vapor left her lips. “And he doesn’t have a dog, but he’s very sensitive to my needs.”
    Only a real queer wouldn’t give his left nut for the opportunity to be sensitive to your needs . The crude remark almost slipped from his mouth, but he bit it back. He tried to justify his sudden dislike for her fiancé, but couldn’t think of a good reason. “What does Mr. Sensitive do for a living?”
    “He’s an engineer. And his name is Joe Lyon.”
    He stared at her left hand, and while he’d noticed it earlier and hadn’t asked, now his curiosity bit harder. “Why aren’t you wearing an engagement ring?”
    Her gaze shot up. “I…I don’t want to talk about it.”
    “Trouble in paradise?” Why did that thought make him happy?
    “No.” She opened a new box and her eyes widened. “Yes! Finally. I think I just found something we can use.”
    Tools? Relief swept over him. Every instinct Carlowned told him the sooner he got away from Red, the better.
       
    After hitting another ice patch, Joe pulled up to the curb and dialed Katie’s cell again. It wasn’t like her to not show up. He’d been worried about her all evening.
    Yeah, when you weren’t too busy flirting with sexy blondes .
    He thumped his hand on the steering wheel. What the hell had he been doing? Okay, he knew he hadn’t done anything that constituted cheating. But damn if he hadn’t wanted to.
    Taking a deep breath, he ran his hands through his hair. Wanting to do something wasn’t a crime. But was it a sign? A sign that he was making the biggest fucking mistake of his life?
    The sound of BB-sized hail pelting his windshield drew his attention to the bad driving conditions. Had Katie been in an accident? Or had he gotten the