Free Any Man I Want by Michele Grant Page A

way.”
    â€œYou’re thinking I forgot you were on the swim team in high school?”
    â€œYou were a professional athlete; doesn’t that give you an edge?”
    â€œKatrina, everything’s not a competition. We do this my way or we don’t do it. We can race, but we do it for fun.”
    She squinted at me. “I don’t recall ever working this hard to get laid before.”
    â€œMaybe ’cuz I want to be more than a lay to you.”
    â€œYou’re a different kind of guy.”
    â€œI keep telling you that.”
    â€œI’m starting to believe you. So what do we race for?”
    â€œScrabble or Monopoly tonight,” I said. We had a history of wickedly competitive marathon board game sessions in the past.
    â€œYou suck at Scrabble,” she teased.
    â€œYou suck at Monopoly,” I parried.
    â€œLet’s get it on,” she challenged.
    â€œPrepare to get your ass kicked, Cajun Kat.”
    â€œBring in on, Big Sexy.”

8
A fancy gun with shiny bullets
    Katrina—Friday, May 27—6:23 pm
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    Y ou know how people say that someone is driving them crazy and you nod sympathetically even though you know—absolutely know—that they are not being steered toward insanity by another person? Yeah, this was different. I firmly believed that messing with Carter Parks would have me seeking therapy before long. We had spent the rest of the week in Punta Cana getting to know each other. Or rather, he got to know me and I struggled to keep up.
    I could not figure him out. He engaged in deep conversation, he snuggled while watching TV, he took my hand for long walks down the beach. Who was this guy? I had it on good authority that Big Sexy was a player... no pun intended. Not just a ballplayer but a relationship player. He was known as a guy who landed, but didn’t stick; someone who made no promises, enjoyed himself, made sure a woman enjoyed herself, and was onto the next. In all the time I’d known him, he never had the same woman on his arm twice and never for any lengthy period of time. So I didn’t think I was that off-base to think that Carter and I could scratch an itch for each other and go back to being friends. Carter Parks, professional itch-scratcher. That’s what I thought I signed up for.
    I saw no evidence of that man this past week. This was a man who asked me questions so probing that I had to ask, stop, and think about what I believed and dreamed before answering. This was a man who was not afraid of challenging me, didn’t mind pampering me, but did not allow me to get away with anything less than a genuine response or reaction.
    I was intrigued and aroused every moment I was in his company. He saw too much. It was the most uncomfortable feeling ever. When we were ironing-out accommodations for this weekend in Vegas I almost opted to stay in a room by myself on the other wing of the hotel. Just so I could get some space and perspective. This was the first time in recent memory I was shying away from a relationship because I felt out of my depth. Usually I fled because I was bored or felt smothered or used. But this was an entirely new situation. Only the knowing, smug glint in his eyes as he waited for me to agree to share a suite with him or sleep on the other side of Bellagio kept me from fleeing. He might have had me second-guessing myself, but I didn’t have to advertise it.
    We’d landed in Las Vegas a few hours ago and I was never so glad for the company of my family and friends. My mother had brought me a suitcase full of fresh clothes and I gratefully had her meet me in the suite. I needed the buffer. Alanna Montgomery, lovingly referred to as Madere, was a tiny, long-haired, cocoa-skinned beauty who brought warmth into every room she entered. When she arrived, I stood back and watched while Carter picked her up and whirled her around. She flung her head back and laughed