Slow Ride. Carrie Alexander

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      When had his hand moved from her derriere to her waist?

      Ignoring the signs, she stayed in his arms, resting her chin on his shoulder and attempting to find the beat of the music that had previously come so natural and easy. But Tucker’s body was stiff against hers, and not in a good way.

      He stepped back. “Thanks for the dance.”

      Her mouth hung open. That was it?

      “I’m sorry about—you know.” He gave a shock of his thick dark brown hair a self-conscious tug, leaving it in ruffled disarray. There was an easy charm about him that was boyishly self-effacing. She imagined that he was the kind of man who got away with murder by flashing his grin at the woman he’d wronged, a grin made only more irresistible by the deep, dimpled grooves it cut into his cheeks. Lost in that charm and smile, a woman would find herself forgiving any transgression.

      “Sorry about what?” she said, giving him no easy out. If a guy was going to grope her on the dance floor and then run away, he could at least do her the courtesy of not apologizing.

      “Getting carried away.” His feet shuffled. The grin had become sheepish. “I shouldn’t have been so forward.”

      She followed him to the edge of the dance floor, grateful to be out of the revolving lights. “Please don’t look at me that way. I’m not your maiden aunt.”

      “No, but we’re practically cousins.”

      Inhaling, she straightened. “I don’t think so.”

      “Maybe not.” Tucker’s gaze went to her breasts. She fumbled around, gathering up the lilac shawl she’d let trail across the dance floor, but in the end she resisted the impulse to cover herself. She was working on her body issues—had even progressed to posing for her Friday afternoon life-drawing class—and she would not allow Tucker Schulz to see how badly he’d rattled her composure. Even if her nipples were so hard they felt like hitchhiker’s thumbs sticking out the front of her dress.

      Begging for a pickup, she thought with an inner groan. Pick me up and take me on a long, slow, sensuous journey.

      “Nolan and Mikki…” Tucker’s raspy voice trailed off. His gaze was still pinned below her neck and a small thrill went through her when he licked his lips. His eyes were the eerie green underwater color of the turtle tanks at the aquarium, reflecting more than his reluctance. He wanted her, but he didn’t.

      “What about Nolan and Mikki?” A lame excuse, in her estimation. He knew it and was using them, anyway, as a convenient out.

      Tucker looked away. “I’ll leave that up to her to tell you, but the upshot is that you and I—” He broke off, serving up another helping of the appealing grin-and-shrug. “We’re better off as friends.”

      “If that,” she said.

      Surprised by her resistance, he caught her hand. “Aw, Rory. Don’t be like that.”

      Despite herself, she melted. Not difficult when he’d already reduced her to a liquid state.

      She kept her face solemn. “Tell me. Does the boyish charm always work when you’re prying yourself out of a sticky situation?”

      He was no longer fooled by her stern tone. “Pretty much.”

      She laughed and gave him a push. “Go on. Get out of here.”

      He half turned, then threw another dimple shot over his shoulder. “Friends, right? I can tell—we’re destined to be good friends.”

      “Sure. That’d be just great.”

      Story of my life. Idly she twined the necklace chain around one finger, holding the charm in her palm as Tucker made his getaway. He was immediately snared by a curvaceous redhead in blue spangles who was offering him her locket before they’d gone three steps.

      Unlock the possibilities? More like unlock the door of your place or mine.

      The white-gold suitcase charm in her palm achingly reminded her that though she may have spruced up her outsides with the help of new designer clothes and a gym membership, inside she was still locked in the same old pattern, lugging the same old baggage.

      She sighed. For a brief moment Tucker had seen her as a beautiful, desirous woman, but she’d ruined that with her insistence on keeping his intentions candid and aboveboard. As well as her failure to believe in her own attractiveness.

      Almost ten years had gone by since Bradley Carr, her long-term boyfriend from college, had dumped her mere days from the altar, simply because he’d caught sight of some wannabe Bo Derek while taking the trolley. After the wedding had been canceled, the girl and Brad had used his and Rory’s honeymoon tickets to Cozumel. That they’d suffered Montezuma’s revenge and broken up on the plane trip home was Rory’s only small vindication.

      Since then she’d resolved innumerable times that she would not let one bad relationship affect the rest of her life. The statute of limitations for feeling sorry for herself was up and over and o-u-t, out.

      Rory looked around the club, seeing size twos everywhere.

      Affirmation time. I am a confident, successful woman with great skin and va-va-voom curves. I don’t need a man to complete me, but someday I will find one to appreciate me.

      Just not at a key party.

      AN HOUR LATER the charity event was on its downward slide to that time when those still hanging on to their locks and keys had to either match up or call it a night. Rory had put in her time and was ready to go, but she had Mikki’s car keys and there was no way she’d leave her sister to her own devices, especially when the man who’d broken her heart was on the premises. Tucker’s hints about the couple had roused Rory’s curiosity. So far, Mikki had managed to dodge all questions, slipping off to the bar to order another drink whenever Rory brought up Nolan’s name. Extremely worrisome behavior.

      Waiting for Mikki to return, Rory sat alone, gnawing her lip as she watched yet another couple match up. The lucky pair proceeded to the stage where Maureen Baxter handed them a prize and dropped their ticket into the wire bin containing all the entries for the evening.

      The impending raffle for the grand prize of a weekend at Painter’s Cove resort in Mendocino was the unofficial wrap-up to the evening. Surely then Rory would be able to leave. Lauren had already disappeared, after being spotted early on with a smoldering Johnny Depp look-alike. Some sisters had all the luck.

      A sloppy drunk in a Niners jersey staggered off the dance floor with the bottle of beer that had obviously been his only constant companion for the evening. He waggled his key at Rory.

      “Why not?” she said with a sigh, and held out her necklace.

      The guy aimed his key at the tiny lock on the suitcase and missed by a mile, thrusting the miniature key into her cleavage instead. He emitted a high-pitched giggle. “Missed my mark.”

      “Let me.” She pried the key from his sticky fingers and inserted it into the lock. No go.

      She returned the key with a relieved smile. Thanks for small favors.

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