Shame the Devil (Portland Devils #3) - Rosalind James Page 0,22
wondered about being with somebody that big?”
Jennifer stared at her. “Excuse me?”
Dyma sighed. “No, I haven’t had sex and failed to inform you. Still holding out for that special guy, exactly the way you’ve always suggested. Well, mainly because most guys my age are clueless. But I at least read. And, all right, how about just kissing somebody that big? Is that an acceptable wonder? Or should I be imagining how big his hand would feel around my tiny, dainty one, and leaving it at that?” She sniffed at her underarms. “I’m taking a shower.”
“We said twenty minutes,” Jennifer called after her as Dyma headed into the bathroom.
Her daughter popped out again. Sticking-up-hair, pretty, petite little body, and all. Jennifer wished she weren’t so cute. How were you not supposed to worry about your adorable daughter with all her reckless self-confidence, off at college, all alone?
“Mom,” she said, “they’ll wait. I can’t believe I have to explain this to you. And put that shirt away. You’re wearing the cream-colored sweater, and jeans, and your cute boots, and not much makeup, because you don’t need it for confidence. You’re pretty and fun, but appropriately casual. That’s your mindset. Too bad Blake’s paying for all this, because we could totally get those guys to buy us dinner. Except that it’s kind of manipulative, which would be wrong.” She sighed. “Too bad, because if they’re staying here, they have major bucks. I looked up the prices, and—whoa.”
The bucks didn’t have to be that major, not in relative terms. Jennifer knew that now. That was what working for a truly rich person could show you, although rich people, she’d learned, hated the word “rich.” They preferred the word “wealthy,” or better yet, “comfortable,” which still made her laugh. Yeah, she guessed they were comfortable, with their down-stuffed couch cushions and their heated driveways, so their boots wouldn’t have to touch snow. Three hundred dollars a night, though? That didn’t even make an impression on people like Blake.
“It’s still just as manipulative,” she told Dyma, “even if they can afford it. And that sweater’s too tight to wear without something over it. It’s a base layer. I’ll look obvious.”
Dyma banged her head against the door. “Mom. That’s the point.”
It was probably just hitting her head, Jennifer told herself as she laid out her clothes, then took Dyma’s place in the shower, and finally did her best with lotion, mascara wand, and lip gloss. Her head did hurt, because she’d banged it on the snow when the guy had tackled her. Her butt hurt, too. She had a bruise on the back of her shoulder the size of a silver dollar, and one on her butt—She twisted around to check it in the mirror.
Whoa. It was huge. No wonder it hurt.
That wasn’t what was worrying her, though. Redheads bruised. Fact of life, and she did have Advil for that. It was his eyes.
When he’d been lying over her, and then when he’d stood up with the kind of athleticism she’d only ever seen in … well, athletes, and had put his hand down to her, she’d had the same dizzying sensation as when the wolf had stared at her. Like the world had stopped. Like she couldn’t catch her breath.
His eyes were blue. Bright blue. And something had happened.
What had happened, she thought as she forced her way into her jeans and tried not to hurry—why did jeans have to become so extra-hard to get on when your skin was a tiny bit wet, making you feel like you were stuffing a bulging sausage into a too-tight casing? —What had happened was that she’d seen a tall, built, extremely handsome guy up close, had just broken up with her boyfriend (also tall, built, and handsome, though not nearly as much of any of those things, and look how that had turned out), had gotten the wind knocked out of her in every possible way, and had somehow instantly taken a ride into fantasyland.
Fantasyland was fine, though. She was on vacation. She’d go have that drink, set everybody straight on Dyma, get every bit of enjoyment she could out of looking into those eyes, possibly practice flirting, since she was apparently terrible at it, and give herself motivation to work out and eat fewer brownies over the next few months. She wouldn’t do anything else, even it was being offered. Of course not. She was modeling responsible adult behavior for her daughter.