Getting Hotter Read online

  Carson’s voice snapped Dylan back to the present. Or maybe he’d been zapped into the twilight zone—because had the lieutenant seriously just uttered the word lovemaking?

  “Lovemaking?” Matt echoed before breaking out in gales of laugher.

  Seth shook his head in amazement. “Fuck, he’s gone off the deep end.”

  “I’m serious. I imagine you’re all lacking when it comes to pleasing your women, so I’m happy to share my knowledge.”

  From his chair across the table, Ryan Evans rolled his eyes. “Whatever helps you sleep better at night, LT.”

  Carson feigned puzzlement. “Sleep? What’s that?” He broke out in a grin. “I’m too busy rocking my wife’s world.”

  And Holly Scott’s world must have been rocked really fucking nicely last night, Dylan thought. You could always tell how many orgasms the lieutenant’s wife had experienced by the amount of food she served. Tonight, Holly had laid out an entire feast. Six different kinds of salad, homemade bread, a cheese tray, mini-sandwiches, pigs in a blanket. And who could overlook that saliva-inducing chocolate cake sitting in the glass dish on the kitchen counter. The woman was a damn saint. Of course, she had to be for putting up with Mr. Cocky over there.

  That last thought gave him pause as he remembered Cash mentioning that Carson and Holly had been having problems a while back, around the time Cash had gotten together with Carson’s sister, Jen. But as far as he knew, the couple had worked everything out, and judging by the happy vibes Carson was radiating, their reconciliation had stuck.

  Dylan sipped his beer, then snuck a peek at the two cards Ryan had just dealt him. A six and a queen, off-suit. Man, Lady Luck was not on his side tonight. He’d received nothing but shitty hands so far. When the flop revealed three completely unhelpful cards, he folded instantly and leaned back in his chair, watching the game develop. They were missing a few of the usual players, namely former SEAL John Garrett and the team’s CO, Thomas Becker, who were both at home dealing with sick kids.

  As always, Cash’s crappy poker face divulged the awesomeness of his hand, which resulted in Carson, Matt, Ryan and Seth folding. Jackson, who was possibly the worst card player on the planet, stayed in for much longer than he should have and ended up losing his entire buy-in.

  Cue: another round of heckling.

  Hearing Jackson explain away his terrible poker decisions in that southern drawl of his was highly entertaining. For a man who hailed from Texas, Jackson sucked ass at Texas Hold ’Em, and Dylan was doubled over in laughter as he listened to the other man’s reasoning for sucking.

  He was so absorbed, in fact, that he was caught completely off-guard when Aidan Rhodes strode into the living room.

  “Sorry I’m late,” Aidan said in that deep, easygoing voice of his. “I had a dinner date and it ran late.”

  Uh-huh. Of course he’d had a date. There was no shortage of women in Aidan’s life, or at least that’s what Dylan had witnessed the week he’d stayed at the guy’s condo. Aidan seemed to have a date every damn night. And every damn night, he’d take the chick into his bedroom and fuck her. Hard. So hard that all Dylan could hear was the goddamn thump-thump-thump of that headboard banging into the wall.

  Not that he was jealous or anything.

  “Beer’s in the fridge,” Carson said as he tossed a few green chips into the growing pile in the middle of the table. “Help yourself, Rhodes.”

  Dylan noticed that Aidan didn’t even spare him a look as he headed for the kitchen. Just as well. God knew they’d exchanged enough looks during the week they’d roomed together. They’d completely exceeded their look quota, actually.

  All the tension that had slowly been draining away seeped right back into Dylan’s body, congealing into an uneasy pretzel in his gut. For the next hour, he put on a good act, trash-talking, joking, laughing, but the entire time, he was wholly aware of Aidan on the other side of the table.

  At one point, their eyes met and he could swear Aidan’s mouth took on a hint of a smirk.

  After losing his second buy-in, he threw down his cards with a groan. “I’m sitting out the next round. I need to regroup here.”

  Cash grinned at him. “Why don’t you regroup your way to the kitchen and get me a beer?”

  He flipped his buddy the bird, but headed to the kitchen anyway because he could use a refill himself. Sticking his head inside the fridge, he welcomed the rush of cold air, hoping it would douse the flames licking his lower body. He didn’t have a hard-on, but his dick was aching. A dull, continuous ache, his cock’s way of expressing its unhappiness over Dylan’s refusal to give it what it wanted.

  “So how long are you going to keep avoiding me?” Aidan’s amused voice sounded from the doorway.

  He closed his eyes briefly, steeling his resolve, then ducked out of the fridge with two Coors bottles. He kept his tone light. “I’m not avoiding you.”

  A chuckle. “Bull. You’ve been blowing me off for weeks.”

  Damned if his dick didn’t throb at the word blowing.

  Shrugging, Dylan leaned against the granite counter. “Things have been hectic. I saw you texted a few times after the night we played pool, but I’ve been hanging out with that blonde from the club so I didn’t have a chance to message you back.”

  Total lie. He’d seen Rachel Carver a whopping one time. They’d had sex at her place, it had been vaguely satisfying, and he hadn’t called her since.

  But Aidan didn’t need to know that.

  “Speaking of the night we played pool…” Aidan cocked a brow.

  “What about it?”

  “You barely said two words to me, man. After you left, O’Connor asked me what I’d done to piss you off so bad.”

  Shit. Matt had noticed that he’d gone out of his way not to be overly chummy with Aidan?

  Of course he did, you moron. You weren’t exactly in stealth mode about it.

  “So I’m thinking we cut the bull crap and address the real issue here.” Aidan crossed the room with purposeful strides, stopping when they were two feet apart.

  Dylan gulped. Damn, the man looked good tonight. Black trousers, snug gray V-neck, dark hair artfully rumpled. And he smelled good too. Lemon-scented aftershave and a hint of soap.

  “You wanna know what that real issue is?” Aidan prompted.

  Their gazes met and held. Dylan’s pulse sped up.

  With a tiny smirk, Aidan leaned closer, his lips inches from Dylan’s ear. “You want to fuck me.”

  The crude observation drove a spike of lust straight into his cock.

  Jerking his gaze away, he grabbed the beers from the counter and sidestepped the other man. “Cash is waiting for his beer.”

  An annoyed breath sounded from behind.

  “So yeah, I’ve been busy. Training, hanging out with Rachel, that kind of stuff.” Christ, why was he still talking? Just get out of the kitchen, man.

  “Dylan.”

  He took another step to the door.

  “Dylan.” A commanding note entered Aidan’s voice.

  Drawing a deep breath, he slowly turned around. “What?”

  “I want the same damn thing.”

  Shock slammed into him like an eighteen-wheeler. For a moment he thought he’d misheard the guy, but the heat glimmering in those dark brown eyes said otherwise.

  They watched each other for a moment. The tension in the air intensified, hot and thick, liable to choke him.

  “Where the hell is my beer?” Cash yelled from the living room.

  Dylan was so grateful for the interruption he nearly wept with joy. “Uh…can’t keep the man waiting,” he mumbled.

  And then he hurried out of the kitchen before Aidan could say another word.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Miranda had just picked up her son from his baseball coach’s house when her cell phone rang. The words Private Caller flashed on the screen. Since her car was an older model that didn’t have that handy Bluetooth system, she had to settle for clicking
the speakerphone button.

  “Hush, guys,” she told the twins, who were giggling in the backseat. Then she raised her voice and said, “Hello?”

  “Miranda? It’s Eric Porter, Catherine’s dad.”

  Fucking hell.

  She stifled a sigh, wishing she’d let the call go to voice mail. She and Porter had been playing phone tag for the past few weeks. The man was determined to arrange a meeting with her—and only her—but their schedules never seemed to line up.

  “Mr. Porter, hi,” she answered. “How was Miami?”

  “Please call me Eric. And as for Miami, I’m still here, and it’s wonderful.” He chuckled. “The conference I’m attending, not so much.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.” Actually, she wasn’t. She didn’t care about this man’s business dealings in any way, shape or form, but he was the father of a student, so she was forced to feign interest.

  “I tried to call you last night,” he said. “I couldn’t get through.”

  She stopped at a red light and checked the rearview mirror to make sure the twins weren’t causing trouble, but Sophie was quietly playing with her doll and Jason was flipping through a stack of baseball cards.

  She returned her attention to the aggravating phone call. “I was bartending last night. As I mentioned before, I have another job, so I’m usually out of touch four nights a week.”

  “I understand.”

  His voice was so warm and genuine she felt bad about all those times she’d cursed the man. “I assume you’re calling so we can figure out another time to meet.” She injected some warmth into her own voice.

  He chuckled again. “I’m hoping we can actually make it happen this time. I’d like to discuss Cat’s future with the school and hear your thoughts about whether she has what it takes to pursue dance as a career.”

  If you overlooked the borderline-annoying persistence, Miranda had to admit that his eagerness to be involved in his kid’s life was admirable.

  “What’s your schedule like next week?” he asked. “Next Sunday maybe?”

  She thought about it. “I teach two morning classes on Sunday, and then I have plans with my children for the afternoon. I’m back at the school at five to teach another class, and that usually runs until about seven.”

  “Can I interest you in dinner then?”

  Dinner? She’d been hoping for a quick chat in the studio after the lesson wrapped up.

  “Um…”

  “There’s a little bistro right down the street from the school. I imagine you’ll be hungry after class, so we can grab a quick bite.”

  She hesitated again. The twins would be at home with Kim, so she supposed she could ask the babysitter to stay for an extra hour, hour and a half. She didn’t particularly want to have dinner with the man, but it could potentially be good for business. According to Elsa, Porter was incredibly wealthy, and that meant he had wealthy friends who could afford to pay for dance lessons for their kids.

  “Sure, that sounds great,” she relented. “But just a quick bite. I’m not sure what my babysitter’s schedule is.”

  “No problem. I won’t keep you too long,” he promised.

  After they arranged to meet at the school the following Sunday, Miranda hung up and glanced over at the twins.

  “You guys okay back there?”

  “Yup,” Jason said.

  “We’re counting how many times the car thumps,” Sophie chimed in.

  She frowned. “What are you talking abo—”

  Thump. Thump.

  Her words died as she heard it loud and clear. Oh shit.

  “Shit, shit, shit,” she mumbled.

  “Mo-om, that’s a bad word!” Jason said accusingly.

  She ignored the reprimand and focused on gradually reducing her speed. The phone call had distracted her from the fact that the steering wheel was pulling to the right, and that her front tire was so flat it was a miracle the car didn’t tip right over.

  Miranda winced when the wheel began making a loud noise, metal scraping over concrete. Shit. She hoped the rim hadn’t been damaged.

  Damn Eric Porter.

  “Why are we stopping?” Sophie demanded as Miranda turned onto a side street and pulled over at the first available opportunity.

  “We have a flat tire, guys.” With a sigh, she unbuckled her seat belt and flicked on the emergency blinkers. “Stay in the car. Mommy’s going to investigate.”

  She hopped out of the sedan and walked around it to inspect the front passenger-side wheel. Her spirits instantly sank. Crap. What on earth had she run over? The tire was completely punctured, and it didn’t take long to find the culprit—a two-inch nail wedged in the jagged flap of rubber that had come loose. On the bright side, the rim seemed to be in good shape.

  Opening the passenger door, she leaned in to shut off the engine and yank the keys out of the ignition. “Guess what,” she told the twins.

  “What?” they said in unison.

  “Your mom is about to change a tire for the first time in her life.”

  She expected cheers and high fives and maybe some encouragement. Instead, she got two dubious looks.

  “That sounds hard,” Sophie said frankly.

  Jason offered a thoughtful look. “You can call Sef. Sef can help.”

  Miranda bristled. She was not calling Seth to come to her rescue. She was perfectly capable of rescuing herself, the way she’d done her entire life. She’d never needed a man to save her before, and she didn’t need one now.

  She’d definitely call him later, though. They hadn’t had much of a chance to connect this week—she’d been busy at work and with the twins, and Seth had been away for two days on a training mission in the desert. The timing had actually worked out well because she had her period and she wasn’t one of those women who enjoyed sex during her time of the month. But now that her lady parts were functioning at full capacity again, she was suffering from some serious Seth withdrawal.

  But there was still no way she was calling him to bail her out.

  “Don’t get out of the car. I mean it, guys.” She shot them a warning look, then closed the door and rounded the sedan.

  She unlocked the trunk and lifted the floormat, peering into the compartment to inventory its contents. Spare tire, jack, wrench thingie.

  Tire iron, dummy.

  Right, tire iron.

  She wished she could remember that lesson the guy at the used car dealership had given her, but the details of How to Change a Tire 101 were a bit foggy.

  But it couldn’t be too hard, right?

  Of course not. I’m a modern, independent woman and I can change a fucking tire if I put my mind to it.

  Setting her jaw in fortitude, she heaved the spare tire out of the trunk and set it on the grass next to the curb, then went back for the tools. She stared at the flat tire and pursed her lips. First things first, she needed to loosen those screws. Or were they called lugs? Lugs, she decided.

  She crouched down and placed the tire iron on the first wheel lug. She turned. It didn’t budge. At all.

  “Son of a bitch,” she mumbled under her breath.

  Take two. This time she used brute force.

  Zero movement.

  Holy Mother of God. Who had tightened those things? The Incredible Hulk?

  She was by no means a weak woman. She was a dancer. She had solid muscle definition in her arms. But for the life of her, she couldn’t loosen a single one of those wheel lugs.

  “Hi, Mom!” Jason called, poking his head out the open window.

  A hysterical laughed bubbled in her throat. “Hey, sweetie.”

  “Can I help?”

  “No, it’s okay. I’ve got it under control.”

  Ha. Yeah right.

  She wiggled her arm, shook it around, trying to get herself jacked up. A deep breath, and then she tried again.

  “Lefty loosey, righty tighty,” she muttered as she attempted to loosen a lug with all the strength she possessed.
/>
  No movement. Not even a freaking millimeter. And now her arm hurt. It actually hurt. Frustration sliced into her and she nearly whipped the stupid tool into the speed limit sign three yards away. She reined in the impulse at the last second, let out a strangled breath and decided it was time to come to grips with her own pathetic inadequacy.

  “Jason, can you please pass me my phone?” Her voice was calmer than a fucking blue ocean.

  Her son’s little hand popped out of the window.

  Clenching her teeth, Miranda stood up and brushed pebbles off her leggings then took the phone from her son’s outstretched hand. After one very long moment of reluctance, she dialed Seth’s number.

  “You’re still a modern, independent woman,” she assured herself.

  But sometimes even modern, independent women were forced to admit defeat and call a man for help.

  Seth was chuckling to himself during the entire drive into San Diego. He knew Miranda was probably stewing up a storm over the fact that she’d been forced to call him. He’d heard the irritation in her voice when she’d tersely explained the situation and asked him for help. Hell, he was surprised the words “help me” actually existed in that stubborn woman’s vocabulary.

  He couldn’t wait to see her, though. He’d been busy this week, spending a couple of days in Nevada training with the team, and then last night he’d gone to Carson’s rather than the club. He’d promised Miranda that he wouldn’t hover over her at work anymore. Besides, he knew that if he’d gone there last night, he wouldn’t have been able to stop himself from nailing her in that employee break room.

  Hopefully they could find some alone time later tonight. Maybe she’d sneak him into her place after the rugrats went to bed. It irked that he had to organize his sex life around two six-year-olds, but it was a price he was willing to pay to have Miranda in his bed.

  He turned onto the street she’d indicated, immediately spotting her blue Ford on the side of the road. He pulled up behind it and hopped out of the Jeep, finding Miranda and the twins sitting on the curb.

  “Somebody call roadside assistance?” he said mockingly.