The Kiss Lottery

Excerpt My Darling Bride

Emmy

The hot Arizona sun, a pool, and a beverage. Sounds delightful, but the sun is a volcano, the pool belongs to a shithole place called the Golden Iguana, and my beverage is a tepid bottle of Fiji water.

There’s one thing that makes me smile: the motel sign has a faded green-and-gold iguana on it, standing upright and grinning as he welcomes you with open arms. He reminds me of that insurance lizard. I’ve named him Darcy.

Welcome to Old Town, a small place outside Tucson in the middle of the Sonoran Desert. A six-hour drive from Vegas, it seemed the last place Kian would look. Sure, I could have caught a plane back to New York, but I wasn’t thinking straight when I left the Bellagio.

I cling to the edge of the pool as a Lamborghini with blacked-out windows roars into the parking lot, the engine growling like a beast. Low slung and shiny, the car is lemon yellow, the golden bull emblem sparkling in the sunlight. It parks next to a rusted pickup truck.

“I guess the Four Seasons was booked,” I snark to myself, then wince at my raspy voice. My throat is swollen and aches horribly.

When no one gets out of the car right away, hair rises on the back of my neck.

Wait a minute ... did Kian rent a different car and follow me?

Nah. He had a bachelor party last night, which means he’s sleeping it off today; plus, I only grabbed a small bag of essentials when I left. My suitcase is still in the room at the Bellagio, along with most of my clothes. For all he knows, I’m wandering around the casinos, pissed at him.

Whatever. It doesn’t matter. I’m overthinking it.

I’ll never let you go, Emmy.

I push Kian’s last words away as I sink underwater, swim to the ladder, and scramble up the steps. I gather my book and sunscreen, then adjust my hair around my shoulder, hiding the purple bruises on my neck. Sliding on my flip-flops, I’m dripping water as I make my way to the gate that leads to the rooms, keeping a wary eye on the car.

The driver’s side door opens, and a dark-haired man gets out.

I’m not even aware of how relieved I am until my shoulders sag. Not Kian.

Stretching his arms up and rolling his neck, the man squints at the sun, swears under his breath, then reaches inside the car. His back is broad. Like, fucking big. He must be at least six and a half feet tall. He thrusts on a pair of aviators and glares at the iguana on the sign as if he’s got a personal vendetta. I don’t know what he has against Darcy.

Muttering a curse, he slams the car door, then shoves a ball cap over his hair. The hat casts his face in shadow, giving him a dark aura.

Lambo looks about as cuddly as a steak knife.

Dressed in designer jeans that cling to his thighs and an expensive-looking button-down with the cuffs rolled up, he has a blade for a nose, sculpted cheekbones, and sensuous lips. Tall. Broad. Muscled. Sex on a stick. Swipe right, ladies.

He takes long strides yet somehow manages to appear graceful—no, scratch that: athletic.

My guess? He’s felt the crack of bone under his hands.

He exudes broodiness. My favorite.

I allow myself to picture just what kind of sexual damage he might cause, wondering at the thrill of being caught up in his arms when he unleashes.

Oh yeah. I’d ride that stallion like a cowgirl gone wild.

I mentally slap myself.

No. More. Men.

My next date will be with a rom-com and a kitten. A cat would be a superb boyfriend—hair balls but no drama.

As I’m picturing kittens dancing around a ball of yarn, Lambo slings a duffel over his shoulder and heads to the front office.

Goodbye, sexy beast. Enjoy your stay at the crappiest motel in Arizona.

Hustling, I head in the opposite direction and take the rusted metal stairwell up to the third-floor-balcony breezeway that leads to my room.

“Hey, gorgeous,” a voice murmurs from behind me, and I whip around in surprise to see Clint Eastwood—not the real one, but a cheap knockoff.

Fake Clint showed up in the motel honky-tonk bar last night in a legit black leather duster, boots, and a hat. He lurked in the shadows cast by the flashing neon lights while I drank at the bar. He made the rounds, chatting up every woman in the place, and I left before he got to me.

I glance around the empty breezeway as my unease rises higher. A knot forms in my gut, and my breathing quickens. I’m alone here. Best to not engage with Clint. I make a noncommittal sound and start to my door.

“Hey, wait, don’t run off,” he says as he follows on my heels. “I saw you at the pool. You were swimming laps like it was your job.”

His eyes linger on my breasts, and I groan inwardly, regretting I didn’t pull on a shirt. I’m in a black rash-guard shirt and bikini bottoms I bought from the dollar store in town.

“Thought I’d join you, maybe get a few laps in, but now you’re done. Too bad.” He holds up a longneck beer. “I’ve got more of these in my room if you want one?”

“I’m in for the day,” I say as I rummage in my worn patchwork bag, searching for the motel key.

“You’re alone here, right?”

My warning radar spikes. “No,” I reply slowly. “My boyfriend is asleep in the room.”

“I didn’t see him last night.”

“He doesn’t like crowds. Or guys hitting on me.”

“Hard to believe he’d let you drink alone.” He stares at my navel ring peeking through my rash guard, then gives me a smarmy grin. “I noticed your room is next to mine. Talk about some cardboard walls. I heard you crying this morning. Did you have a fight with him?”

Play nice, the angel on my shoulder says, while the devil ...

I find the motel key and grip it tight. “Should I wake up my boyfriend and tell him you’re being a dick?”

“I like your spunk, but I’m just trying to get to know you. No need to involve your man. If that’s even true.” He eases around me until he’s blocking my door.

His bloodshot hazel eyes hold mine. He’s older than my twenty-eight and reeks of beer. Today he’s wearing cutoff shorts, a faded shirt, and flip-flops. I guess the duster and boots were too hot for day attire. With a buzz haircut, a weak chin, and beady eyes, he looks like a mean hamster. And now I’m picturing a hamster in a cowboy outfit riding a horse in the desert and having a gunfight with Darcy the Iguana.

I’m five-nine and can hold my own, especially in heels, but he towers over me.

“Ease up. Just have a drink with me. I’m bored here. Where are you from?”

“Get out of my way, or my boyfriend will kick your ass.”

“Yeah? What’s his name?”

My brain scrambles for a name. “Darcy.”

“Weird name.” He touches a strand of my hair, and my heart thunders, part outrage, part fear.

Scenarios dance through my head. He’s intoxicated. His door is currently open, and he’s blocking me from mine. He could push me inside his. He could drag me. Flashbacks of my father dragging my mother burn inside my head.

The air thickens with tension. Sweat beads on my upper lip as my muscles quiver with the instinct to flee.

The sounds of footsteps arrive on the walkway, and relief hits like a tidal wave.

Lambo strides our way as he tucks his sunglasses into the pocket of his shirt. He seems to weave on his feet, then rightens himself by clinging to the balcony rail. His head turns to us, and he pauses, his eyes tightening, flicking from me to Fake Clint.

“What’s going on?” he asks, his tone a dark velvet rumble.

Fake Clint takes a step back and holds his hands up in a placating manner. “I’m just on my way to the pool. You checking in?”

Lambo ignores him and comes back to me, his face expressionless. “You all right?”

It’s as if I’ve manifested him. Give the man a cravat, and he’s Darcy! As in, the guy from Pride and Prejudice , not the iguana. Well, him too.

A surge of adrenaline hits. Pasting on my brightest smile, I drop my bag and rush forward and wrap my arms around his waist in a bear hug. He grunts as we collide, his body a solid wall of hard muscle. My head hits him midchest. Oh, he must work out twenty-four seven, and kill me now, but he smells intoxicating, like dark cherries, expensive leather, and cedar.

My head tilts back as my eyes implore him, hoping he catches on quick. Swallowing down the pain in my throat, I manage to say the words in a husky (hopefully sexy) voice. “It’s okay, honey bunny, he didn’t mean anything. Honest. No reason to get upset—you don’t want to violate your parole. I know how jealous you get. Remember in Chicago, when you beat that man to a pulp for dancing with me? We can’t repeat that. It was carnage.”

“What? I don’t—” he starts.

“Oops, I shouldn’t have brought that up. You don’t like me to talk about your time in prison. It was so hard to be away from each other. Your passionate letters were the only thing that kept me going.” I stretch up on my tiptoes and brush my lips over his cheek. The scruff on his square jawline tickles my lips. “Don’t worry, I told this guy I was taken.”

His hand lands on my ass and tugs me closer—instinct, I suppose, when a woman claiming to know you throws herself in your direction.