Hotter Than Ever

“Please don’t argue with me about this,” Claire was saying softly. “I really want to be alone for a bit.” She paused. “I know you do, but I need some space. I’ll call you from the hotel, okay?”

The second she hung up, the iPhone in her hand started to vibrate. And vibrate. And vibrate some more.

“Oh sweet Jesus, I’m getting like a million text messages,” she muttered.

Dylan glanced over and saw the frustration glimmering in her eyes. “Your mom and dad?”

“Yep, along with my boss, maid of honor, cousins, coworkers.”

“They all have a ton of questions, huh?”

“Duh.” She made a sound of exasperation. “I’m turning it off. This is ridiculous.”

She swiped her finger over the touch screen, then dropped the phone in the cup holder of Dylan’s rental.

“I can’t believe this is happening,” she mumbled. “My parents are freaking out.”

“So’s my mom. You’re not the only one with a thousand incoming texts.” He tapped the front pocket of his trousers, where he’d tucked his cell phone. “My leg is going numb from all that vibrating.”

“My mother said the guests are gone, and the catering staff packed everything up. She’s going to take all the food home with her, since it’s already been paid for.” Her voice cracked. “Oh, and my dad won’t let me pay him back.”

Dylan fought a pang of sympathy. He’d never understood why the bride’s family was expected to foot the bill for the wedding. Chris’s boss may have arranged for the venue, but the McKinleys had taken care of everything else—food, flowers, string quartet. Judging by how tasteful and beautiful the ballroom had looked, Dylan suspected financing the shindig had been pretty costly for Claire’s parents. He felt bad for them. They’d seemed like really nice people, and his brother had completely screwed them over by running out on their daughter.

“I guess I should text Chris and let him know which hotel I’ll be—what the hell, Dylan? Where are you taking me?”

That she hadn’t noticed their destination until now spoke volumes about her state of mind. As the airport became visible in the distance, he felt Claire’s amber-colored eyes boring into his cheek.

“Where are we going?” she asked in a tight voice.

“The Coast Guard Air Station.” He flicked the turn signal and changed lanes, then sped off the freeway exit ramp.

“Why on earth are we going there?”

“We’re catching a ride with a buddy of mine. He’s a Coast Guard pilot.”

“A ride? A ride to where?”

“I’m taking you back to San Diego with me.”

Silence descended over the interior of the SUV. He snuck a peek at Claire and found her looking at him like he’d just told her he was a closet Backstreet Boys fan or something. The mixture of confusion and horror on her face was almost comical.

He was pretty confused himself. What the hell was he doing taking Claire home with him? He didn’t even like the woman. In fact, for the past year and a half he’d actively been rooting for Chris to come to his senses and dump her.

So really, what he needed to do was drop her at a hotel, high-five Chris for seeing the light, and forget Claire McKinley ever existed.

Except…in a complete twist of insanity, his brother had suddenly soared to the top of Dylan’s shit list. After the despicable—not to mention dishonorable—way Chris had behaved, Dylan was firmly on Team Claire in this f**ked-up situation.

He couldn’t believe Chris had run away like that. No, he couldn’t understand it. As a SEAL, Dylan met challenges head-on, even when those challenges were terrifying or painful or guaranteed to bring some discomfort.

Well, he refused to abandon Claire the way his brother had. He might not be the woman’s biggest fan, but she didn’t deserve to have everyone pitying her, or whispering about her, or worse, laughing behind her back. Since Chris and Claire had all the same friends, and with her one non-mutual friend out of town, Dylan knew she wouldn’t find much of a support system here in the Bay Area.

“I’m not going anywhere with you,” Claire grumbled. “Take me to a hotel.”

He stayed on route, driving right past three airport hotels, which solicited a string of curses from the woman beside him.

Dylan raised his eyebrows. “Shit, McKinley, you sound like a character from an HBO show. Where the hell did you learn some of those phrases?”

For a second, humor danced in her eyes. “HBO.” The amusement promptly faded. “I’m serious, Dylan, I don’t want to go to San Diego.”

“I really think you should,” he said gently. “At least for a night or two.”

“Oh, you think I should, huh? Because you magically know what’s best for me, is that it?”

“You said so yourself. You need space.” He shrugged. “Well, you ain’t gonna get it here, honey. You’ll be alone at that hotel for an hour, two hours tops, and then your parents will weasel the location out of you and swoop in with the sympathy parade.” When she didn’t answer, he shot her a pointed look. “You know I’m right.”

“Maybe, but—”

“And I know your best friend is in South America—”

“Sierra Leone—”

“—which means you can’t cry on her shoulder, so—”