Wrapped in Lace Read online

  wrapped in lace

  By

  Prescott Lane

  Copyright © 2015 Prescott Lane

  Kindle Edition

  Cover design by Sarah Hansen, Okay Creations

  Cover image by Gorosi/Shutterstock

  Editing by Nikki Rushbrook

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  CHAPTER ONE

  DECEMBER 21

  PIPER

  So, you know how Oprah always talks about the Aha! moment? Well, I think I’m having one, but mine is more of a What the hell? moment. I’d been set-up for the hundredth time since I moved back to McAdenville, North Carolina a little over a year ago, and it looks like the streak of no second dates is going to continue. And trust me, I don’t consider myself God’s gift to the male species or anything. I’m just a normal girl who wants nothing more than a nice, decent guy. But to say I’ve had a string of bad luck lately would be a bit of an understatement.

  This time the guy took me to the movies. That sounds normal enough, right? He was cute and had a job—two criteria that seem to be lacking in twenty-something men these days—and he even asked if I’d like some popcorn and something to drink. Polite! Score points for him. Then it happened, the red flag, the freak flag. He insisted that the poor teenager working the refreshment counter get our popcorn from the machine at the other end, because it was popping fresh popcorn and the other machine’s popcorn had been sitting there. I wasn’t sure if he’d been stalking the popcorn machines, but I was willing to let it go. While it seemed a little Type A to me, maybe he just wanted to make sure I got the best popcorn? Maybe he was thinking of me? It was only after he berated the poor child taking our order because she neglected to fill his cup all the way to the top that I realized his issues had nothing to do with consideration for me. Give me a break! I thought you were supposed to be on your best behavior on first dates.

  But the real deal breaker, the coup de gras, was when we walked into the theater. There were only about a dozen people inside the theater, which had to hold at least a hundred, so I was a little confused when dude chose to sit down right next to another couple. I’m not even talking on the same row; I’m talking about in the next seat. I’ve found that most men want privacy at a movie so they can grope you a little bit, but not this guy. No, he ignored the eighty-plus vacant seats in the theater and plopped down right beside some poor guy who looked as confused as I was. I mean, we aren’t at Disney World, where they’re constantly telling you to move all the way over, leaving no empty seats. Needless to say, the rest of the date sucked. I don’t know why I bothered to put on a dress, much less shave my legs and wash my hair. What a waste!

  I couldn’t just go home after that. I needed to decompress, so here I sat in the parking lot of the local watering hole. Ending a date in a dive bar parking lot is surely some kind of warning sign of alcoholism or depression. I looked out at the old, rundown bar, noting the sad looking Christmas lights decorating the building—because that’s what you do in McAdenville, North Carolina. You hang Christmas lights and holly and tinsel and bells and every other Christmas decoration you can think of. McAdenville isn’t nicknamed Christmas Town, USA for nothing.

  I reached for my phone, finding a text from my best friend, Sabrina—no doubt checking to see how tonight’s date went. Sabrina is like my own private matchmaker, always scoping men for me. But the most recent guy she tried to set me up with was a real piece of work. He called me, we chatted, and I thought things were going great. Then he asked if we could go out after the holidays. That didn’t sound so bad, until the jerk proceeded to explain why. He thought it was best not to get involved with someone so close to Christmas because that would create pressure to exchange gifts or feel obligated to spend New Year’s together. When I told Sabrina, her response contained more F-bombs than a porn movie. She apologized profusely, but it’s not her fault. I seriously do not know what is wrong with men today. I’m not some man-hating feminazi or anything, but this was getting ridiculous. My last blind date took me to a comic book convention, which might not have been so bad—except he dressed up head-to-toe in an alien costume and bought a matching one for me to wear. I had to laugh about it. At least the fanboy was thoughtful.

  A few blind dates before that, the guy arranged for us to have a spa date. Now, I’m all for a little manscaping. No girl wants her man looking like a wooly mammoth down below, and the happy trail should lead to something happy, not a thick forest. But couples mani-pedis? Really? The whole metrosexual man thing had just gone too far. Women want men to be men, for goodness sake, but not cavemen. The only thing worse than those dates were the sprinkling of dates I’d been on with grab happy players. I’d had enough. I fired up an email to my entire contact list.

  Dear well-meaning friends and family,

  I am no longer available for blind dates, set-ups, internet dating, or nearsighted dating. And no, this doesn’t mean that I’ve found “the one.” If you truly love me, please stop. I’d rather die a sad, lonely cat lady than endure another date from hell. All my love, Piper

  *

  DREW

  I could just barely make out the sign ahead. It still wasn’t too late to turn around, but I’d promised my grandmother I’d be home for Christmas this year. And she’d skin my hide if I broke a promise. The headlights on my old, red pickup hit the sign, “Welcome to Christmas Town, USA.”

  McAdenville, North Carolina, population six hundred, is just twenty minutes from Charlotte and is known for transforming itself from a simple, small town to a winter wonderland every Christmas season. Thousands of visitors flood the town to take in the sights and get into the holiday spirit, and McAdenville never disappoints. With wreaths on every light post, hundreds of trees cascaded in lights and bulbs, a life-size Nativity, and of course, Santa, it should make anyone who sees it smile. Anyone, that is, except me. Even though I hadn’t been home to McAdenville in six years, not even the Christmas carols chiming from the local church could lift my spirits.

  I pressed on the brakes, seeing the taillights of the line of cars crawling through the small town, gawking at the sea of Christmas lights. The traffic wasn’t going to clear anytime soon, so I decided to pull over and get out of my truck. Watching the hustle of tourists picking up last minute gifts and decorations, I was happy to be done with my shopping. Glancing in my truck at the bag of gifts and my duffle bag, I realized I had more with me now than I did when I left McAdenville. I took a deep breath and reminded myself that I just had to make it through a few days, give my
grandmother a holiday surrounded by her entire family, and then I’d be back home in Raleigh for New Year’s Eve.

  But I wasn’t ready to face my family just yet. I’d need a drink first, maybe two, and preferably from a place where no one would recognize me. I knew just the place to go, every small town has one. There’s the bar that husbands go to after work or with their wives. Then there’s the bar on the wrong side of town—the one where the rougher crowd goes, for those who only want to see the bottom of their glass. Hank’s was just that place.

  I opened the old wooden door, hearing it creak. No one bothered to look up at the noise, which was fine with me. That was the whole point of this kind of place—to get lost for a little while. The place was pretty empty except for two guys at a table. I would’ve never come to this place when I lived here, but then again, I hadn’t been home since I was nineteen, not yet drinking age. The fact that my family owned the bar on the right side of town would’ve kept me from stepping foot in this place six years ago, but I didn’t live by small town rules anymore.

  I took a seat on a well-worn bar stool and pulled out my phone, sending a text to my parents that I wouldn’t be in until really late or the next morning—making up some work excuse. I could hang here for a while and not show up until the middle of the night. That way, I wouldn’t have to deal with the big welcome home crap.

  “What-a ya having?” an elderly man with skin that looked like black leather asked.

  This didn’t seem like the kind of place to order anything complicated, and a beer would work just fine. “Whatever you have on tap.”

  The old barkeep got a glass down, filled it, and placed it in front of me. I took a long swig then lowered my head to my fists and closed my eyes. I gripped my hair, unsure why I agreed to come back here. Nothing good could come of this. I was barely on the outskirts of town and already regretting the decision.

  “A Screaming Multiple Orgasm, Hank,” a sweet Southern voice sang out. “Make it quick, please.”

  My head shot up, my eyes landing on a woman at the other end of the bar, and I felt my breath catch. I had to be dreaming. This was no place for a woman. I looked around, assuming she must be here with a boyfriend. There was no way a girl so sweet looking came in here alone and ordered a drink like that. For a second, she glanced my way, then she leaned over the bar, her dark blonde hair falling in front of her face.

  “Hey, Firefly,” Hank the barkeep said before kissing her cheek. “Bad day?”

  “Something like that. I need my orgasm,” she said, smiling. “Multiple, remember.”

  God, she was so damn adorable in her flowery dress and cowboy boots, a scarf wrapped around her neck. I tried to think of some witty response, but the guys at the table in the back held up their glasses, yelling for a refill.

  “Go ahead, Hank. I’ll make it myself,” she said, hopping off her stool and walking around the bar as she slowly unwound her scarf. The skin of her neck called to me. No, it fucking yelled and begged for me. I just knew she’d smell good, sweet, and that I could get lost in her for a little while.

  “Hank, you’re out of Bailey’s,” she called out, biting her bottom lip.

  For some reason, it’s so sexy when a woman does that. I’ve never been able to figure it out, but I wanted to give her bottom lip a little bite, not to mention a few other body parts I’d like to sink my teeth into. Her eyes found mine again, and I realized I was staring.

  “Can I get you something?” she asked.

  “You work here?” There was something about her voice that seemed familiar. I felt like I knew her from somewhere, but I couldn’t really say, Have we met before? That would come off like the lame line it usually was. I searched my mind, trying to place her. I thought I knew everyone in this town, even though I haven’t been home in years. No one moves here on purpose. I wondered briefly if she was a Christmas light tourist, but then I recalled she knew Hank, so she must be local. I couldn’t shake the feeling I knew her from somewhere.

  She laughed and walked over, her blue eyes coming into view. “No, but I can pour a beer.”

  “Can you make a Leg Spreader?” I asked.

  “Tequila, vodka, gin, and rum,” she said and cocked the cutest smile. This girl knew her drinks. “Sure thing.”

  She poured equal amounts into a glass and slid it in front of me. I pushed the glass back towards her. “For you.”

  She pushed it back to me. “I don’t spread my legs for just any man.”

  I almost fell on the floor laughing. She wasn’t just adorable, she had a smart mouth. I always did have a weakness for a woman with a smart mouth. “What drink can I buy you?” She responded by pouring some sloe gin, Southern Comfort, and orange juice in a glass, then downed it. She’d made a drink called Sloe Comfortable Screw, and she knew exactly what she was doing. I watched the drink slide down her throat, her tongue licking the corner of her lips as she placed her glass down on the bar. I suddenly was very thirsty, wanting to taste her lips, her mouth.

  She leaned forward on the bar. “You aren’t from here. The men in this town only know beer and whiskey.”

  “Actually, I. . . .”

  She held up her hand. “People don’t come to Hank’s for truth-telling and heart-to-hearts. They come here to forget, or avoid something. What do you say we just be anyone we want to be?”

  “Who do you want to be?”

  “Oh, you decide,” she said. “And you’ll be the hot, brooding, mysterious guy passing through town.”

  That sounded almost accurate. I could play that part, especially since she called me hot. “Ok, you can be the town bad girl.” I smiled at her and pulled out the stool next to me. “Another Sloe Comfortable Screw?” She raised her eyebrows. “What? You’re the one who asked for multiple orgasms!”

  *

  PIPER

  Now, this was most definitely an Aha! moment, looking at his ass in those jeans as he leaned over the pool table to take his shot. I hadn’t seen a booty like his in forever. I hated it when guys’ jeans sagged down, but his hung just right from his hips. And I had a perfect view. Aha!

  One game of pool, two games of darts, and countless drinks later, Hank yelled out, “Last call.” I can’t remember the last time I closed down a bar. Even at twenty-four, I’m too old for nights like this. We walked out of the bar, his hand at the small of my back, directing me towards his red pickup truck. He lowered the tailgate, and his jacket lifted up just enough for me to catch a glimpse of the skin at his waist. I started to feel dizzy, and I wasn’t sure if it was him, or the many drinks I’d consumed. I’m actually a lightweight when it comes to drinking. One drink usually did the trick, but pretending to be the “bad girl” had been too much fun. I gave Hank a little wave that I was good as he locked up the bar and headed out, neither me nor hot ass guy ready to go home.

  He turned back to me and flashed me a smile that was suitable for a male model. It should be illegal for a man to have a smile like that. Before I knew it, he had me by the waist and was helping me up onto the tailgate of his truck. We were finally on the same level, and I took the opportunity to look into his eyes, the moonlight revealing their deep blue color. I reached up and gently touched his thick brown hair. I knew I was playing with fire. I knew nothing about this guy, but what could a little innocent flirting hurt? And after the dating disasters I’d endured, I needed it.

  He slid in beside me, his leg rubbing against mine. “Want to tell me your name now?” he asked. “Can’t really be Firefly?”

  “Only Hank calls me that.” I wasn’t quite sure why I didn’t tell him my name. Maybe it was the alcohol, or maybe the sense of mystery was too much fun. Either way, I was enjoying teasing this hunk, and he didn’t seem to mind.

  A cold wind blew and in one smooth motion, he took off his leather jacket and wrapped it around my shoulders. Hottie actually had manners, too. He was too good to be true. He reached around, pulling my hair out from under his jacket, his fingers barely grazing my neck. I suddenly wasn�
��t bothered by the cold any longer, my body heating at his touch. He wound his finger through a piece of my hair, and I felt myself leaning into his hand, my breath growing heavy and ragged. I needed to stop this before he got the wrong idea. I wasn’t the type of girl to hop in bed with a guy on the first date, especially one whose name I didn’t know. I reached up to tuck the strand of hair behind my ear, and he gently took my hand. His skin was rough. It was obvious he worked with his hands, but there was a gentle strength in his touch.

  He slid me across the tailgate and into his body, and I swear I stopped breathing. His arms were so strong, his hard chest pressed against my body. The blur of the alcohol lifted just long enough for me to realize I was alone in the dark with a stranger, but I wasn’t afraid. Something about him was comforting, strong, protective. His mouth was so close that I could feel the warmth of his breath tingling my lips—taunting me, daring me.

  I needed some distance. I put my hand on his chest, feeling his heart beating through his shirt, which was strong and steady like he was in complete control—a stark contrast to the uncontrollable thumping in my chest. “You’re not married, are you?”

  He flashed me a schoolboy smile then moved my hand to his hip, leaning back into my lips. “No.”

  “Girlfriend?”

  “No girlfriend, either,” he whispered as he pulled down my scarf, exposing the bare skin of my neck.

  I shivered, and his cocky smile let me know that he was fully aware he was getting to me. “Serial killer?”

  He chuckled and lowered his head to my shoulder. It felt intimate and sweet. “Nope, but I think I know what you are?” He adjusted my scarf back, making sure I’d stay warm. “A good girl.”

  The game was over. He’d figured me out. “Yeah, but I really want to be a bad girl.”

  He tilted up my chin, moving his lips closer. “How bad?”

  “Bad,” I whispered, closing my eyes and parting my lips. I had to know how this man kissed—tasted. If I had some mistletoe, I’d have held it above our heads.