Three Men and a Woman: Indiana (Siren Publishing Ménage Amour) Page 3

  She got up, a bit relieved at the distraction. She’d started to feel a bit too charmed by this attractive man. In the dining room, she patted his jacket until she found the pocket with his phone. She unzipped, fished it out, and took it to him.

  His fingers brushed hers as she handed it over. His eyes held on hers. “I’m up here with a couple friends. I should have let them know already why I’m late.”

  Indy nodded. “Of course.” She picked up the tray with his empty dishes and carried it to the kitchen.

  * * * *

  Sigge watched her go, his eyes unabashedly glued to that sweet ass.

  She was fucking hot. And sweet. Competent, confident enough to let him into her home, caring enough to help him out of a jam, even at some risk to herself. A great package. A spectacular one.

  He could be in love.

  He thought he’d been there before, but he should have known better. Known to be on guard against women who just wanted the glamour, the privilege of being the bit of pretty glitter on his arm. An ambition that didn’t require character or heart.

  He thought Indiana Jones had both those things.

  His phone buzzed in his hand, a text message this time. It drew his attention, which had been pretty much hooked on the spot where Indy had disappeared from sight. He read it and then punched in the number for his buddy.

  “Yeah, sorry, man. I’m fine. Well, not all the way fine. I’m a little banged up.”

  Indy was back, so his eyes followed her. “Hold on,” he said into the phone. His heart fell a little more as she put a mug of hot chocolate on the table for him. She had her own and nestled her hands around it as she sat in her chair, farther away than he wished.

  “I can have my buddies pick me up,” he said to her, though the truth was he felt perfectly, entirely happy right where he was. “Can you tell me the directions to get them here?”

  “Are they in town or up the mountain?”

  “We’re at the Four Seasons.”

  He saw the smile in her eyes, the unspoken of course you are. “Send them up Vail Road, past the mountain, then Rockledge Road to Mill Creek.”

  She gave him a couple more turns and the nearest address they could Google.

  Sigge passed the details on, broke the connection, and then texted a couple words. He set the phone down, picked up his hot chocolate, and took a sip. It was great—seriously chocolaty and creamy, just like the varm chokladmjölk his old mormor used to make from the milk cow in their small barn. Then he set that down, too. He spun around on the couch, pulled the coffee table closer, and moved the pillows and then his leg over there. He patted the couch seat next to him. “Will you come sit by me, Indiana? Please?”

  Chapter Two

  Indy got up when Sigge’s friends arrived. She heard sounds of the vehicle’s tires on her snow-and-gravel drive outside and then the opening and closing of doors. Big, solid, thick doors, so she was barely surprised at all when she caught a glimpse of a shiny red truck out there on her way to the door.

  Or even, when she opened the door, to see J.J., of the really bad pickup lines, and, behind him, tall, handsome-in-the-extreme Tyler.

  Of course, she thought. It had to be.

  She’d spent the four years since her divorce alone, the last two of them up on her mountain, and not once had she caught sight of a guy who truly appealed to her. And then, bam! In one day, she’d run into a trifecta of wildly hot, attractive dudes.

  They were an appealing lot. She wouldn’t have been averse to inviting any one of them into her bed. It had, after all, been a damn while. She could have let it happen, once, twice, then thrice.

  She probably would have, if she hadn’t been quite so out of practice on round one and a bit skittish at round two. Or if round three hadn’t been wounded and interrupted by a telephone call from his concerned friends. As it was, she’d spent the last forty-five minutes sitting right up next to Sigge on the couch, his arm around her and, eventually, her head tucked against his shoulder.

  She’d hesitated only a minute when he’d asked her ever so politely to join him there. He’d been more than obvious in his interest, and, feeling flattered, she’d thought, why not? Four years was four years.

  Indy had a routine for her days, and she’d stuck to it that day as usual. She rose early and started writing, watching dawn come and the sunrise from her bed, her Oma’s recipe hot chocolate with a shot of espresso at her side and her laptop resting on her thighs. Then she drove into town and attended yoga class or worked out at one of the hotels—not the Four Seasons—where she had a membership to the fitness center.

  She shopped then, if needed, like she had today. Then home for a couple more hours of writing. Then lunch, and work, and a break for a hike in three seasons or an hour or two on cross-country skis or snowshoes in winter.

  More of the same, after that. Dinner alone, and another couple hours writing.

  It was a very satisfactory way to spend her days. She was productive, putting out a new novel every four or five months and getting the chores done that had to do with publishing and promoting her work. Keeping grounded and in shape with her yoga and hikes and workouts. She had some social time, making friends at the fitness center and occasionally having coffee or lunch with them in town. She’d formed online writing friendships, too, including a closely knit writing group who had in-person, destination meetings every quarter or so. They called it their half-support, half-therapy, and half-writing group, and by the time they opened the third bottle of wine on their first evening, they giggled, not caring that the halves didn’t add up. They were overachieving, multitasking women, after all.

  She was as fit as she’d been in her few, short years as a pro beach-volleyballer and a lot happier than she’d been in those years, the last of her marriage.

  But she was alone in her bed every night.

  She’d climbed into her Jeep after leaving J.J. still hollering out hokey pickup lines in the grocery and wondered why she hadn’t invited him along. He would have come.

  She was sure she would have, too. Probably more than once.

  And then there’d been Tyler, standing in the ditch next to his truck, offering himself like a blunt reminder that she’d missed one chance, and how many more was she going to pass up?

  But she’d left him there, too, after winching his red truck back up onto the road, despite the chastisement in those hazel eyes, the frustrated crossing of his muscled arms over his big chest. She’d braked, once, looking back at him in her rearview, and almost relented, knowing his gaze was still hard on her, still rebuking her cowardice.

  She’d moved her boot back to the accelerator and left him there.

  And regretted it, hours later, when she’d sat by herself and eaten her salmon salad, then put her fingers back over her keyboard, perched at her old farm table-desk in her lovely office with its gorgeous view, waiting for the sun to fall on another day spent alone.

  In her best moments of writing, words seemed to flow from her imagination to her fingers almost without thought, like Tyler’s trained, reflexive hands grasping a ball. Sometimes, her fingers could hardly keep up.

  There was no flow that evening. There was only the reminder of her aloneness and the niggling, annoying thought that she could be in her bed right that minute with either one of two extremely fine guys, having a wild time of it.

  She’d just closed her laptop in mild frustration, deciding to take the rest of the night off and indulge in a glass of wine, when the knock came at her door. And, presto magic, like J.J.’s third wish—there was one more hot hunk on her very own front porch.

  He was hurt, so she let him in regardless of whether she was going to find the nerve to jump his bones or not. And when she’d gotten him iced and medicated and fed, and he’d invited her over to sit with him—when he’d very politely requested it—she thought of her two missed chances of the day, thought of that little bit of loneliness she’d felt just an hour earlier. It took only one moment’s thought and on
e silent, deep breath for her to buck up.

  His eyes were soft and intent at the same time, and then happy and satisfied when she moved toward him. Before she even sat, he slid his arm along the back of the couch, his hand open, curved, inviting. Like he was trying to convince her he was harmless. Like there was a chance of that being true.

  It took another check of those blue eyes and another deep breath when he lifted the throw to welcome her in. She accepted the challenge and sat next to him, letting him gently pull her against his hard body. His left hand took hers, set it on his chest, and held it there. She was tucked up close against hot, bare skin.

  Much to her surprise, they talked. He told her about his young life—how Swedes weren’t exactly known for their sobriety and how Ahlstrand men in particular were mean drunks. She heard how he was rescued when he was a young teen by a move to Nebraska to live with his maternal aunt, whose husband coached high school football. Football saved him, he said, though he mentioned nothing about the Super Bowl shirt that was now in her dryer.

  He asked about her life, with his jaw lying along her head now, his breath warm in her hair. She talked about her absent, race-car-driving father and a college scholarship in Southern California. How volleyball saved her. She told him a little about her writing and nothing about her marriage.

  “I’m here for the rest of the week,” he said quietly, when she was sure they were both aware that his friends would be arriving soon. “I want to see you again. But I think I have to go get an MRI now.”

  “I think you do,” she said, responding to only the simple portion of his words.

  He moved his mouth against her head, nudging her up to look at him. “Can I come back, Indy?”

  But he’d asked too late. Before she got an answer to her lips, though not before he’d started to lean in for a kiss, she heard the activity in her driveway.

  A bit cowardly after all, she backed away from the almost-kiss and got up, aware of the frustration in Sigge’s eyes.

  And then she was opening the door to Hunk One and Hunk Two.

  “J.J.,” she said, not needing to recover from the surprise like he did. She leaned around to meet those hazel eyes behind him. “Tyler.”

  * * * *

  Fuck! Tyler cursed heartily if silently. He got it now, the words Sig had texted just after he’d finished giving the directions Ty needed to find his banged-up buddy.

  BTW, dibs, Sig had written, without further explanation.

  Well, hell. Tyler had gotten back to the Four Seasons late, after his near-encounter with a big buck on the road and then a too-close encounter with the ditch. J.J. and Sig were waiting, expecting him already to be there, to haul them up the mountain in his brand-new MVP truck for an afternoon of good skiing. Fresh powder had fallen overnight every single day they’d been there, and the skiing was spectacular. It was Tuesday now, and the lift lines were a bit shorter and the slopes a bit less crowded since the weekend skiers had all gone back to work.

  So he dealt with the guys’ fussing and got them up the mountain and thoroughly enjoyed the afternoon. Except for the fact that one tall, hot, and cool blonde had worked her way into his head and couldn’t be worked back out. He’d spent all of his time on the lifts—and half the time he was on his skis, barreling downhill—thinking about how he was going to find her again, cursing himself a bit for not just following her home or wherever she was going when he had the chance.

  Then there was that other big except—the fact that Sig took a backcountry detour and seemed to have fallen off the face of the earth. With Jage pacing at his side, Ty had waited around for a long time, trying Sig’s phone and finally checking in with the ski patrol guys. The big Viking was a standout in any sort of arena, and so it was clear he hadn’t been hauled off the mountain in a coma or anything.

  A hookup was possible, but, generally, Sig could be counted on to be considerate enough to check in. Worried but helpless, Tyler and J.J. finally headed back to their suite. They sat down to a dinner they didn’t enjoy before, finally, Sig answered on the, like, twelfth call.

  He’d wrecked his knee, he said, but he was fine. He’d tried calling, but he’d taken the spill in godless, cell-towerless country. He’d gotten help someplace where his phone finally worked.

  He hadn’t said how long he’d been at that place, though, and now Tyler thought he had the picture. Sig had been nice and cozy on Indy’s couch—his, Tyler’s Indy—bare-chested and warm, for God knew how long.

  And his functional phone had been sitting there, unused, until Tyler had tried one more hopeful, worried, skeptical time.

  He was getting that part, but he was still confused by the way Indy had greeted J.J. by name. Then he had his suspicions about that, too, remembering Jage putting together a sandwich in the suite’s kitchen, doing that clever but inane made-up-song thing he did as he worked. Tyler thought it was an homage to some movie character, but it was a reference he’d never gotten. Anyway, this one was about a hot woman in the produce section and featured a bunch of cheesy pickup lines.

  He didn’t need the B.S. he had in calculus to do the math.

  Looking a little awkward, as he figured she should, Indy stepped back and invited them in. Ahead of him, J.J. stepped close to her, his mouth hovering a couple inches away from hers. “Good to see you again, girlfriend,” he said, in a kind of jive Tyler had seldom heard from him before. The dude had grown up in Nowhere, Nebraska, like the rest of them. Then he kissed her, smacking goofily in a way that sent Tyler’s eyebrows up.

  Luckily, J.J. showed more appropriate interest in their buddy. “Sig,” he said loudly as he moved into the living room. “You okay, man?”

  Tyler watched Indy closely as she reached behind him to close the door. He didn’t exactly move out of her way to help.

  “Indy,” he said quietly and waited for her to look up at him. “You staying here?”

  She was close, and he liked the way their heights lined up. Suddenly, he realized he didn’t like short women so much. Or even medium heights.

  “I live here,” she answered, lifting one shoulder. “It’s my home.”

  He was impressed—it was a nice place in an area known for pricey real estate. Which put him in mind of the man she’d married, and he had to wonder if she had a big part of an NFL salary to thank for it. He was going to like her a little less if that was the case, but he still liked her quite a lot.

  “Come in,” she said, gesturing him in the direction of his pals.

  J.J. was already checking out Sig’s knee, and the two were talking about getting him to town for an MRI. Tyler kept his jacket on, scrubbed a little bit of snow off his boots, and joined them. But he brought Indy along with a hand at the small of her back.

  When Sig looked up at him, Ty’s hand still possessively on Indy’s back, he was pretty sure the Viking could read what was in his eyes. Which was, Dibs, like hell.

  But the guy was a friend first, a good one, so Tyler got involved in the discussion about the banged-up knee and what they thought the likelihood was of getting an MRI this late in the evening. Since this was Vail, they all figured chances were good.

  His eyes, though, kept going to Sig’s bare chest and that spot next to him where the plaid blanket he had wrapped around him was open, like he’d had someone else in there curled up next to him. The thought of it pissed him off, and he looked down at Indy, more pissed by the minute.

  “What do you do up here, living all alone?”

  The question had an edge to it, and he could see the surprise in her eyes.

  She stepped out of his reach and wrapped her arms around herself. If that was supposed to make him not look at her tits, it wasn’t working out for her.

  Lifting a brow, she spoke a bit coolly. “Who says I live alone?”

  Sig waved an arm, interrupting and making an effort to stand Tyler down, clearly taken aback by his attitude. “She lives alone. She writes romance novels,” he told Tyler. “Looks like she’s good at it, too, ja?”


  Tyler spent just a second facing off with Sig’s fake Swede act. “She was married to a pro. Did you know that?” Sig looked surprised, but Tyler suspected it wasn’t about that bit of news so much as the hint of menace that had slipped into his voice.

  He couldn’t help it. He didn’t like the thought of her here, living it up on some NFL asshole’s dime. “Is this his money?” he demanded, gesturing around the place. “Who was he?”

  He heard Sig say his name in a scold and knew he was being unreasonable. But he looked at Indy in expectation, not backing down. “Who was he?”

  She took another step away—closer to Sig, and that pissed him off, too. “It’s none of your business. Who he was is none of your business, and neither is whose money bought this place.” She lifted her head a bit, anyway, showing her pride. “It was mine, though. Money I earned.”

  Good for her—both for the pride and the accomplishment. Tyler took a deep breath, feeling a lot better. But he still had to know. He took out his phone and lifted it up in her direction. “NFL,” he said. “Divorce. Romance author. How long do you think it would take me to get the answer?”

  She stayed silent but looked at the others. No help for her there—he was sure J.J. and Sig were interested, too. He wangled the phone a little bit, and she caved, opening her mouth to speak.

  But Jage beat her to it. “Keith Garrison.”

  Tyler tucked the phone back in his pocket, looking from J.J. back to the woman. “He’s a douche,” he said.

  She laughed just a little. “How’d you know?” she asked J.J., and then spoke to Tyler. “No, he’s not.”

  “Yeah, he is.”

  J.J. only lifted a shoulder, so she looked over at Sig. Tyler guessed she figured that if anyone would say a kind word about Keith-the-Almighty-Quarterback Garrison, it would be Sig. And she was right, but she was still wrong.

  Sig nodded sadly—for her benefit, Tyler was sure—and spoke with obvious reluctance. “He is, kind of.”