Lightning
in a Bottle
by
Gina Ardito
Genre:
Contemporary Romance
After
suffering through a humiliating divorce in New York, Bo McKenzie is
out of luck, money, and patience. Arriving in Silverton, Texas, she’s
bet her last dime on the launch of her craft brewery to get her life
back on track. Despite her vow to stay focused solely on the beer
business, one man manages to capture her heart. Can she trust him?
Drew
Garwood’s one true love has always been serving the legal needs of
his neighbors. His greatest trouble is keeping his brother on the
right side of the law. When Bo McKenzie sweeps into town, she rouses
his passion and provides the spark his life has been missing.
Whatever happened before she came to Silverton has left her guarded
and suspicious. Can he break down her defenses?
As
the two struggle to rein in their wild attraction, secrets and greed
could destroy the brewery and force Bo out of town for good –
unless Drew can find a way to convince her to stay.
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“If you can’t behave until the steaks are done, I will banish you to the patio outside.”
“Fine.” She tore lettuce leaves off the head of romaine and dropped them in a colander, doing her best to maintain the boundary he set. Through her lashes, she caught him staring at her several times. When she did, she’d slow down the leaf-tearing, making each motion slow and deliberate. The fourth time she caught him, she licked her lips, her pink tongue teasing the flesh from one corner to the other.
“So, umm…” he said in a low tone, his gaze now laser-focused on applying fresh cracked black pepper to the steaks, “are you…” He cleared his throat. “Are you wearing my underwear right now?”
She snorted in her attempt to hold back a satisfied smile. “No.”
“Oh.”
He sounded so disappointed she knew she had to cheer him up. “I’m not wearing any.”
The wooden peppermill in his hand clattered to the floor and rolled toward her feet. “Damn.” The word came out a harsh whisper, as if it were the last utterance of a dying man.
Her laughter nearly exploded then and there, but she bent at the waist, giving him a fabulous view of her cleavage, while she picked up the peppermill. “Here you go.” She placed it in his hand, allowing her fingers to glide over his palm as she did so.
His eyes widened, and his Adam’s apple dropped when he swallowed. “Thanks.”
“Oh, you’re very welcome,” she crooned and returned her attention to her salad ingredients. Upping the ante, she swung her hips to the beat of the music while working. Done with the lettuce, she picked up one of the cucumbers, found a peeler on the island, and shimmied her way to the sink. She turned on the water and skimmed off the cuke’s rind. Who said it was hard to be seductive while peeling a phallic-shaped vegetable? She varied her strokes from long and slow to faster around the tip, all the while allowing the discards to drop into the drain equipped with a garbage disposal.
He might have made a strangled noise; she couldn’t be sure. But she definitely sensed him slip behind her seconds before his hands landed on her hips and his lips found their way to her neck.
Her breath left her lungs in one quick sigh of delight. Somehow, she managed to turn off the water before he spun her around to trail kisses from the hollow of her throat to the hollow of her breasts. His hands, hot and searching, slid up her waist until his fingers found their way underneath the knotted t-shirt. She gripped him by the belt loops of his jeans, pulling him closer, and arched her back—a subtle hint she ached for his touch everywhere. He complied with her unspoken request, his hand sliding up past the knot of the t-shirt, molding the flesh to his palm. A throaty purr rumbled from her mouth. Just for now, she told herself. To quench this need he’d ignited in her. If she slept with him once, whatever draw he had on her would evaporate and she could go on with her plans, focused and recharged. Just this one time…
“What about the porterhouse?” she eked out, not giving one good god damn about steak right now.
“Dinner’s going to be late,” he told her and yanked the t-shirt off over her head.
“I can wait,” she replied as her hand traveled to the button of his fly.
I
kill houseplants. There. Now you know one of my greatest shames. I'm
not boasting. I just figure that if you're reading this, you're
looking for more than how wonderful life is as a writer. You get
enough of that elsewhere. Ditto for political rants, how to lose
thirty pounds in a week, and creating gorgeous crafts with nothing
more than twine and soup cans. My goal is to connect with you, dear
reader, even if you're not a writer, not a New Yorker, not a mother,
not a female. We're human (unless one of us is a spambot), and what
we have in common is flaws. So here are a few more of mine:
I sing all the time. I sing songs most people don't know--jingles from television, crazy stuff I used to listen to on Dr. Demento, Broadway and movie soundtracks, and I can even bum-bum-bum through instrumental music. I sing in the car. In the shower. While I'm grocery shopping. And I headbop while I sing. When I'm not singing, I talk to myself. Just ignore me and move on. You get used to it after a while.
I don't eat my vegetables. Seriously. I only started eating salad about ten years ago, but I'd still rather have a cookie.
Given the option, I would live in a mall where I would never have to worry about freezing temperatures or too much sun. I'm extremely fair-skinned and could burn under a 60-watt light bulb.
I can't sleep without background noise so the television's on all night. If it's too dark and too quiet, all I have are my thoughts. And even *I* don't want to be alone with my thoughts.
Don't ask me to Zumba, line dance, or march in the parade. I have absolutely no rhythm.
I color outside the lines. Not because I'm a rebel, but because I suck as an artist. My artistic ability is limited to being able to draw Snoopy sleeping on his doghouse. And I don't even draw that well.
Regrets. I have more than a few.
My favorite activity is sleep, and I'm pretty good at it. I don't clock a lot of hours, but I can powernap like a Persian cat and rejuvenate within ten minutes.
I consider shopping and dining out excellent therapy for anything wrong in my life.
My feet are always cold. Always. My husband of more than a quarter century claims it's because I'm an alien sent to Earth to destroy him. (He might be right about that.)
Coming to my house for a visit? Unless you've given me plenty of advance notice, be prepared. My floor will not be vacuumed, there will be dishes in my sink, and I only make my bed when I change the sheets once a week (I'm climbing back into it ASAP. Why make it?) Housecleaning is not high on my priority list. Okay, to be totally honest, it's not on the list at all.
I can resist anything...except ice cream.
Since this is our first date, I figure I've revealed enough secrets for now. But if you've read this bio and think I might be the author for you, pick up one of my books or stalk my website
I sing all the time. I sing songs most people don't know--jingles from television, crazy stuff I used to listen to on Dr. Demento, Broadway and movie soundtracks, and I can even bum-bum-bum through instrumental music. I sing in the car. In the shower. While I'm grocery shopping. And I headbop while I sing. When I'm not singing, I talk to myself. Just ignore me and move on. You get used to it after a while.
I don't eat my vegetables. Seriously. I only started eating salad about ten years ago, but I'd still rather have a cookie.
Given the option, I would live in a mall where I would never have to worry about freezing temperatures or too much sun. I'm extremely fair-skinned and could burn under a 60-watt light bulb.
I can't sleep without background noise so the television's on all night. If it's too dark and too quiet, all I have are my thoughts. And even *I* don't want to be alone with my thoughts.
Don't ask me to Zumba, line dance, or march in the parade. I have absolutely no rhythm.
I color outside the lines. Not because I'm a rebel, but because I suck as an artist. My artistic ability is limited to being able to draw Snoopy sleeping on his doghouse. And I don't even draw that well.
Regrets. I have more than a few.
My favorite activity is sleep, and I'm pretty good at it. I don't clock a lot of hours, but I can powernap like a Persian cat and rejuvenate within ten minutes.
I consider shopping and dining out excellent therapy for anything wrong in my life.
My feet are always cold. Always. My husband of more than a quarter century claims it's because I'm an alien sent to Earth to destroy him. (He might be right about that.)
Coming to my house for a visit? Unless you've given me plenty of advance notice, be prepared. My floor will not be vacuumed, there will be dishes in my sink, and I only make my bed when I change the sheets once a week (I'm climbing back into it ASAP. Why make it?) Housecleaning is not high on my priority list. Okay, to be totally honest, it's not on the list at all.
I can resist anything...except ice cream.
Since this is our first date, I figure I've revealed enough secrets for now. But if you've read this bio and think I might be the author for you, pick up one of my books or stalk my website
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