Page 33 of Not Your Average Vixen
“The best man is here? At this hotel?” she asked, her voice rising an octave. She knew he was coming early, but she hadn’t even thought they’d be stuck at the same hotel.
“He sure is—a Mr. Rudolph. I’ll be right back. Sit tight,” the jovial man replied.
Now, like her Santa-double driver, her cheeks were as red as roses, but not because she was feeling anything close to jolly.
In fact, she was the epitome of the exact opposite of jolly.
Tom’s best man was no best man. No, he was the worst man, and this stripper-sending creep was about to get an earful.
But her mouth fell open when Mr. Smarmy Salsa sauntered out of the hotel, trailing a few steps behind Dan.
She gritted her teeth. Of course, this salsa-eating freakazoid was the infamous Scooter. She narrowed her gaze, ready to tear this guy a new one. But Mr. Smarmy Salsa veered right, then slid into a waiting cab a few cars ahead of them.
She glanced at Dan. “Where’s the best man?”
But she spoke too soon.
“I’m the best man,” came the sexy voice that had whispered sweet nothings—and some very dirty nothings—into her ear last night.
Holy vixen catastrophe!
Wide-eyed, the man stopped a few paces from the car and stared at her.
“You’re Birdie?”
Her gaze dropped to his satchel, and the black leather personalized luggage tag with the initialsS, C, T,andRemblazoned in silver lettering.
“S, C, T, R?” she read, unable to look away.
“Soren Christopher Traeger Rudolph,” he parroted back robotically.
She gasped. “Scooter?”
It was true!
Her handsome stranger was the playboy asshat with the stupidest nickname in the world!
“Let me take your bag, Mr. Rudolph,” Dan said with a warm grin.
Soren handed over his suitcase and satchel but kept his gaze locked on her.
“We better get going,” Dan added, oblivious to the fact that she had the worst luck in the entire universe and that the devil incarnate just handed him his suitcase.
Soren blinked as if opening and closing his eyes would make her disappear. And if she possessed a disappearing superpower, she would have gladly granted him his wish. Unfortunately, even a real vixen couldn’t do that.
Dan got behind the wheel, and Soren, Scooter, whatever the hell his name was, slid into the back seat with her.
Her mouth opened and closed like a goldfish. What was she supposed to say? Remember that fun girl from last night? You know, the one that rode you like a cowgirl on the hotel’s bearskin rug? Well, she’s me, but I’m not her. I’m no vixen. I’m Lori’s older sister, her greatest protector, and you,Scooter,are in a world of shit!
But one thing was crystal clear. She had to suppress any feelings of tenderness toward this man.
Starting now, he was public enemy number one.
“I can’t believe that you’reBirdie,Lori’s uptight sister,” Soren said under his breath, breaking into her thoughts.
She harnessed her resolve. “I can’t believe you’re the playboy stripper-sending schmuck,Scooter. Suck on that, creep!” she whisper-shouted, keeping her voice low so Dan couldn’t hear them.
But when it came to sucking, all she could imagine were her lips wrapped around his glorious cock.
