Three Little Words: Worth the Wait Romance, #1

By Maggie Wells

It's never too late to make the best bad decision of your life.

 

Jo Masters isn't the girl she used to be, but now she's ready to recapture a little of her misspent youth. Her niece's wedding, with its open bar and dark dance floor, seems the perfect opportunity to let loose.

Gregory Stark is just trying to make it through his son's wedding day…And possibly make some time with the gorgeous brunette on the bride's side of the aisle. His kid's wedding probably isn't the optimal occasion to put the moves on the sexy woman who introduced herself as simply 'Josie', but Greg is only human.

A romp in the hay that turns into an all-out romp including meddling family members, missing shoes, and a pushy old friend. And the feelings that linger after a whirlwind of an evening leave Josie and Greg wondering if a perfectly good one-night-stand turn into something more.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Maggie Wells
• Release date: Jun 25, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393497196

Maggie Wells

Maggie Wells is a deep-down dirty girl with a weakness for hot heroes and happy endings. By day she is buried in spreadsheets, but at night she pens tales of people tangling up the sheets. The product of a charming rogue and a shameless flirt, this mild-mannered married lady has a naughty streak a mile wide.

Book preview

1

The line at the bar wasn’t long, but she needed a drink--a real drink--and she needed it fast. Jo twirled her empty champagne flute and tapped her toe as the DJ made a cringe-worthy segue between Louis Armstrong and Pink. A pang of regret tweaked her stomach when she spotted her eldest brother, Tony, leading his baby girl from the dance floor, but that was nothing new. She’d suffered so many pangs in her life they’d become a part of her autonomic system. Breathe in, breathe out, pang . Blink, sniffle, sneeze, pang . Go to bed alone--again-- pang !

At the tender age of twenty-six, her niece had managed to accomplish everything Jo never had. Kaylin had a career, a home of her own, and a man she loved so much she actually glowed. Literally glowed. Jo hadn’t known such a glow since her mother stopped slathering her sunburns in Noxzema.

Radiant happiness was enough to drive a woman to drink.

Three groomsmen bellied up to the bar and jockeyed for position in front of the pretty blond bartender. Their voices rose as they trumped each other’s orders. Each successive suggestion was an obvious attempt to prove the issuer was more worldly, and therefore manly, than the last. The misguided boys must have believed their ability to chug grain alcohol might make or break their chance at ending the evening in the poor girl’s bed. The bartender eyed them with hardly-contained disdain. The posturing little pricks didn’t notice. Jo couldn’t help but smile when the girl rolled her eyes and went back to stacking glassware.

What little buzz Jo had managed to eke out of two glasses of table wine and a flute of champagne began to wane. She considered goosing one of the guys to shock him into gear, but then another tuxedo-clad man, murmuring quiet excuses, slipped in front of her. The groomsmen jumped when the newcomer gripped their padded shoulders.

Three beers for these guys, please. Give them the imported stuff. Casually, he stuffed a twenty-dollar bill into the pitcher serving as a tip jar. Having fun, fellas?

The groomsmen replied in the affirmative, but their cheeks glowed pink. Bravado squelched, they grabbed their beers and beat a hasty retreat. The hero of the hour turned to face Jo. Recognition kicked in. Saliva pooled in her mouth and a tingle of awareness prickled the fine hairs at her nape. Her savior was none other than the father of the groom. It took a fraction of a second for her brain to source the pertinent facts Kaylin had imparted on Ben’s father. Gregory. Greg. Divorced, devoted dad, and hot as Hades on a summer day.

Confronted with him now, Jo was happy to confirm the acute case of the bright shinies hadn’t skewed her niece’s powers of observation. Gregory Stark was all that and more.

He’d sneaked glances at her all through the ceremony. Now, he grinned right at her. Good to know I’ve still got it.

His dark eyes glinted with amusement. She wasn’t sure if he was referring to his ability to circumvent a bar line, or the fact that she’d been unable to resist returning every one of the furtive glances he’d tossed her way. Jo decided to play it neutral.

Rolling her parched tongue up off the carpet, she nodded the approbation he was obviously seeking. Effective.

No lie. He was the most attractive man she’d laid eyes on in forever. Which made perfect sense in a bizarre Karmic way. Of course she had to meet this man after she’d poked a nail through her last pair of control-top pantyhose.

Still, there was no reason she couldn’t catalog every bit of him for later use. With a practiced eye, she gauged him to be a few years older than her. Her guess put him somewhere in his mid-fifties. Unlike most men, he hadn’t packed on any extra cushioning for the slide into the AARP years. He was tall and lean, his movements as taut and compelling as the lines bracketing his eyes and those sculpted lips. His jaw was smooth and shiny, clean-shaven, but the shadow of a heavy beard loomed below the surface. Jo wanted to know what else he kept hidden under the slick exterior.

He’d been seated in the front pew at the ceremony beside his ex-wife and her husband. Jo wondered what he’d done to earn ex status. For the life of her, she couldn’t imagine any woman willingly giving this man up for the paunchy redhead who’d taken his place.

He nodded toward the array of bottles behind the bar. Champagne?

God, no. The response was automatic. She hated champagne. Pure desperation forced her to resort to the glass poured for the toasts because the dinner wine was long gone. Now he was offering her more. The sparkling wine seemed an apt choice for him. He looked like Cary Grant, what with the wings of silver in his dark hair, the crinkly brown eyes sparkling with mischief, and the tuxedo. Maybe he was offering her champagne because Cary Grant would offer her champagne. Cary would call her darling. Would Gregory Stark call her darling?

Something tugged at her fingers. She stared in rapt fascination as he removed the forgotten flute from her hand and placed it on the bar. Oh. No. No more champagne. She managed a weak twitch of her lips. Thank you.

A proprietary hand landed in the small of her back. Jo surrendered to the gentle pressure, closing her eyes and imagining the pads of his fingers to be electrodes. Sparks sizzled along her spine. He spread his fingers wide as he drew alongside her at the bar. Arousal swept through her like a hot flash. Unlike those endless minutes of core meltdown, this heat wasn’t something to be endured. His touch was a treat to be savored. She opened her eyes again and found him staring at her, his lips parted and his dark eyes shining bright.

What’ll it be, then?

Tequila. Three shots.

The answer popped out before her brain engaged. It was a ghost from her past. A remnant of the reckless youth she’d left buried under a pile of soul-crushing responsibility.

Whoa. Three? He craned his neck and scanned the room. Maybe I should get one of the younger guys back.

Once upon a time, three was her magic number. The key to managing everything life had thrown at her. Good and bad. The magic of three stopped being effective not long after she’d turned thirty--a bitter disappointment she’d never managed to reconcile with herself. Turns out, fate had her number in another way.

Well, screw fate. She’d played the good girl long enough. Emboldened by the wine and the heat of his hand scorching her back, she looked him square in the eye. "I have no use for boys, thankyouverymuch. Don’t worry. It’s okay if you can’t keep up. I won’t think less of you."

He laughed. Not a chuckle or a chortle, but a deep, rumbling, full-throated guffaw that wrapped itself around her and drew her closer still. Or maybe he pulled her in with his hand. Either way, she was within sniffing distance, so she took a hit. Pure man. No flowery cologne masked a warm and musky mix of soap, shaving cream and some kind of whiskey. Thank God.

Set ’em up, he told the bartender.

The girl lined six tiny glasses along the side rail. Pale amber liquid dribbled onto the bar when she moved from glass to glass. She piled wedges of lime on a napkin and plunked a saltcellar beside it. The furrow of concentration between the bartender’s