Wade shrugged. No skin off his nose. Hell, he’d probably had lots of nights like that since.

Dammit.

She concentrated on the view. Not a hardship. Santa Barbara wasn’t called the American Riviera for nothing, and she watched as they passed 4,000 foot peaks covered in unique and beautiful chaparral and sandstone outcrop-pings. Their destination was the famous OC, Orange County, specifically Laguna Beach, for a “magical” weekend. “So we’re good?” she asked quietly.

Wade smiled. It was his professional smile, the one that could melt a woman’s panties at fifty paces and make men wish that they had half his athletic prowess, and it was a charmer. She knew its potency, braced herself for it, and still felt her panties begin to melt.

“What the hell.” He stretched out farther, his thigh sliding against hers. “I’m on board. Girlfriend.”

“Fake girlfriend,” she corrected, shoving his leg over, telling herself she was absolutely not noticing the heat of him, the feel of his rock-hard thigh . . .

He stretched some more, straightening his arms above him, for a minute exposing a brief flash of washboard abs between the hem of his shirt and the waistband of his jeans. Jeans that were faded to white at all the stress points. He had some very fine stress points . . .

Sam saw more men in a day than the average woman dreamed of, many—if she was in the clubhouse before a game—in various stages of nakedness. She was immune to tantalizing glimpses of male skin.

Completely.

Immune.

And yet her mouth went dry.

Wade finished stretching. “Maybe we should kiss on it.”

“What? No!”

“Spoil sport,” he said so good naturedly that she knew he was only teasing. He’d probably be shocked if she had said yes, which she absolutely wouldn’t do. Even if he was the kiss master. Which he was . . .

His leg was touching hers again. He was hogging the backseat, albeit unintentionally. He was a big guy, and he smelled good. He looked good, too, which really didn’t seem fair at all.

But he was here, not pitching a diva fit, and she owed him for that. “Thank you,” she said. “For agreeing to this.”

“You’re welcome.”

Well, that seemed surprisingly genuine, and she had to wonder if maybe she’d anticipated trouble with him simply because of their past. Maybe . . . Maybe deep down he really was a good guy.

It was possible.

Maybe they could laugh about this, someday.

This could possibly be funny. Maybe.

Sort of.

And maybe they could even become friends. That would be nice—

“You packing any Scotch today?” he asked, looking around the limo. “Should I brace myself for you to tear my clothes off again?”

With a sigh, she leaned back and closed her eyes.

Okay, so they weren’t going to become friends.