Baby Be Mine (Spinsters & Casanovas Series Book 1) (4 page)

“More importantly, Maximilian, you broke the
law.” Whitney topped it off.

“What, Whitney? Are you gonna tell my mum?”
Max challenged. “Phone her in Dubai?”

“I think I might,” Whitney answered, walking
towards the phone.

“You wouldn’t dare.” Max gasped. “It’s gonna
cost Clarice a fortune to phone Dubai. Plus, you don’t know her
phone number.”

“Oh, I would, Maximilian.” Whitney nodded to
show she meant business and picked up the phone. “I could always
ask Clarice for your mum’s phone number. Plus, I’ll pay for the
phone bills.”

“You witch.” Max gasped, head bulldozing at
Whitney.

“Now, now, you two, stop it. It’s Clarice’s
birthday, after all.” Elise interrupted their feud, catching Max’s
head just in time before he made contact with Whitney’s stomach. “I
don’t want his mom to know Max has gone out. It would look bad on
her behalf.”

“Oh, thank you, Elise.” Max forgot all about
his anger and went to wind his arm around Elise instead, resting
his head on her shoulder like a little puppy asking for affection.
“You’re the best, not like my cuz and that Wicked Witch of Oz.”

“Excuse me?” Whitney huffed at Max.

“No, nothing, I didn’t say anything.” Max
pretended to zip his mouth. “Elise, you didn’t hear anything,
right?”

There was a look of sadness and longing on
Elise’s face that Max couldn’t understand. It only appeared for a
fleeting second before it disappeared again.

“I didn’t hear that,” Elise said, smiling at
Max with affection.

“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that, then,”
Whitney finally said, letting the subject go.

“All right,” Elise said, smiling too
enthusiastically this time. “Now, Max, say your congratulations to
your cousin.” And that was when they all noticed Clarice had gone
completely silent and a sad look was plastered on her face again,
just like the face she had made when she blew out the candles.

Whitney was the first to react, folding her
arms around her friend to comfort her, while Elise went to grab
some green tea, with Max following blindly behind her, having not a
clue as to what had just happened.

Once Clarice and Whitney were on the couch
and Elise and Max came back with the steaming green tea, they all
sat in a circle, giving Clarice their undivided attention.

“That’s it. I’m not going to cry over what’s
already been done, or hasn’t been done,” Clarice declared with her
head held high. “We are going out tonight.”

“Wherever you’re going, can I come too?” Max
asked enthusiastically.

“Not unless you have a death wish,” Clarice
said, eyeing her cousin sternly while the two friends pondered
Clarice’s declaration.

Yes,
Clarice thought. She might be
old and yes, she might be on the shelf, but it wasn’t too late yet
to find her own family, her very own husband, and find love.
Starting tonight, she was going to reverse the clock. Tonight, they
were going clubbing!

This is definitely my scene,
Hunter
thought as the loud beat of music rushed through his bloodstream,
pumping him up with adrenaline. And he wasn’t the only one that
felt this way. Everyone around him was gyrating to the nonstop
music, their bodies rubbing up and down each other to the sound of
the beat, crushing, pushing, swaying, moving until they didn’t look
like individual dancers out to enjoy themselves, but one gigantic
mass, melting together on the dance floor.

The atmosphere was high, as if they were all
addicted to this infinite drug. As the music increased in tempo, so
did their energy level. The air itself was a mixture of sweat and
perfume, intoxicating and overpowering his olfactory sense. But,
man oh man, did he love it. He felt so alive, so happy, so
carefree.

Looking around him, all he saw was a sea of
blurry faces, each consumed in their own world of passion. He tried
to keep to the centre of the dance floor, where all the action took
place, but as more people clamored into the throng, the others got
pushed to the side. Himself included.

As he took a side step to avoid another wave
of bodies hitting him, he collided with something soft. Turning to
see what he’d damaged, he found the sexiest girl he’d ever laid
eyes on. She looked up at him and at that very moment, as if they
sang the same tune, she gave him a seductive smile. He, in turn,
smiled at her.

Liking what she saw, the girl moved towards
him. Her hands immediately went to capture his neck, and as the
music changed from Lady Gaga’s “Applause” to J.Lo’s “Papi,” she was
butt-swinging around him, arms and legs assaulting him at every
turn, and man was he turned on.

The mysterious girl suddenly leaned into his
lips, nipping and sucking at him like there was no tomorrow, until
he was puffed out of energy, his lungs starved for oxygen. There
was no electricity shooting through his body, just a lapping,
distasteful kiss, the amount of saliva flooding the floor of his
mouth almost drowning him alive.

How can someone so hot be such a bad
kisser?
Hunter thought as his libido got crushed. Pushing the
girl away gently, he went in search of water for his parched
throat. How ironic when just mere moments before he was almost
drowned in her saliva. The girl looked slightly wounded for a
second but then was off galloping to her next victim like the
trollop she likely was. Hunter felt sorry for the poor sod who
would experience the same predicament he just did.

Paving his way to the bar was an incredible
mission that required more than strength and stamina. Standing at
almost 1.9 meters tall, he still had to squeeze past those
high-craze, energetic animals, like raging bulls, their heads
bumping into him at every turn. The more he tried squeezing between
them, the more he was pushed back, like a rag doll tossed
about.

Summoning his energy, he willed himself
forward, pushing among those sweaty bodies until he was safely on
the other side of the dance floor. By then he realized he needed
more than just the standard drink to get his energy up and pumping
again. Again, he cursed himself for not eating beforehand. Dancing
really was a strenuous exercise in itself.

When Hunter reached the bar, he eyed the
bartender, slamming his hand down on the counter and shouting for a
pint of Speight’s, but the bartender was blind to his request, as
he was currently in an argument with a couple of women. Inching
closer, he heard them speak.

“She’s thirty,” one of the women said to the
bartender.

“Thank you, Whitney, for clarifying,” the
other one said, smiling. And turning to the bartender, she shouted,
“I’m thirty. My friend just confirmed that fact.”

“No,” the bartender said, looking a bit
flustered.

Who in their right mind wouldn’t be
flustered when faced with two gorgeous women demanding his
attention like that? Somehow, for that split second, he envied the
bartender.

“Can’t you see? I’m not a twenty-year-old
kid,” the woman whined.

Obviously, this must have had something to
do with fake IDs. Kids these days wanted to drink alcohol way
before their time. Even though he considered himself a kid still,
he was way over twenty-one and looked well over twenty-five, so
there was no need for a fake ID there.

“Don’t show me that face,” the girl yelled
at the bartender. “You want to see my ID? Fine, I’ll show you my
ID.”

The scene playing out before him was
starting to become humorous, and Hunter couldn’t help but continue
to tune in as the drama unfolded before him. It wasn’t every day he
got to see a beautiful young girl, looking not a minute older than
nineteen, claiming to be thirty just so she could get a sip of
alcohol into that gorgeous body of hers.

Hunter chuckled and shook his head. He could
only recall one other time when his life was this amusing. It
happened about a week ago, when a girl gave him a bouquet of roses
the day before Valentine’s Day and then ran off after yanking his
towel, exposing his naked state.

He could still remember standing there, butt
naked and all, gazing at her as she scrambled away in fright,
oblivious to the sound of whatshername, the girl he’d just had sex
with, screaming loudly, making threatening remarks about wanting to
kill that girl if she were to see her again.

He could still remember the exact image of
her black hair fluttering about in the breeze, tossing, turning,
and gliding through the hands of the wind. He so damn wanted to be
the wind that day, to feel those strands through his fingers, to
see if they were really soft to the touch. He was mesmerized by
that beautiful girl, at the nerve she imparted upon him when she
dared tear off his towel and at the fading image of her escape. At
that moment he was tempted to follow her.

Dear Lord, he would have definitely followed
her if he weren’t butt naked. He would have run after her and made
love to her right there against the next available tree. But
goddamn if it weren’t for his neighbor Macy, always hanging about
on her front porch, looking to catch a glimpse of him with his next
woman, then he would have been off after her already.

Hearing ruffling, his eyes danced back to
the scene in front of him. He watched as the girl rummaged through
her bag but could not produce anything.

“Miss, I can’t serve you alcohol if you
don’t have ID with you,” the bartender rephrased.

“I have it in here somewhere,” she grumbled
while she continued searching for her card, her shoulders slumping
in disappointment. Then she turned to the other girl he assumed to
be her friend, who was dressed all in black, like a goth, complete
with coke bottle glasses.

“Go get Elise. I think I left my wallet in
her bag,” she instructed.

The friend looked reluctant to leave for a
minute, but then she was off to the other side of the club,
disappearing into the crowd. Now the girl was all alone, but she
still continued to stare at the bartender like she was on death
row.

At this point, Hunter couldn’t help himself.
Being a Casanova, he just needed to ruffle her feathers a bit and
rescue her from her moment of distress. This girl definitely needed
some lifting up, and he made sure he was the first one to offer her
that service.

Hunter couldn’t help but marvel at her long
hair that shone brightly under the many colorful disco lights. She
was of petite frame, perching on the stool, her legs dangling like
a little kid’s.
Definitely my cup of tea,
Hunter
thought.

Not wanting to prolong the wait any longer,
Hunter inched himself closer to her, his stool now very near. And
while she was so consumed with her conversation with the bartender,
he took action.

“Hello, sweetheart,” he whispered into her
ear.

As if heaven had opened up, she turned her
head and God help him, but his mouth almost hung open for a full
minute. It was that exact same girl who had made that confession to
him just last week, the same girl he couldn’t get out of his
head.

No way could he have mistaken her. Those
same pupils shone a molten black. Those same cheeks, just like that
day, were scarlet in color, but this time it wasn’t from the
embarrassment over his lack of dress, but instead, they were puffed
out in anger due to the argument with the bartender.

This beauty sure was a sight to behold. She
was hot and heavy and, hopefully by tonight, ready for him—once
he’d worked his seductive charm on her, of course.

“You!” she said, her cheeks blazing under
the rainbow-colored lights.

“Well, well, well, if it isn’t the
sweetheart who confessed to me last week,” he drawled out
seductively. “Did you enjoy the view before you ran off like the
devil was on your tail?”

* * *

This is definitely not my scene,
Clarice thought as a raging headache settled in nicely at the back
of her skull. The music drummed so loud in her ears that she
thought if she frequented here often enough, she was sure to have
an auditory deficit by the time she reached forty.

She was so not looking forward to midnight,
but here she was, in a nightclub, with midnight itself clearly
approaching faster than Lighting McQueen. And then she would
officially turn thirty. Yay! And to top it all off, the argument
with the bartender over her desire—no
need
—for
one
alcoholic drink wasn’t helping either.

Oh, heaven help her! Was it too much to ask?
She wasn’t asking to conquer the world. It was one drink, one
small, bloody drink.
Dear Mother and Father, please forgive me
for swearing like this, but this is just too damn much.
She was
on the verge of bursting into tears again. It was her goddamn
birthday, for Christ sake, so just let her have that one sip, a
lick, at least to know what it’s like to taste alcohol before
bloody midnight rolls around and she officially ended up being a
spinster forever.

A spinster who had never tasted alcohol on
her tongue? What would the dental team at her practice say if they
found out? She could imagine them gossiping and writing on their
weblog already.
Clarice Mason, highly trained gum specialist,
sourly turned thirty without a lick of alcohol to her name. Oh the
shame.

No. She could not bear it. This MUST call
for desperate measures.

“Look, please, you’ve got to believe me,”
Clarice pleaded. When the bartender looked unmoved, she resorted to
using reasoning. “I’m working now. I’m not a little kid anymore.
I’m a periodontist.” Still nothing. “I bloody worked as a dentist
for two full years before applying to study in the gum field.”
She’d started shouting now. The bartender didn’t even blink an eye
at her reasoning. At that moment she felt like yanking all his
teeth out, gum disease or not, and jabbing them right into his
eyeballs, wanting to hear him whine in pain. Oh, she wished she
were a witch like her friend Whitney. Then everyone would be
freakin’ scared of her and she wouldn’t have to resort to begging
for a small drink.