by Tessa Layne
He wasn't far off.
"So, here's how we're going to play this... Cecilia." The way he said her name turned her knees to jelly. It was dirty and seductive, and promised to fulfill every filthy fantasy she'd indulged in since they'd first kissed. She bit back a groan when his mouth found the sensitive spot below her ear further sensitized by the scraping of his beard. "You're going to put your feet up and enjoy another glass of bubbly. You can boss me all you like while I finish the dishes." She whimpered as a spike of heat arrowed right to her core, dampening her panties as her sex heated. The ache grew so intense, she squeezed her legs together. She gripped the edge of the counter. This was a first. Who knew a simple offer of washing dishes would be So. Fucking. Sexy?? As was the tone of his voice, which brooked no argument. "And," he continued, tongue flicking a path to her collarbone. "Then I'm going to take you home and give you a bath."
"I thought you were heading to the Trading Post?" she protested weakly, because the idea of letting him give her a bath was at once titillating and terrifying.
His hand came to her hip in a firm caress. "A little birdie mentioned it's not really your scene."
Izzie? She needed to have a conversation with her about meddling, however good her intentions. "It's not."
"And your feet need Epsom salts."
"What are you? Some kind of a doctor?"
"No. But I play one on T.V.," he teased, pulling a laugh from her. "And if you're a good girl, I might just give you that spanking you've been fantasizing about," he finished, giving the sensitive flesh at her collarbone a nip, then a slow kiss.
How did he know? Her nipples peaked, aching to be nipped and tugged, and it took all her willpower to not lean back into his hard frame and let him have his way right here in Dottie's kitchen. Her pulse raced with anticipation.
"Hmm. Tempting." The ball was clearly in her court. All she had to do was say yes, and she could walk on the wild side.
His arm slid across her front, hand splaying across her ribs. "Cecilia," he said again, voice warm and dark and oh, so, sexy. She turned her face toward the sound, sighing as he peppered her jawline with featherlight kisses. "Step away from the counter."
Her hand covered his, and he immediately laced his fingers through hers, gently pulling her from the counter. He stepped around her, maneuvering his body so that she was wrapped in his embrace. Instinctively, she lifted her chin, too far under his spell to put off the inevitable. His mouth was gentle against hers, tender even. A riot of feeling exploded in her chest as his tongue teased her mouth open. Men like him weren't real. But Trace was definitely kissing her. And his heart underneath her hand was thumping as real and as hard as hers... And kissing him felt so, so good, and so surprisingly right. She wanted more. She wanted all of it. "Okay," she whispered when they separated, as much to herself as to him. Her stomach fluttered as the words burned on her tongue. "I'll let you take care of me."
Chapter Fifteen
Trace could lose himself forever in her beautiful brown eyes. The way she stared at him now with that same hopeful, hungry, fearful expression from earlier went right to his soul. The scared kitten was taking a chance on trusting him, and by god, he wouldn't let her down. Not if he could help it. When are you going to tell her the truth? He could just hear Portia's inevitable question. There was time yet. One step at a time. Once she fully trusted him, she'd understand why he had to keep his identity secret.
He kissed her again, because how could he resist the pull of her? After thoroughly exploring her mouth he eased back, giving her hand a tug and leading her to the table where he pulled out a chair. "Sit." He pulled back another. "Feet."
"Ooh, so caveman of you," she teased with a soft smile. There was no challenge in her voice, only amusement, and her eyes bright and sparkling.
"Don't move." He grabbed her flute from the counter and refilled it. Then poured himself a glass.
"You don't have to wear the apron, you know," Cecilia said as she took the glass he offered. "I was only teasing."
"You think it bothers me?" He drained half his glass before setting it back on the counter and returning to the dishes.
"No." Her voice lingered on the oh, as if she wasn't exactly sure.
He braced his arms on the edge of the sink, suddenly overcome with everything he wanted to tell her and couldn't. "I'm my own man, Cecilia," he said a little too roughly. "I know what you're playing at - testing me with all the pushing and arguing - but it won't erase the chemistry between us, or chase me off." He turned to her. "And it certainly won't make me wear a silly blue apron unless I decide I want to wear it. Got it?"
Cecilia's eyebrows disappeared into her hairline. "Oh." She spoke so quietly, he barely caught it.
"I want you to be clear about what you're getting with me. And that I see you exactly as you are." He hadn't rocketed to stardom just because of his good looks; he had an uncanny sense about what motivated people. As a kid, it had helped him survive. Later, it had helped him navigate the predatory aspect of Hollywood. Come to think of it, it was probably why he'd avoided most friendships as an adult, because he could instinctively see who was out to use him. So instead, he'd been the user. Huh. That was going to take some unpacking. He pulled another bottle of bubbles from the fridge and set to work on the cork.
"I'm sorry," she said quietly. "I don't mean to push. I can't seem to help myself."
Trace refreshed his glass and crossed the space between them, topping off hers before pulling out another chair and sinking into it. "I'm not looking for an apology, sweetheart. But... no," he held up a finger, "and... we should be clear about who we are, don't you think?"
The look she gave him was one of utter surprise and appreciation. He couldn't really blame her - he was as shocked as she was at the words falling from his mouth. Trace McBride didn't give a shit about anyone except his own desires in the moment. Trace Walker, apparently, gave all the shits. And more, he wanted Cecilia to like him.
"So tell me who you are, Trace Walker. Who are you really?" she asked with a sly smile.
Well, damn. He'd walked into that trap all by himself. A momentary wave of anxiety rolled his stomach. If he was smart, he'd turn the question back on her, but his gut told him that the gains he'd made this afternoon would evaporate. He drained half his glass and took a deep breath. "My earliest memory is of my mother leaving and not returning. I was raised by my grandma Walker until she passed and I was pulled into foster care." Unwanted memories came hard and fast. There was a reason he never spoke of his childhood, not even with Portia.
Cecilia sucked in a breath. "Wow. I-I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to-"
"It's okay," Trace said with a wave of his hand. "It's in the past. I ran away when I was fifteen. Ended up picking strawberries with migrants in Bakersfield, and shoveling shit at a local ranch." He'd leave out the part where the ranch manager beat him and refused to pay him when he caught him kissing his daughter.
Cecilia blinked, eyes like saucers. "But somehow you moved beyond that. I mean, look at you now."
Trace nodded his agreement. "I did. I got real lucky."
She leaned forward. "Well? Tell me the rest."
He flashed her a grin. "Nope. It's your turn."
"Mine?" Cecilia's brows knit together and her eyes dropped to where her fingers twisted in her lap. She looked ready to bolt.
He reached over and took her hands. "Scared?" he teased gently. "I promise your secrets are safe with me."
Her frown deepened. "They're not really secrets, exactly. Izzie and Jeanine know most of this, which means everyone in town does, too. I just..." She exhaled roughly. "My childhood was fairly shitty. My dad is someone I'd call a pathological liar. He was gregarious - even when he drank too much. He broke us financially, but the worst was how he treated my mom. He was never around - always an excuse about how his car broke down, or he had to go ride some bronc at a rodeo down the road. It was only by eavesdropping on my parents' arguments that I pieced together he spent most of our mon
ey on booze, and-and, other things." Her words came out quietly, but there was a low-level anger that still colored her voice. "By the time I was twelve, I hated him. Hated the way my mother cried in the kitchen when she thought no one was looking. Hated that she was working two jobs to pay all the bills, and that the more she worked, the more the money disappeared. It all came to a head the summer I was fifteen. I'd been saving up money for a horse, and when I went to the bank to pull out my money, it was gone. When my mom asked, I was too afraid to tell her I knew my dad had taken it. But then..." her hands fisted in his, and she took another ragged breath. "When we got home, there was this message on our answering machine, and it was this woman calling to say that she'd left her bra in my dad's truck."
Trace's stomach dropped. "What an ass," he ground out. "No kid should have to hear that about a parent."
A ghost of a smile flitted across her face. "My mom tried to act like she hadn't heard it, but there was no way she didn't. As soon as she left the room, I took the tape and I got on my bike and rode to the Trading Post. It was pretty seedy back then, but he was there in a corner with a whiskey in one hand and his other up this woman's shirt. I should have walked away, let my mom handle it, but I stupidly thought I could fix things. I yelled at both of them. And my dad... yelled back. Told me to get the hell out of there, this was none of my business, blah blah blah. Even when I held up the tape, he kept coming after me like it was my fault. Right about then, my mom showed up, and told him she wanted a divorce and to not come back, ever. And he looked at me and told me that this was all my fault."
Fucking hell. This explained so much. With a history like that, of course she'd naturally be suspicious. Sterling's cautionary tale returned to him. She ran her dad out of town. Clearly, the guy didn't know the whole story. "You know it's not your fault, right?"
She nodded. "My mom moved us into my grandparents the next morning, and right into family counseling."
"Do you still talk to him?"
She shook her head. "Nope. I heard he remarried and maybe has some kids. I realized in therapy that having any contact with him was unhealthy for me, so I cut off communication with him in college. He bailed out on us long before my parents divorced, and as far as I'm concerned, he gave up his right to have us in his life the second he started to lie."
His conscience gave another guilty stab. Tell her. You have to tell her. But he couldn't. Not yet - there was too much at stake, and he had to remember she was a reporter. She was obligated to let the cat out of the bag. And it wasn't like this was going anywhere significant, he justified to himself. They were both planning to leave Prairie sooner rather than later. He could always contact her once he'd returned to his old life and set her straight.
He squeezed her hands. "I think we should toast."
"To what? Our sad sob stories?"
"To surviving. To rising above adversity." He flashed her another grin. "To bonding over our sad sob stories." He refilled their glasses.
"So we've bonded now?" Her mouth twitched - as if she was trying not to smile.
"I don't tell my sad sob stories to just anyone." No one, really. "C'mon, what do you say? Friends? More than friends? Maybe?" No doubt about it, Cecilia was a hard nut to crack. But the more he dug beneath her prickly surface, the more he liked her. The odd pressure in his chest returned as he waited for her answer, but he pushed it aside. If anything, it was just his conscience again. Nothing more.
Cecilia's cheeks flushed, and a small smile pulled her mouth wide. "Maybe."
She clinked her glass to his and held his gaze until Izzie burst in the door and stopped, staring suspiciously at the two of them. "What in the heck is going on here?"
Cecilia brushed her off with a wave of her hand. "Oh, hush. My feet were sore, and Trace just offered to help me out."
Trace jumped to his feet and returned to the sink, but not before he caught Izzie's look of disbelief. "I think there's a lot more going on here than dishes, you two."
Izzie helped herself to the bubbly still on the table, then followed Trace to the sink. "You be good to her Trace Walker, or I will come for you," she threatened quietly with an innocent smile on her face, keeping her eyes glued to him as she tossed back the contents of her glass.
Before he could think of a snappy comeback, Cecilia called over. "You all headed out to the Trading Post?"
Izzie made a face. "Everyone keeps bailing, so at the moment it's just me and Jax. Are you coming?"
She shook her head. "You know it's not my scene, and my feet hurt."
"But it should be. And how're you going to get home if we leave? Do you have a ride lined up?"
Trace could see the lines of exhaustion on Cecilia's face. He'd bet with enough prodding, she'd go, because she was that kind of a friend. "I'll make sure she gets home." And thank you, Izzie for the perfect cover.
Izzie eyed him, then broke into a huge grin. "I'm sure you will." She paused at the door on the way out. "I put some, er... party favors in your purse, Ceece. I'm sure you'll know what to do with them," she said with a cackle as she let the porch screen slam shut behind her.
Chapter Sixteen
True to his word, Trace finished the dishes then pinned her to the wall, collecting thank-you kisses in private. Cecilia was more than willing to oblige. Even if he didn't make good on his laundry list of naughty innuendos, she liked kissing him. Too much. More than was safe. A girl could fall in love over kisses like Trace's. She placed a palm on his chest. "I should go." The reception was winding down, but it wasn't too late to catch a ride back to town with one of the Sinclaires or Hansens.
Trace drew back and brushed a knuckle across her cheek. It was a barely-there stroke of tenderness, an invitation to something more. So why did that movement make her heart race like a teenager? Her insides felt fluttery and jumpy.
"You look like you're going to bolt," he murmured, stroking her cheek again. "I'll take you home, but you don't have to invite me in."
He was giving her an out, which was sweet and chivalrous, and made her nervous as heck. What did she want with Trace? Banter and back and forth was one thing, and she appreciated the way he'd helped her out and the kisses she'd let him steal. But admitting, especially aloud, that she wanted him, and furthermore, that she wanted him to spend the night, was another thing entirely. "I don't do flings," she blurted. "I... they're not my thing," she admitted shamefaced, as heat flamed her face.
"Is that what you think I want?" He ducked his head to place kisses at the soft spot below her ear. They were so sweet, yet... so dirty. His lips were soft, but then he followed with teeth and tongue, and when they grazed across her neck, goosebumps rose all the way to her nipples. She wanted him to suck and pull on them, to bite and scrape, and yet he'd never made a move beyond placing a hand at her hip, or skating his fingers along her neck. The anticipation of his touch was practically killing her.
"Isn't it?" she mumbled, half panting when he nipped her collarbone.
He clicked his tongue and lifted his head, eyes raking over her face. "I'm interested in far more than a one-night stand... Cecilia." He slowly traced the edge of her jaw with a finger.
OH. Her stomach gave a slow roll. God, she loved the way he said her name, like it was some kind of sweet filthy prayer filled with untold promise and guaranteed satisfaction. The rough edge in his voice soaked her panties. Every. Damned. Time. Her pulse kicked up a notch as she momentarily lost herself in the heat of his gaze. She wet her bottom lip with her tongue, mouth suddenly very dry. Her heart pounded so hard against her chest, she was sure he could hear it.
His perfect white teeth flashed as he grinned. "Feel like taking a shot?"
She blinked. "You mean dating?" She couldn't believe her ears. If there was one things she was certain of, it was that Trace Walker had one-night stands and flings written all over him.
His grin widened. "Sure. Why not? No promises, just spending time together."
"You want to date," she stated, still not comprehending.
He nodded, eyes sparkling. "Umm hmm. Does that surprise you?"
She made a noise of sheer disbelief. "Yes." She was a dot-your-Is and cross-your-Ts kind of person. The vibe she got from Trace was anything but that. He was go-with-the-flow in a way she never would be.
His chuckle was low and rich. "You're a five-year plan kind of person aren't you? How'd that work out so far?" he pressed when she didn't answer.
He was absolutely right about her. She always had everything figured out before she made a step. She was deliberate, not rash, and agreeing to date Trace would be rash. But maybe rash was exactly what she needed.
"Cecilia." His voice softened in the sweetest way. And it hit her square in the chest. He wanted her. Wanted wanted her.
"Are you trying to seduce me?" she said with a breathy giggle.
His hand came to her neck, massaging at the perpetual knot at the base of her skull. "That depends entirely on what you want." He brushed a featherlight kiss just below her ear.
"What's your endgame?" She pressed a hand to his chest. "Wait, don't answer that. I don't have a right to ask that." Did his hand at her neck have to be so distracting? She wanted to arch into his fingers, receive his touch like a happy kitten purring for more pets.
Trace's eyes crinkled. "I don't have an endgame. I'm here until the Prairie Circuit finals, maybe a little longer."
Oh, so end of October. "That's it? What's next?" She did the mental math. That was about four months. She'd lived with Charlie less than that before he'd decided she was too much for him.
He shrugged. "Don't know. Probably back to California."
Oh. Why did that confession make her heart sink a little? "So you're suggesting we..." hook up "see each other until you leave?" On the surface, that wasn't a bad offer. Hell, she was going to start looking for a journalist job on Monday anyway.