by Susan Crosby
“Ice cream?”
“Okay.” He dumped coffee beans into the grinder, releasing their fragrance with a brief, noisy whirl. When their food was ready, they returned to the living room. He took a bite of pie and ice cream, complimented her on it, as he had earlier, then swallowed some coffee. “What do you mean that you hoped it would be different with your mother?”
She blew into the mug she held with both hands. “Are you sure you want to hear this?”
“Of course.”
She tucked her legs under her. “My mother was forty-four years old when I was born. By then, she’d been married three times. Since then, she’s been married three more times. She’s in great shape for her age. That’s part of the problem. She’s always wanted to seem younger than her age—substantially younger. She’s had two face-lifts that I know of, tummy tucks, the works. After each divorce she has herself redone and starts hunting again.”
“She sounds desperate.”
She shrugged. “In a way having Jazz and me when she was older made it easier for her to lie about her age, which she does regularly. Not that anyone cares but her. But each new husband was younger than the one before. My father was ten years younger.”
“You’ve never mentioned your father before.”
“I don’t know where he is, or even if he’s alive. He only stuck it out a couple of years before my mother drove him away. He remarried and had a new family.” She blew on her tea again. “In the beginning I saw him occasionally, but I think his wife was jealous so she discouraged any relationship. I accepted it because Jazz was there to keep things okay. But she got married and moved here when I was twelve.”
“That’s a difficult age to have anything major happen.” He waited as she drank carefully. “Tell me about your stepfathers. Did they treat you all right?”
“Meaning, did any of them abuse me? No. One of them was pretty creepy, though. I made sure I wasn’t ever alone with him. When I was sixteen I left home and came here to live with Jazz and her first husband until I graduated from high school. I’ve been on my own ever since.” She sipped again, taking her time. “None of the men in my mother’s life had any ambition. Jazz and I have different opinions on this subject. She says Mom always needed a man to take care of her. I say she never married anyone who could take care of her.”
He set his plate aside. “Is that important to you? That a man takes care of a woman?”
“I think a husband and wife should contribute equally, in whatever roles they’re suited for. But my mother’s husbands never did much. She was the one who worked all the time, mostly swing shift, so I never saw her. I hated it. We moved a lot, too. It was hard enough not having my mother around, but I kept having to make new friends. My children will have what I didn’t”
Her expression seemed carved in marble—defiant, determined, and with a warrior’s unwavering conviction to a cause, even as feminine as she was. He hadn’t imagined this side of her.
“What will be different, Magnolia?”
“My children will know stability, and have a sense of place. I’ve worked hard to develop a career where I can work at home so that I can share their lives. They won’t ever wonder if their mother loves them.”
She stopped abruptly, as if she’d revealed too much. “She meant well. At times. I guess.”
He had no sympathy for people who mean well. “How does all of this connect with your goal of being married by age thirty?”
“I just want to be young enough to enjoy my children.”
He angled her direction. “So you want kids right away.”
“I figure that by the time you and I get an annulment or whatever and I find someone else and get married for real, another year or so will have gone by.” Curious at the way his jaw tightened, she decided to test his reaction further. She switched on the Louisiana drawl. “I’m really, really ready for marriage and everything that it entails. I’m s’posedly at my sexual peak, you know, honey.”
Oh, yes, that drew a response, she thought, as his eyes darkened and the muscles in his face drew taut. “If our marriage were real,” she added, “I wouldn’t mind waitin’ a year before startin’ a family so that we could have time to experiment.”
“Experiment.”
“You know. Make love whenever, wherever, the mood strikes. Once kids are around, we’d have to be more circumspect. For instance, you wouldn’t be able to wear those sweat pants around me without underwear ever again.”
He crossed his arms. “Why not?”
She laid a hand high on his thigh. “‘Cause it turns me on somethin’ fierce, honey. Kinda like what it does to you when I wear a T-shirt and no bra.”
“Or my shirt with nothing underneath.”
She let her hand drift to the inside of his thigh. His response more than gratified ber. “Does it turn you on somethin’ fierce, Diego?”
“You know it does—” he clamped a hand on hers “—or else you wouldn’t be wearing it.”
“Misty took away my nightgown and robe. The only other nightgowns I have were gifts from her. You can imagine—”
“Vividly.” He moved her hand away. “And on that note, let’s go to bed.”
“My thoughts exactly.”
“You know what I mean.”
She smiled lazily. “It was just gettin’ interesting’, honey.”
“You’ve got a good imagination, Magnolia. Finish it in your dreams.” He stood, pulling her up, as well. “Give it whatever conclusion you want.”
“I’ll do that. How about a little inspiration to take with me?”
He smiled lazily back. “It’s pretty much attached to me, novia And not so little, in case you hadn’t noticed.”
“You’ll do,” she purred.
“Stop with the flattery, please. You’ll swell my head.”
She slipped her arms around his back and rubbed her cheek against his chest. “You have willpower, I’ll grant you that.”
“It has limits.”
“But don’t test them, right?” She leaned back a little. “The little inspiration I was looking for was a good-night kiss.”
With an expression that showed clearly he was just humoring her, he leaned close.
“And not a little peck. either,” she said. “Something to dream on.”
“Amending rules again, Magnolia?”
“Did we have a rule against good-night kisses? I don’t recall your saying anything about it.”
He smiled. “You kiss me, then. Show me what you expect.”
“My pleasure.” She pulled herself toward him, her gaze locked with his, until she found the intimate alignment she wanted between their bodies. “You need to help a little,” she whispered.
His expression fierce, he cupped her rear with both hands and held her to him. Their mouths connected a few desire-filled moments later. He tasted as tempting as hot caramel on ice cream, and she hungered for sweet satisfaction. His tongue toyed with hers languidly, then with the tempo of a mating dance. He pulled back. She sighed dreamily.
“So, fifteen seconds qualifies as long enough?” he asked, releasing her.
Her eyes flew open. “You counted?”
“More than a peck, but how long exactly? I had to know your expectations.”
“You couldn’t just get lost in the moment and not care how long it took?”
He seemed to think about it. “I can be fully involved and still be paying attention. For example, even though I was as aroused as you last night, I also took note of the fact you have a tiny freckle just below and to the left of your navel, and another along the faded tan line of your right buttock. There are other details I could relate, but they would sound crude to you.”
J.D. turned out the lights, needing to end the evening, finding his willpower sorely strained and the reasons they shouldn’t make love diminishing in importance. Except that she would interpret his giving in as having some sort of significance where their relationship was concerned—and he still couldn’t offer her permanence, not
until she knew what she was committing to. And now that he knew how much a stable home life meant to her... well, could he ever offer her that?
“The honeymoon is definitely over,” she grumbled as she walked away.
“I run every morning,” he said as she flipped the switch inside her bedroom door, spilling a shaft of light into the living room. “I’ll be back around nine.”
“I’ll have breakfast ready.”
“You don’t have to”
“I want to. Don’t argue with me about it. At least let me pay you back in a way that I can. Good night, Diego.” She shut the door with a quiet click.
He laid his hand on the door. “Sweet dreams,” he whispered.
Nine
J.D. slowed almost to a walk for the last two blocks of his run at nine o’clock the next morning. Fog layered the air, a quilt of gray mist that dampened everything, saturating his sweaty running clothes to the point of dripping. He swiped at his forehead with the back of his arm. His mind felt clearer now, his purpose unclouded by the tempting lure of uninterrupted contact with Magnolia—her fragrance, her teasing laugh, her seductive smile. And yet contentment washed over him, as well, like a warm bath on a cold winter night. Their relationship changed hourly, it seemed, as their situation forced them closer. Push, pull, push, pull. The one with the most patience wins? A month ago he would have declared himself the patient one without hesitation. But now? Now he could see that she stored a well of patience herself. It was just manifested differently, mostly in unrelenting determination. Heaven help him if she’d made him a goal.
The apartment smelled of coffee and—he sniffed the air—blueberries. He leaned against the door after he shut it, closed his eyes and breathed the homey smells. He could get used to this.
He heard her humming and went in search of her, finding her bent over peering into the oven. When she stood and turned, a smile lit up her face.
“Good morning,” she said. “I hope you’re hungry. I’ve made muffins, and everything’s ready to go for omelets.”
“I usually only eat...”
Maggie raised her brows and crossed her arms.
“Fine,” he said. “Great. Let me shower first.”
“Take your time. I, um, kind of like your grunge look, though.” She was as surprised at her words as he looked. She’d thought a sweaty, glistening man was a temptation only to fictional heroines. She’d been dead wrong. Or maybe it was just this sweaty, glistening man whose long, muscular legs were revealed enticingly by the running shorts he wore, and whose flat, solid abdomen was bare to her gaze between the waistband of his shorts and his hacked-off T-shirt. He looked fierce and dark and tempting with his unshaven face and intense brown eyes.
“You like my grunge look?” He leered at her, drawing closer, pulling her into his embrace and smashing her face against his chest with a teasing growl. “Even the smell, Magnolia?”
She sniffed daintily and tipped her head back, intending to wrinkle her nose at him. But it wouldn’t have been the truth. He turned her on. Period. Sweat and all.
She leaned away from him a little and slid her hands under his cutoff T-shirt, pushing the garment up to nuzzle the damp, cool skin as he sucked in a breath. She tasted the salt on his skin, wallowed in the masculine scent of him that rose hot and steamy as she caressed him with her mouth and hands, sending his body temperature soaring.
He groaned her name, diving his fingers into her hair as she trailed her tongue down his abdomen. “Don’t,” he said hoarsely, then more quietly, “Please.”
Maggie watched him walk away. When she heard the shower running, she poured orange juice into crystal stem-ware. By the time he came into the kitchen, she was tipping his omelet onto a plate.
“You’ll spoil me,” he said quietly.
“I like to cook. I hope you like to eat.”
He relaxed visibly as she handed him the plate. She picked up a pot holder and took her own plate from the oven, along with the muffins.
“It’s been a long time since I’ve had homemade food on any regular basis,” he said as they sat at the table.
“And I haven’t had company for quite a while, either. Jazz used to come for Sunday supper before she and Patrick got married. Then I started going to their house instead. I miss it—the planning, the shopping, the cooking, setting a nice table.”
“That’s important to you? Having friends over?”
She nodded. “I’m looking forward to being done with college so I have time to spare.”
“Your plans, your dreams,” he said hesitantly.
“What about them?”
“What do you see in your future?”
“Well, you already know I’m building a career at home. Even if the writing doesn’t work out, the designing I’ve been doing for Misty could be lucrative. Beyond that, I guess I want what most people want. A house with a yard, a dog and a cat, some kids—the number to be determined later—and a husband who wants the same things out of life that I do.”
He looked at her over the rim of his mug. “I have to admit, you’ve surprised me with your old-fashioned goals.”
“I don’t think wanting marriage and children is an odd notion.”
“Don’t get defensive. All I knew of you was what I learned from working beside you, and that Magnolia is very different from the one I’ve come to know in the past month. Tell me how many women of your acquaintance sew and quilt and do all those other things you do.”
“I’ve supported myself for twelve years, so I’ve had to budget carefully. Necessity drove me to learn those skills, but passion for it keeps me going.”
“It’s time-consuming.”
“So is anything worthwhile.” She broke a muffin in two. The steam rose, fragrant with blueberries. “I’m a homebody. I’m not going to apologize for it.”
Every time thoughts of a permanent relationship with her intruded, he was reminded of how unsuited they were for each other. If he wanted to advance within his field, he’d have to move, maybe several times over the course of his career. He’d just get settled probably, only to be relocated. He couldn’t imagine a worse scenario for a homebody, for someone who had moved constantly as a child and wished for something different.
They finished eating and took care of the dishes. Maggie decided he was brooding about something and that she needed to be quiet and let him. She smiled. It almost made her feel like a real wife, anticipating his moods and adapting to them. She wondered if he’d done the same with her yet.
“Ready to go see your new nephew?” he asked as he dried the last pan.
“Definitely.”
“I’ve got a few things to take care of, so I’ll drop you off.”
“Aren’t you coming in?”
“When I’m done.”
“Oh.” Another clue the honeymoon was over. She ran her hands through her hair, then picked up her purse and took her coat from the closet. “I imagine Patrick will be glad to see you. I wonder how it feels, becoming a father again at his age.”
“You make forty-seven seem like seventy-four, Magnolia. He’s not on his deathbed. He’ll be able to toss a football with his son for a while yet.”
“Did you miss that with your father?”
“I missed everything with my father. You know that.” He punched in the alarm code and shut the door behind them.
“I thought you had a relationship with him now.”
“I do.”
“Yet you didn’t invite him to the wedding.”
“I did invite him.”
She waited but he didn’t say more. “Will I get to meet him sometime?”
“Probably.”
As they drove through the city, Maggie considered his childhood, of which she had only minimal knowledge. Would he share the details if she asked? She analyzed the expression on his face. He was concentrating on driving, his gaze shifting to the rearview mirror a lot, as well as seeming to look at everything as they went along.
“Tell me about y
our childhood,” she said. “Do you still hate your mother?”
He hesitated a few seconds. “Part of me will never forgive her.”
“For kidnapping you?”
“Don’t use that word. That wasn’t what happened.”
“But you were taken away from your father and raised in a foreign country.”
“Mexico is my mother’s birth country. It wasn’t foreign to her. She was just...weak. Too weak to fight her family.”
“Tell me what did happen.”
He tapped his fingers against the steering wheel, and she thought he wasn’t going to open up, but he did finally.
“My mother was on vacation here when she was eighteen. She met my father, who was twenty-three and a law student. They fell in love and were married, against the wishes of her family. Maybe they would have- had a chance if her family had left her alone, but her father was a powerful man in Mexico and my father was naive. He didn’t know the extent of my grandfather’s resources, so he didn’t expect what happened.”
“Your grandfather kidnapped both you and your mother?”
“It wasn’t like that, Magnolia. We went on a long visit when my parents thought that her family had finally accepted their marriage. My father was practicing law by then but he was just building his career, so he let us go without him. He was to come for the last week of our visit, I was not quite three years old. When he arrived, her father told him that she wouldn’t be returning, that there would be a divorce.”
“Your mother didn’t even see him? She didn’t fight it?”
“She was a dutiful daughter who had been brainwashed to believe my father was the enemy and that her place was with her family. My father used every means available to speak with her, and to get me back. But we’d been sent away, then kept away long enough for me to forget anything about my father.”
She laid a hand on his arm. “How awful for you.”
He curved a hand over hers, holding it there a moment, seeming to need her touch. “Worse for my father. He was told we died in an auto accident a year or so after their divorce was final. He didn’t know what to believe, but when you’re as powerful as my grandfather, you can make anything happen. He supposedly proved our deaths. My father had to accept it.”