Whisper of Love (The Bradens at Peaceful Harbor, Book Five)

by Melissa Foster

  “Tempest.” His voice was thick with lust. “We’re crossing lines.”

  She brushed her thumb over his lower lip and he trapped it inside his mouth, sucking it slowly. He was sinful, and this was not her. She didn’t get carried away, didn’t cross lines. She didn’t let men suck on her thumb, and she didn’t straddle them, rocking like a lap dancer. But oh, how she wanted him. She pulled her thumb from his mouth with a pop and captured his lips with hers. Shocked by her own aggressiveness, she knew she needed to rein in her desires. She told herself to stop, but the kiss was too exhilarating, he felt too good, and she succumbed to the forceful domination of her inner woman, giving herself over to their passion.

  They kissed until they were both moaning. He gripped her hips, holding her firmly as he rocked harder beneath her to the rhythm of their kisses. He never broke their connection as he lowered her to her side, lying on the bench, his thick leg pushing between hers, one arm cushioning her head, the other trapping their bodies together.

  “Tell me you won’t run scared tomorrow,” he said between kisses. “Tell me I’m not fucking this up.”

  She heard the words in her mind. Kiss me. I won’t run scared. Kiss me. You’re not fucking this up. Kiss me. He needed to hear her say it—she could tell by the frantic beat of his heart—but when she tried to push her voice from her lungs, all that came was another needy sound. She didn’t know what was happening, but a force bigger than her, bigger than him, was at work. She could feel it in her bones. She knew he wasn’t going to try to take this further, but she was already mourning the moment when their insatiable kisses would end. In five minutes? Ten? At dawn? When Phillip woke up?

  “Tempe,” he panted out. “I’ve never kissed like this.” Several deep kisses later he said, “I can’t stop.”

  She slid her hand into his back pocket, as if that were enough to keep him from ever moving away, and met his sultry gaze. It took all of her focus to push out the words playing in her mind like a mantra.

  “Then don’t.”

  Chapter Seven

  TEMPEST LAY IN bed shortly after the sun came up Saturday morning, listening to Nash and Phillip getting ready for their day. They were nearly silent, save for the creaking of the floors and occasional whispers. She listened for Phillip’s little feet to run across the floor, but she’d noticed that he didn’t run from one thing to the next like most boys his age. He seemed to take his cues from his father, mimicking everything from his mannerisms to his gait. She rolled onto her side, gazing out at the bench where she and Nash had made out last night. She touched her lips, feeling a smile form there. The memory of his mouth pressed against hers was so fresh she could still taste him. They’d talked and kissed for hours, but it felt like they’d done much more. They’d certainly done more kissing and full-body grinding than she ever had so quickly after meeting a man.

  She rolled onto her back, thinking about the way he’d held her when she’d told him about her clients. How had he known exactly the kind of comfort she needed? Back home, when she was working on a particularly sad or emotional case, she would go to her parents’ microbrewery and hang out with them and whichever siblings happened to show up. That usually made her feel less sad and reminded her of why she was doing what she did. But lately the emotional drain had been getting to her more and more. Nash was right when he said music therapy wasn’t for everyone. But the connection she felt strengthening with every moment they spent together went deeper than his knowing to hold her or the way he made her entire body flame with his kisses. She felt like she already knew him better than any guy she’d dated, and they weren’t even dating. When they’d finally called it a night, drunk on their kisses, he’d walked her to the French doors that led to her bedroom like he was walking her to the front door at the end of a real date. He’d taken her in his arms for one last good-night kiss, and she felt like it was the end of a date. Everything about the night had been perfect, even the embarrassing beginning.

  She closed her eyes, exhaling a happy sigh. For the first time since she’d come to Pleasant Hill, she’d actually slept soundly, even if for too few hours. And she’d dreamed, which was also rare. Usually she barely remembered a thing about her dreams, but my, oh my, had she dreamed! Sexy, erotic dreams featuring my landlord. Geez, she couldn’t think like that. Housemate, that was easier. Pushing from the bed, she stretched, feeling invigorated despite the few hours she’d slept. She checked the time on her phone, seven thirty, and read a text message from Jillian as she padded across the floor. Did you survive your first night in the same house as Mr. Sexy?

  She opened the French doors, shivering against the brisk air and inhaling the scent of a bright new day, thinking about Jillian’s question. She’d done more than survive. She’d shocked herself when she’d said she wanted to kiss him. But if she told that to Jillian, her cousin would take her giving in to her desires as a green light and she might try to nudge her to do more. Tempest wasn’t ready to be nudged in that direction. She was glad Nash hadn’t pushed her, but he was obviously careful, too. I haven’t kissed a woman since the day Alaina left.

  Three years? That was longer than it had been for her.

  She typed a response to Jillian. Survived, slept, and even worked on my songs and baked a cake with him and Phillip. He’s the perfect housemate. She sent the message and sank down to the bench where they’d lain last night. She’d never look at the bench the same again. Can I ever look at Nash the same again?

  Her phone vibrated with another text from Jillian. PERFECT as in…?

  Leave it to Jillian to push for more. Tempest looked out over the yard, thinking about how much she wanted to reveal. Worry tiptoed through her. What if he’d woken up feeling differently than she did? What if he thought last night was a mistake?

  He didn’t kiss me like it was a mistake.

  She shook off the thought and decided not to share what they’d done last night with Jillian. Her cousin was used to a faster lifestyle than she was. No matter how she tried to craft it in a text, she knew it would come across as just a make-out session and nothing more, even though it felt like much more. Like they’d each opened a door and dipped their toes into unfamiliar territory.

  But can we explore it together?

  She grabbed a towel and her toiletries and went down the hall to the bathroom, which smelled even more like Nash than it had last night. She set her toiletries on the counter and found an envelope with her name on it propped against a small glass with handpicked flowers in it. She reached for the envelope with a shaky hand and leaned down to smell the pretty wildflowers. What a surprise Mr. Gruff was turning out to be. Flowers definitely meant he didn’t think their kissing was a mistake. She withdrew a handwritten note and read his messy scrawl. The handwriting of an artist.

  Good morning, beautiful. I hope we weren’t too loud this morning. I’m not very good at this stuff and haven’t had to face a morning after for years. So if you want to pretend last night never happened, wear a bright red shirt, or something else that’s red, and I’ll know to steer clear and I’ll lick my wounds in private. I thought we were on the same page last night, but as I said, it’s been a long time, so what do I know?—Nash

  She read the note three times, just to be sure she wasn’t overlooking some unwritten message between the lines. He didn’t say he was all in, but he obviously wasn’t regretting it. She showered and changed, too nervous to face him yet, and went to work on the flyer she wanted to hang up at Emmaline’s.

  A while later her stomach growled, reminding her she hadn’t eaten breakfast. She emailed the flyer to FedEx Office to have it printed and went down to the kitchen, where she found a piece of cake covered in plastic wrap, a fork, and another note. Butterflies took flight in her stomach.

  Breakfast of champions. N & P

  N & P. She loved that. She unwrapped the cake and scooped a forkful of chocolate goodness into her mouth, then picked a crumb from her bright green shirt. No red lights here. The idea that she was
about to brazenly deliver that message made her stomach go a whole different kind of wild. She really was throwing caution to the wind. Jillian and Shannon would be so proud.

  As she headed outside, she thought about his first note and laughed to herself over the red-shirt signal. Her big, brooding landlord was all kinds of cute. She could think of many things he could do with his talented mouth, and licking was most certainly involved, but there would be no fresh wounds to tend to. Unless they come from my teeth. She’d turned into Jillian overnight. Maybe his kisses were magic and they’d make her riskier and help her break free from her careful ways. They’d done a good job of it so far.

  Boundaries, Tempe. Remember your boundaries.

  She rolled her eyes at herself as she headed down the hill toward the barn, wishing that part of her would keep its opinions to itself.

  NASH LEANED OVER the workbench and blew the wood shavings from the panel he was carving. Phillip blew on the piece of wood on his own miniature workbench Nash had built for him. He squinted up at Nash.

  Nash grabbed a fishtail chisel and showed it to Phillip, who scanned his plastic tools and picked up the one that looked most like a fishtail. Nash winked and went to work on the panel, the two of them humming to the song on the radio as they worked. Phillip copied every move his father made, right down to wiping his hands on the back of his jeans. Sometimes the way Phillip looked at him sent painful memories chasing harsher ones. His boy idolized him the way Nash had idolized PJ. PJ was two years older and a whole lot smarter than Nash, or at least that’s what Nash had always thought. Until the bastard had gone and proved him wrong.

  “Hey there.”

  Tempe’s voice pulled him from the memories.

  “Tempe,” Phillip said, and looked up at Nash before turning around.

  Nash curled a hand around the back of Phillip’s head and nodded, trying to escape the flashbacks that were making him feel extra protective. He hated the strength with which they hit and struggled to push them away as he turned to face her, praying she wasn’t wearing a red shirt.

  “Green,” slipped out with his unstoppable smile. Bright fucking green. Thank God. But it was the light in her eyes that finally shoved his harsh memories away. He set down his tools and wiped his hands on his jeans, wishing he could take her in his arms and kiss her again. But he had a set of little-boy eyes watching every move he made.

  Her lips curved up and she said, “Green,” as she approached. “Thank you for the flowers. They were a beautiful surprise.” She held his gaze for a few long seconds before turning those dazzling eyes on Phillip. “And thank you for the delicious cake.”

  Phillip glanced at Nash, and Nash nodded again.

  Tempest gave him a curious glance.

  “You’re welcome,” Phillip said, and wiped his hands on his pants just as Nash had.

  “I have to run into town to pick up the flyers and hang them up at a few shops, and then I was thinking about going to the grocery store so I don’t mooch all of your food. I thought I’d see if you needed anything.” She looked over their workbenches. “It looks like you two have been busy this morning.”

  “Typical day. We gathered the eggs, fed the animals, and came out here to work for a while.” He had to put in as much time as he could each day, and it came in fits and spurts, depending on Phillip’s attention span. Some days Nash was lucky to get an hour’s work in. Other days, he could fit in a solid two or three.

  “Looks like you have a very willing apprentice.” She surveyed the plastic tools piled up on Phillip’s workbench. “What are you making?”

  Phillip looked to him again, and Nash gave him the go-ahead.

  Phillip took her hand and led her around the workbenches to the far end of the barn, where the rest of the cabinet was waiting for its doors, along with several other pieces in various stages of creation. “Daddy maked it.”

  “Made, buddy.” Nash joined them, watching as Tempest ran her fingers over the intricate designs he’d spent weeks working on.

  “This is gorgeous.” She looked over the other pieces of furniture he was working on, admiring each with Phillip on her heels. Each time she touched a groove or pressed her hand to a design, the corners of her mouth lifted in appreciation.

  Nash was proud of what he’d created, but it was nothing compared to what he was capable of, and he stifled the urge to say as much.

  She glanced around the barn, her eyes drifting over to the opposite corner, where he’d built a child-size table and chair for Phillip. His drawing papers were scattered over the top, a pile of crayons in the center. He’d used nails to hang several of Phillip’s drawings, and several other nails were bare, waiting for his boy to create his next masterpiece. She smiled as her eyes sailed over the cubbies he’d built with a wilderness scene carved into the sides, each cubby home to a variety of toys. Along the same wall was a futon-like bed he’d built. The Old Man and the Sea lay facedown on the pillow beside one of Phillip’s blankets. Curtains of fabric with pictures of animals on them swayed in the breeze, hanging from the three-sided canopy Nash had built around the bed. The sides of the bed were hidden behind the fabric, but he’d carved scenes with cats and dogs along them. He’d picked up a few old end tables and cleaned them up, painted them to look distressed, and set them up around the barn for Phillip to use. Several of the animals Nash had carved were set up on two of the tables. Beneath each table was a cat bed, one of which was home to two sleeping kitties.

  Tempest gazed up at one of his pre-Phillip pieces, an iron and wood chandelier in the shape of a boat, hanging from the center of the barn ceiling. The light fixtures were positioned as railing posts around the perimeter of the boat.

  “The lights dim,” he said. “Sometimes Phillip likes to nap here instead of in his room.”

  “Did you make all of this?” She motioned around the barn and picked up one of the animals he’d carved.

  “Mostly. Not some of the tables.”

  “These?” She ran her index finger along the long neck of a wooden giraffe he’d made last winter.

  “Yes. Phillip and I read a book about Africa and he was really into the animals.” He shrugged. “So I made them. No big deal.”

  “He maked a lion,” Phillip said. “And a tiger, and a snake, and a hyena.”

  “This is all a very big deal. How do you get any work done if you’re creating such an amazing world for your son?”

  “We figure it out.” He had the overwhelming urge to show her the parts of himself he’d put away a long time ago.

  “I guess so,” she said, setting the giraffe on the table. “I saw some of your sculptures online, but there was no mention of furniture.”

  He took off his hat and ran a hand through his hair. “There wouldn’t be. I didn’t start selling furniture until after Phillip was born, and I only sell it locally. Gotta make a living, right? The local newspaper had asked to do an article about my sculptures when I first moved here, but I like my privacy. Good thing I turned it down, given the changes we’ve gone through.”

  She looked around again. “Do you do any sculpture work anymore?”

  “No.” He glanced at the door leading to his metalworking and wood-sculpting workshop, debating showing her his unfinished work.

  Phillip crouched beside the kittens and petted them.

  “And who are these little guys?”

  “Moby and Manolin,” Phillip answered. “Want to pet them?”

  “I would love to.” She plunked right down on the concrete floor beside him. “Manolin is an interesting name.”

  “It’s from”—fwom—“the old-man book Daddy reads,” Phillip explained. “He takes care of the old man.”

  “Old Man and the Sea,” Nash reminded him.

  Tempest picked up a kitty and cradled it, rubbing her chin over its fur. “That’s a very big-boy story. Do you like it?”

  Phillip nodded enthusiastically. It was one of his favorite stories. Of course, Nash skipped over the parts he thought might
be too upsetting.

  He listened as Tempest asked Phillip what other stories he liked and what animals were his favorites. Phillip thought hard about each question, his face pinching in concentration as he petted the kitty, looking to Nash often for approval before finally giving her one-word answers. Tempest was patient with him, and engrossed him in a story about where she’d grown up and the stories her father used to tell her and her siblings around a bonfire on the beach. Phillip moved so close he was practically sitting in her lap. She gave his son her undivided attention, listening to every word he said and asking more questions based on his answers. She transferred the kitten to Phillip’s lap and brushed her fingers over his cheek. Her eyes warmed, and a wave of fullness crowded Nash’s chest, followed almost instantly by an ache of longing for the close-knit family he’d once had.

  “Daddy boated, but he didn’t catch big fishes,” Phillip said. He pushed the kitten off his lap and stood up to play with his wooden animals.

  Tempest picked up the kitty, nuzzled it against her face for a moment, then set it back in the bed beside the other one. She smiled at Nash, still speaking to Phillip as she rose to her feet. “I bet he caught some good-sized fish, though.” She looked up at the light again. “Do you still make things like that?”

  “No. As I mentioned, metalwork demands heat, and the tools I use to manipulate the metal are dangerous for Phillip to be around.” He glanced at his son, who was happily playing with his animals, and this time he didn’t try to suppress the urge to show her what he was capable of. He cocked his head toward the door to his other workshop. “C’mon. I’ll show you what I mean.”

  “I stay here?” Phillip moved his toy giraffe along the table.

  “Sure. Don’t leave the barn.”

  Phillip nodded.

  Nash unlocked the door to the workshop, and Tempest followed him in. It was a strange feeling, having someone else in his shop. He’d been in there a few times since he’d stopped working with metal, but usually with blinders on and with the sole intent of storing something out of Phillip’s reach. Now, as Tempest’s nearness lured him in, he wore a different type of blinders. Gone was the urge to share his work, replaced with the need to feel her against him again. He gathered her close and moved behind the open door, out of Phillip’s line of vision.