Chapter Thirty-three
“Chocolate or vanilla?” Chloe asked.
“Chocolate. You?”
They were eating chicken parmesan and penne pasta with marinara sauce, while peppering each other with questions. As good as the food was, discovering bits and pieces of Cary’s life was better. While he’d slipped on a pair of jeans—minus underwear, she’d noted—he was shirtless. She dressed back in her jeans and T-shirt and now sat cross-legged on his bed, a plate of food in her lap.
Both Pooch and Cupcake were at the foot of the bed. Every few minutes, the dog would try to sneak up to Cary’s plate to check out his food. Cary would scold him, but then he’d give the dog a taste. He kept saying he was taking the dog back to his sister’s tomorrow, but she had a feeling Cary would crater.
He had a soft spot for animals. She had a soft spot for guys who liked animals.
“Vanilla,” she said. “Best childhood memory?” she asked.
“Camping at the Grand Canyon. The whole family. A year before my dad died.” He reached over and got a bite of her chicken.
It was such a silly thing, but that simple gesture, feeling comfortable enough to take a bite from her plate, seemed intimate. And call her crazy, but she was beginning to think this thing between them was more than just a temporary fling.
“You?” he asked.
“What?” She’d been caught up in her thoughts and lost track of the conversation.
“Your best childhood memory?”
She smiled. “Tubing in the Guadalupe River when I was fourteen. Even my grandmother came. There was just something perfect about that day.”
“I got one,” he said. “First kiss?”
“Hmmm,” she said. “Donny Jordan. I was twelve and we were at a football game.”
“Tongue or no tongue?” he asked, his brown eyes twinkling with humor.
“No tongue. You?”
“I think I told you this one. Mary Anne, third grade. No tongue. I wasn’t totally committed to thinking girls were better than sports.”
“You didn’t tell me you kissed her.”
“Well, before she suggested the ‘I’ll show you mine if you show me yours,’ I’d kissed her. Hey,” he stuck a piece of pasta on his fork, “I’ve always believed in giving a girl foreplay. Even though she didn’t meet up to her end of the bargain.”
She laughed. “Craziest job?”
He arched a brow. “A stripper.”
“What?” she asked. “You . . . you?”
“I retired.”
“You’re lying,” she accused.
“No. Just exaggerating a bit. I was working undercover. I worked at a strip club for a week. Hey . . . I gave you a show.”
She laughed so hard she had to put her plate down for fear she’d spill it. “What’s so funny?” he asked, pointing his fork at her.
She put her hand over her mouth to stop the giggles. “I can’t believe I’m dating a stripper.”
“A retired stripper.” He studied her. “So, no stripping in your past?”
“Uh . . . no.”
“And your craziest job?” He put the question out there as if he enjoyed learning about her as much as she enjoyed peering into his life. Believing this fascination she had with him was mutual made a warm sensation fill her chest.
She couldn’t remember being this happy in a long time.
“Hmm, crazy job? I don’t think I’ve ever had a. . . Oh, I was an elf.”
“A sexy elf?” he asked.
She rolled her eyes. “Not on purpose. I worked at the mall one Christmas when I was seventeen as Santa’s helper. I didn’t like one of the Santa Clauses. I actually got him fired because he kept trying to get me to sit on his lap.”
Cary’s expression tightened. “Good for you. Did he get arrested?”
“I doubt it.” She paused.
“He should have.” He sounded sincerely concerned.
Concern was good, wasn’t it? “Here’s another one,” she offered. “A goal you want to accomplish.”
He took a few more bites and studied her as if thinking. The humor left his expression. “To catch Marc Jones’ killer. To give his mom some closure.” Honest emotion filled his eyes and she sensed how much he cared. “She came to see me in the hospital.” He poked at his food. “I had nothing to give her and it sucked.”
Chloe recalled what he suspected. “And you still think it was the same kid who shot you and hit me?”
He leaned back against his headboard. “I did, but I don’t know now.” He set his plate down. “And your next goal?”
“Get the windows fixed at the bakery,” she said.
“No,” he said.
“No?” she asked.
“Well, yes, you need to fix the windows. But your goal should be about writing. What’s your next book going to be about?”
She bit down on her lip. “I don’t know. I’ve kind of been stuck since . . .”
“Jerry?”
“Yeah.”
“Get unstuck. You’re too good not to be writing. You’ve got kids like Bella who are dying to get the next book.”
“I know.” She unfolded her legs and drew a knee up to her chest, remembering she’d agreed to go to his niece’s birthday party. “I just can’t seem to pull another idea out of this brain.”
“But I thought you’d kind of set up what the next plot would be.”
“I did?” she asked.
“Yeah, you had your character, Maggie, find that box with all her mom’s old stuff. I thought she’d find something in that box that would lead to the next mystery and story.”
She stared at Cary. “You really did read them, didn’t you?”
“Yeah.” The realization warmed her. Jerry hadn’t ever read her books.
“What do you call it when a writer hints that something is going to happen?”
“Foreshadowing.”
“Yeah, I thought that was what you’d done.”
All of a sudden, she realized he was right. She had sort of entertained that idea, but then Jerry’d killed himself and . . . and she’d hidden those thoughts in the closet along with her dreams and wedding dress. “You’re right, I did kind of hint at that.”
“So what is Maggie going to find in the box?”
The idea started breathing again. She recalled those sparks of ‘what if’ she’d let roll around her head. “I was thinking it would be a picture.”
“A picture of what?”
“Of Hadley.”
“The imaginary friend? But how . . .?” His eyes grew wide. “You mean like a ghost? Hadley’s a ghost?”
“Too crazy?” she asked.
“No. What if her real mom was friends with this girl when she was young? Or even better, what if it’s her mom’s ghost?”
“But why would she come back as a kid?”
“I don’t know. Maybe because she wanted her daughter to relate to her and she thought if she was young, they’d get closer.”
“I like it.” Chloe jumped up and got almost to the door.
“Where are you going?” he asked.
“To get my computer,” she said, grinning. But then she stopped and looked back at him. The light on his bedside table cast a golden hue on his bare chest. And it hit her. Hit hard. She was falling in love with this man. On the tip of her tongue were the words, I need promises. But afraid it was too soon, she swallowed them and replaced them with, “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“Being my muse.” She ran back to the bed and kissed him and then popped up again to go for her computer.
As she walked out, she heard him laugh and say, “So, if anyone asks about your muse, just tell them he’s a retired stripper.”
• • •
Sunday morning, Cary woke up with his usual morning hard on, and Chloe tucked at his side. He lifted his head to see if she was awake. Her eyes were closed. He started to kiss her and ask her to help take care of his problem, but then he got caught up in jus
t watching her sleep. Every feature, even the tiny ones, were . . . beautiful. The way her lashes rested against her cheek. The way her dark hair curled at the ends and looked soft against her bare shoulder.
The sensation, the happy feeling, hadn’t lessened. If anything, it had grown. And he didn’t even try to deny it. Chloe Sanders made him happy. He remembered all of the things he’d learned about her last night as they’d played her question game. Each detail fit together like a jigsaw puzzle, giving him a picture of her life.
Yup, he’d stepped onto the Chloe train and didn’t want to get off. As a matter of fact, he didn’t even want it to slow down. He remembered she’d said she was only going to stay with him one night. Could he convince her to stay longer? Not only did he not want to chance that these creeps might come after her, he simply wanted her here.
It wasn’t just the sex. Not that it wasn’t out of this world. But it was more. The conversation. The laughter. It was Chloe Sanders, the whole package: writer, baker of cupcakes, the kind of woman who’d risk her own life to save a kid she didn’t even know.
The laughter, he kept going back to that. It seemed extra important. He couldn’t remember laughing so much with someone. The kind of laughter that made him feel cleansed.
Suddenly, he had more questions. Not so much about her past. But her future. What did Chloe Sanders want? Kids? Was she happy living here in Texas? Did she want to travel, see Paris, Italy? Did she want the same things he wanted?
He remembered she’d called him her muse. Maybe he could use that to convince her to stay a little longer.
She’d worked for about two hours on her computer last night, bragging that she’d almost completed the first chapter. She’d even read it to him and he’d been amazed at how good she was. He really liked being her muse.
While she worked, he’d gotten out his own computer and pulled up Marc Jones’ file. He hadn’t found any answers, but he’d come up with things he wanted to discuss with Danny and Turner—possible ways to get a lead on J.D. Andrews.
Chloe shifted slightly on the bed. He picked up a strand of her hair, stared at how it wrapped around his finger.
“Good morning,” she whispered in a sleep voice that was somehow sexy.
His gaze shot to her face. To her smile. “Good morning.” He went in for a kiss.
“No.” She put a hand out. “Morning breath.”
He grinned. “I don’t care.” He leaned in and kissed her and then slowly moved his lips down to her neck. “Your dream vacation . . .?”
“Huh?” she asked.
He pulled back. “We’re still playing 101 questions, aren’t we?”
“I guess,” she said.
“If you could go anywhere in the world, where would it be?” he asked.
She touched his face. “Right now?”
“Yeah?”
She smiled. “Right here.”
“Then let me see what I can do to make it extra special.” He slid his hand under the sheet.
Chapter Thirty-four
“No.” Chloe caught his hand right before his magical fingers came between her legs.
“No?” he asked, looking disappointed and dropping back on the bed.
“I think it’s my turn to make it special this time.”
“Really?” His sexy grin came with a hooded gaze. “And how do you plan on doing that?”
“Hmm, I’ll think of something,” she said and slipped her hand under the blanket to find him hard and ready.
He reached for her and she pushed him back. “No. Your job is to just enjoy.” She sat up. The blanket dropped to her waist, exposing her breasts. The way he looked at her had a surge of confidence washing over her. Just being with him made her feel more. More together. More beautiful.
More alive. And considering they had both recently died, it made that feeling extra special.
“I can’t touch these?” He reached up and ran a finger over her right nipple. The pleasure radiated down to settle low in her abdomen.
“No.” She caught his hand. “Hands behind your head. And they stay there.”
He chuckled. “You want my handcuffs?”
“That depends. Can I trust you to keep your hands behind your head?”
“I don’t promise anything, sweetheart. But I’ll try.”
“Good enough.” She slowly started pulling the blanket off him.
His gaze whispered over her. “You are so damn beautiful.”
“So are you,” she said, watching as the blanket moved down his waist, exposing his sex. It stood erect, begging for attention.
She slowly ran one finger down the length of him. “Impressive,” she said.
His chuckle had her glancing up. “I thought size didn’t matter?”
She shot him a smile. “I’ve always heard it’s how you use it.”
“Said the guy with the little package,” he teased.
She leaned down and pressed a light kiss on his abdomen.
He let out a low growl. “Condoms?” she asked.
He started to rise up. “No.” She pressed her palm on his chest and pushed him back on the mattress. “Maybe I need those handcuffs after all. Now where’s the condoms?”
“First drawer.” He motioned to the bedside table.
She pulled one out. As he watched, she opened it with her teeth. Slowly, taking her sweet time, knowing she was torturing him. Loving it.
Loving him.
She slipped the condom on.
“You’re killing me,” he said in a deep voice.
“Patience,” she said, running her hands down his tight abdomen.
She got up on her knees and straddled him below his waist. His sex pointed to the ceiling in front of her.
He reached for her waist as if to adjust her position.
“No!” She shook a finger at him. “You are a rule breaker, aren’t you?”
“Fine. Torture me,” he growled. “But I’m gonna get even for this.”
“Really?” she asked.
He pushed his hands behind his head and damn if he wasn’t the sexiest thing she’d ever seen. The sun streamed in through the slats of his bedroom window, casting a warm hue on his golden skin.
Suddenly impatient, she lifted up, shifted slightly until she felt his hard tip in the right spot. She lowered herself. Taking him inside, using effort to do it slowly.
The sweet feel of him inside, stretching her, filling her with tightness, made her breath catch. He lifted his pelvis, and she took all of him inside. Looking up, she saw his heated gaze and she couldn’t ever remember feeling so powerful.
Leaning her hands down to rest on his chest, she started moving, not fast, but slow, easy. Up, down. They never looked away from each other. She’d never felt as close to someone as she did right now.
Within a minute of her slow easy movements, she’d led them both to release.
• • •
“Best French toast you’ve ever eaten, right?” Cary asked, watching Chloe finish her breakfast. She’d made love to him slower than he’d thought possible. He’d given her complete control, something he wasn’t accustomed to giving. Yet, he had never felt more powerful. How something could be so damn scary and magnificent at the same time blew his mind.
Then he made her breakfast.
“I don’t know,” she said smiling, licking her lips. “I make pretty good French toast myself.”
“Then I guess it’s a competition. You’ll have to cook French toast for me.” He was about to suggest they do that tomorrow morning, meaning he wanted her to stay. Just the thought of her leaving made air catch in his lungs.
He watched a drip of syrup catch on her lip. Her smile pulled at her mouth. Her blue eyes glittered with. . . happiness.
Yeah, she seemed happy. And damn he hoped he had something to do with that. Her phone rang, and she looked at the number.
“My mom,” she said, sounding worried, and took the call.
He stayed at the table, listening. Not wanting to b
e nosy but wanting to make sure everything was okay. As terrible as it sounded, he didn’t want her to take off to Florida. He wanted her . . . here. He . . .
It hit then. He needed her here. He needed Chloe Sanders. Needed her to make him feel complete. Needed her to make him feel . . . like his old self.
That was a scary thought. Needing another person. But he didn’t deny it.
Her smile into the phone told him that things were fine. When she looked up, he winked at her, picked up their plates, and moved into the kitchen.
Dropping the dishes into the sink, he spotted his phone. It buzzed with a message. He picked it up and saw it was from . . . Shit. Paula.
Immediately, guilt went right to his chest. He needed to tell her it was over. He read the message. “Want some company? I’ll land in Houston in an hour.”
He looked over his shoulder to make sure Chloe wasn’t about to walk in, then he picked up his phone to text her back. His fingers hung over the tiny screen. He knew what he wanted to say: It’s over. Have a good life. That felt wrong somehow. He needed to call her and tell her over the phone.
So instead he typed out: Not home now. But we need to . . . talk. I’ll call. Later.
Scared Chloe would catch him texting Paula, he quickly set his phone down.
He loaded the dishes in the dishwasher. When he finished he glanced again at his phone and suddenly and realized he’d neglected to check and see if he’d had any messages at work.
Dialing his office number, he hit the code to get his messages.
• • •
Chloe had just hung up when she heard Cary say a few four-letter words. He came running out of the kitchen, his phone to his ear. “Shit! I should have checked yesterday.”
“What?”
“One second.” He grabbed a pen to jot down something. He dialed again, frowned and started leaving a message. “It’s Cary Stevens,” he said. “Call me back at this number.”
Divorced, Desperate and Dead Page 25