by Marina Adair
The first thing she noticed was that she was calm, her heart wasn’t racing, and her palms weren’t sweating. The second thing she noticed was that she’d knitted two lines. Two straight pink lines with even tension.
“I did it! Look at them.” She held up the yarn. “They’re beautiful!”
“Now don’t go calling the President, you did two rows,” Hattie said.
“But they are perfect rows.” The second the statement left her lips, Charlotte wanted to take it back. She had unintentionally “perfected” herself into a corner. Expectations were set, the pressure was on, and she was going to be sick. “I don’t know how I did that. Or if I can do it again.”
“Sure you can,” Hattie said, taking the yarn from her and doing the next row. “You’ve been knitting so much your hands know exactly what they’re supposed to do.”
“They didn’t earlier.” Earlier they hadn’t even known they were crushing poor Jane’s face.
“You were too busy staring at each stitch to see the whole piece. With your eyes closed you weren’t thinking about what was on the needle, what came next, you were thinking about what it would look like on Woolamena’s back. Do that for a day or two, then call me and we’ll get busy on the doll.”
And with that Hattie put her needles and yarn in her quilted bag and stood. As if she were going to leave. Without interrogating Charlotte about the annulment. Which was so unlike Hattie it made sweat bead on Charlotte’s forehead.
And when the older woman made it to the exit, Charlotte jerked to her feet. “Don’t you want an explanation of what happened between me and Jace?”
“Nope,” Hattie said, popping that P hard, which made Charlotte’s right eye twitch.
“Are you sure? Because if I were in your situation I think I’d want an explanation.”
Hattie turned around and set her bag on the counter. “Child, I imagine you have enough people weighing in on you two without adding my opinion to the mix.”
Charlotte felt a mix of guilt and regret flood her face. “Actually, outside of you, I don’t think anyone else knows. At least the marriage part.” She let out a deep sigh. It felt good to talk to someone about this mess. To open up. “And I’m sorry I asked Jace to keep it from his family.”
“If he wanted us to know, he would have told us. Plus, with a mother like yours, I wouldn’t expect you to be able to make a decision without her trying to give her stamp, even if she doesn’t know the facts.” Hattie laid a soft hand on Charlotte’s arm. “Jace is a good boy, with a big heart. Bigger than most, so it makes him moody. Been running for so long I don’t think he knows what it feels like to stand still.”
That was Charlotte’s biggest fear.
“Do you think he’ll be happy in Atlanta? Happy enough to stay?”
Hattie shrugged a very old, very tired shoulder. “Don’t know, but it shouldn’t matter.”
“What do you mean?” As far as Charlotte was concerned, that was all that mattered. What if they could make it work with him in Atlanta and her in Sugar, or if she followed him there, then what? In a few months, few years, would he pack up and move again? Expect her to pick up the pieces again? “Did you come here to tell me I should follow him?”
“I came here to teach you how to knit, dear.” Hattie stepped closer, and Charlotte could smell the polyester fibers of Hattie’s jogging suit. “You were the one who wanted to have a come-to-Jesus moment in the lunchroom.”
Charlotte choked out a laugh. “I know. I just wonder sometimes if I gave up too easily. Had too many rules and expectations for it to work.”
“First off, you’ve worked hard to build yourself a home here. Don’t throw that away. Second, any man who would let you is not a man at all, even if I did raise him.” Hattie took both of Charlotte’s hands in her own, holding on in that soft steel way that grandmothers did. And suddenly, Charlotte didn’t feel as though she was talking to a neighbor, she felt as if she was talking to family. “And here’s the most important part, so listen up. If Jace is gonna run, that’s on him. Not you. But how I see it, he done tuckered himself out a few years back.”
Charlotte felt her throat tighten. “Then why hasn’t he come home? Why did he wait until there was a problem to show up? And why now, after all these years, did he decide to finally come back only to start a new life in Atlanta?”
“He’s waiting for somebody to tell him it’s okay,” Hattie said gently. “That after everything that’s happened, he’s welcome home.”
“Then tell him that,” Charlotte said, wondering if it was that easy why they’d waited so long. “Tell him you want him to come home.”
Because she did. More than anything. She wasn’t sure how they’d make it work, but she knew with a certainty that if Jace went to Atlanta he’d never find his way back to Sugar. He was so used to running, if he didn’t find a reason to stay now, then she didn’t think he’d ever find one.
Hattie’s eyes went shiny with emotion, and when she gave a small smile, Charlotte felt every ounce of love the older woman had for her youngest grandson. “I’m not his home anymore, child. You are.”
Chapter 18
Charlotte pushed open her bedroom door and, giving herself three minutes of peace, collapsed on the bed. She had seen a steady stream of patients until she clocked out at five fifteen. Except for the knitting break, she had been on her feet since six that morning. And was expected at her mother’s in just under an hour for Sunday dinner.
She had enough time to change and pick up a bottle of wine. According to her mother, Charlotte’s date for the evening preferred a good French Bordeaux. Except a quick glance in her closet, which consisted of picking her head three inches off the mattress, reminded her that every suitable outfit she owned was in the hamper. She dropped her head back with an exasperated sigh. The fair was exactly one week away, and at the pace she was keeping she wasn’t sure she’d make it.
Something had to give. She was afraid it would be her mornings with Jace—which had come to be the second-best part of her day. The best part being number ten on the “Keeping It Sizzling after Singlehood” list:
ALWAYS GO TO BED TOGETHER
But thinking about bedtime got her thinking about how much time they had left together. One week. Seven short days and their time would be up, the annulment would be complete, and if Jace lived up to his promise, he would leave.
Unless she asked him to stay.
Hattie’s words had weighed heavily on Charlotte all afternoon, making her question if that was really all it would take. Her asking. It also gave her pause, because if a real man wouldn’t ask her to sacrifice her career, then how could she ask him to sacrifice his?
Knowing there was no easy answer and that she’d exceeded her three minutes, she slipped off a heel and flung it across the room. It landed in the hamper and then she saw the steam coming out from beneath the bathroom door.
Someone was in her shower.
Sitting up, she glanced around, going still when she noticed a pair of worn work boots peeking out from beneath the bed, and suddenly she wasn’t tired. In fact, the sound of water spraying her porcelain tub had every cell of Charlotte humming with electricity.
The smart decision, her brain said, would be to put her shoe back on and go to her mother’s for dinner—like she did every Sunday night. And endure yet another blind date, as she’d also done every Sunday since her return from Atlanta. One would think her mother would have exhausted her network of suitable bachelors in the county by now, but Babette was very resourceful when it came to marrying off her only daughter.
Then the shower turned off and her nipples registered that, on the other side of that door, Jace was hot and slick with water. Apparently her nipples were in charge, because instead of looking for a dinner dress, she slipped off her current dress, then her bra and panties, and lay back on the bed.
The only thing waiting for her at dinner was the county coroner and a night filled with suffocating expectations.
“I�
�ll take what’s behind door number two,” she said to herself, feeling bold. And extremely naughty. A heady combination.
It was as exciting as cutting fifth period to go make out with your superhot boyfriend on his motorcycle. Not that Charlotte had ever cut a class in her life, or that Jace owned a motorcycle, but if she had and he did, she was positive that this was what it would feel like.
Daring. Erotic. A real time-of-your-life adventure.
Every second that passed her body coiled tighter with anticipation, her breasts got heavier, until the sheets felt so good against her sensitive skin she thought she’d go up in flames. She turned on her side, then realized her boobs looked perkier when she was propped up against the headboard. Only resting against her updo made her neck kink.
Charlotte sat up, uncoiled her hair, pins flying everywhere, and, remembering Jace’s bed-rumpled request, gave it a few tosses and then lay back, feeling a bit nervous now. But just when she started to feel the hesitation build the bathroom door opened.
A wall of fog rolled out—not that it hampered her view. And what a view it was. Jace came out in nothing but a towel, which was conveniently tossed over his shoulder, and went to the closet, giving her an unobstructed view of his backside, which was so firm she was convinced it could deflect a speeding bullet. One hand rested flat against the closet frame and he shook his head, sending droplets of water scattering to the floor in a move that was all male.
As if sensing a shift in the force, he looked over his broad shoulder, the one that had a tribal tattoo that started at his pec and wrapped over and down to his shoulder blade, and his eyes immediately locked on hers, a mix of wry amusement and raw hunger so intense her mouth went dry. Which was the exact opposite of what was happening down below.
“You’re home,” she said, trying desperately to sound casual, as though she hadn’t just implied that this was his home. Even though there was nothing she wanted more.
“You’re naked.”
“Except for the pearls.” Charlotte slipped a finger under the strand and ran it back and forth. Jace’s eyes zeroed in with laser precision and followed her every move. So she trailed a little lower, letting her pinky graze over the top of her cleavage, dipping ever so briefly into the valley.
“Is that what you’re wearing to dinner?” he asked. “Your date might feel overdressed.”
“My date is Andy Mosby,” she said. “I don’t think he’ll mind.”
“Isn’t he the guy who got busted hiding in the women’s locker room with a video camera?”
“At the senior center,” she clarified. “But his dad is a congressman now.”
He grinned. “Well, there is that.”
“How was your day?” she asked, light and breezy, doing a little visual assessment of her own. There wasn’t a woman alive who could resist perusing merchandise as beautifully sculpted as his.
“Getting better by the second.” And he was getting bigger by the second.
The towel hit the floor and she saw him coming, watched as he stalked closer, his gaze dipping from her eyes to her breasts, to her thighs and back, but nothing prepared her for the jolt of awareness that shot through her when he took one of her feet in his hand and rested it on his rock-hard abs. Leaving her completely exposed, and him erotically rubbing her arch.
His thumb trailed up her instep and back to her heel, sending a zillion volts of high-powered hormones rushing though her body.
“What are you doing?” she whispered, getting lost in the sensation of his hands on her body, stoking a hunger so intense her eyes wanted to slide shut in ecstasy.
“I heard you had a long day.” Bypassing her heels, he trailed a single finger up her calf to her knee, then dug deep on the return. Her body tingled everywhere he touched.
“Who did you hear that from? Hattie?” Jace raised a single brow. “We had a talk. I told her about how sorry I was for asking you to keep everything a secret and that if you wanted to tell your family I think you should.”
“I don’t want to talk about my family right now,” he said, his voice rough.
“What do you want to do?” Charlotte asked, surprised at how her body responded. She never considered herself a dirty talker, in fact, she rarely talked during sex. But right then, with this man, she wanted nothing more than for him to tell her in exquisite, minute detail exactly what he wanted to do.
“Too many things to list.”
“Give me the highlights.” Preferably the dirty ones.
His expression was one of welcome surprise, then it turned to molten lava. “I’ve had a list in my head that’s been building for the past four years. At the top of my list is you on my car, but you already knew that.”
“With pearls.” She slid her fingers down the strand.
He groaned, but his hands never stopped moving, down and back up, roaming over every inch and molding his hands to her curves. Soft at first, then deepening the pressure as he moved higher, teasing closer and closer to command central with each stroke. “Then there’s the one with you straddling me in that denim skirt you had on the night at the bar, while I’m driving my Chevelle.”
“We already did that one.”
He flashed her a heart-melting smile. “I know, but I’d like a replay.”
“Me too.” She picked up her left foot, the one that was still on the bed, and ran her big toe up his concrete stomach, to his chest. Then ever so slowly back down his smooth, wet skin and rippling muscles. “Do all of them involve cars?”
Trapping her foot an inch before things got interesting, he thought about that for a moment. “I’ll skip to some of the pages without cars. Like you in your lab coat looking all doctorly, with red fuck-me pumps, and me on the exam table.”
“I don’t own those kind of shoes,” she said, her breath catching when he brought her foot to his mouth and nipped her toe.
“I’ll buy you some for my birthday,” he said, and a warm thrill settled in her heart that he was making plans, which included more of this, seven months out.
“Oh, my latest one,” he said, placing a hot, openmouth kiss on the inside of her ankle. “It comes in at number two. It’s a good one.” Another kiss, this one lower. “I get home from work to find you. Naked. On the front porch swing. Knitting needles in hand.”
Charlotte laughed when she realized he was dead serious. “Knitting needles comes in at number two?”
“Fuck, yeah,” he said earnestly. “There is something about you looking all domestic that gets me going.” Another kiss, this one with teeth. “But tonight, I’m going with number three. The She Works Hard for Her Money move.” He stopped rubbing her feet. “Don’t laugh, hear me out.”
Charlotte smothered her giggle with a cough. “Completely open mind.”
His talented fingers rubbed and stroked until she was nearly sobbing with pleasure. “You come home from a long day at work to find me, your dashing husband.”
“Dashing?” She shook her head. “Dashing sounds like Matthew Crawley from Downton Abbey. You’re more lethally sexy, like a big, sexy beefcake.” He frowned. “Or a sex pistol,” she offered.
“Sex pistol.” He tried out the title and then gave a satisfied shrug. “All right, your sex pistol of a husband gently takes off one heel, then the next, then lifts you onto the island.”
“What am I wearing?” she wanted to know, because even though this was his fantasy, she needed to get the whole picture.
“That yellow dress you used to have. The one you wore to your interview at Atlanta Memorial.”
Her eyes must have shown her surprise that he had remembered a dress she’d worn exactly once, because he said, “Yeah, that one. With the scalloped top that showed the right amount of cleavage, the tiny belt that could be used for more than cinching in the waist, and that skirt.” He blew out a breath, which Charlotte felt slide all the way to her core. “That prim skirt that floated down to the knees. So proper, but when you walked it swayed, giving a flash of those legs of yours. Made you
look like a naughty schoolteacher.”
Charlotte found herself nodding, and breathing more heavily than usual. And he hadn’t even gotten to the good part.
“You’re wearing that while I rub your feet, hitting all the right spots, until you are so relaxed you’re game for anything. Then I slowly work my way up your thighs.” His hands drifted higher, deliberately past her ankles, her knees, the sensitive inside of her thighs quivering under his calloused touch, and higher still until she thought she’d combust from the building pressure. “First with my hands.” The tips of his fingers grazed her with a featherlight touch, and she arched up, digging her feet into his stomach, trying to get closer to his touch. “Then my mouth.” He trailed a single finger up the middle of her, sending her pulse racing to the moon and back. “Until you’re screaming.”
“A religious experience?” she asked on a ragged breath. Because she could almost see the promised land in the near distance, coming in to claim her.
“Oh no,” he said, slipping his hands back down to her ankles. God, he felt good, but she wanted to tell him he was going the wrong way. “This time the only name you’re going to be screaming is mine.”
He tugged. One minute she was leaning against the headboard, her heart pounding from anticipation, the next she was flat on her back, her legs dangling off the end of the bed, and Jace was pinning her to the bed with his big body. His hands rested next to her head, his mouth was flush with her ear.
“And Charlie, I’m going to have you screaming my name over and over again, until you pass out from the pleasure,” he said, with so much alpha-male confidence she believed him. “And then I’m going to coax you awake, slowly and gently, only to start back at the beginning until you’re screaming again. And come morning you’re going to be so sated that getting out of bed will be hard work.”
And before Charlotte could say that yes, she liked that idea very much, he was on the move, kissing and biting, his magical mouth working its way down her body. All the way down, taking his time about it, too, making sure to hit every trigger and lick every button until—