And you only got points taken off for mixed metaphors if they were in the same sentence.
The ride back to the Double Arrow had been fraught with all kinds of things, not the least of which was the sound of Jenna's conflicting emotions grating up against each other inside her head. She was almost tempted to be angry: if only he hadn't done this about-face, if only he hadn't turned out to be so damn admirable, if only he didn't make her laugh. And even, sometimes, forget.
But only sometimes.
Hank pulled up in front of the cottage. She sat for a second, thinking she should say something. But what? The wind had picked up, presaging a storm, grumbling in the distance. Again.
She gave up and got out.
"Have a nice evening," he said to her back as she started up the porch steps. "By yourself."
She turned. Although the engine was still running, he'd propped one elbow on the open window. "I don't get too many of those," she said, eyes burning.
"Don't suppose you do."
"Thought I'd, um, make some notes. For the new book. The one I'm setting here?"
"Sounds like a plan," he said, yanking the gearshift into reverse.
She took a step back down, feeling like an idiot. "Don't be angry. Please."
His hand gripping the steering wheel, he looked over at her, surprise filtering through his annoyance. "I'm not mad at you, Jenna. If anything, I'm ticked at myself for thinking…"
"What?"
"Never mind," he said, executing the jerkiest three-point turn in history.
"Why don't you understand, Hank?" she said to his dust, then went inside. Checked for superfluous wildlife. Fed the cat. Logged online and deleted a slew of e-mails for low mortgages, cheap Viagra, miracle weight-loss programs, nude pics of pop stars.
Told herself she needed the shower because the humidity had been horrid all day and she couldn't stand herself.
And that it had been a long time since she'd done an all-over moisturizing.
And since her skin was all soft and smooth now, it might be fun to slip into the satin and lace undies for a change. Funny, she didn't remember that much cleavage the last time she wore this bra.
After she changed clothes three times, finally settling on a hot pink jersey sundress that forgave the wider hips and waist that came with the cleavage, she realized there wasn't a single thing in the house she wanted to eat, so it was off to Homeland.
The package of T-bones called out to her. Okay, there were two, but she could freeze one for another time, right? And while she was at it, she might as well pick up some salad stuff, and they had macaroni salad on sale in the deli, yeah, that looked good. Except then, as she was paying for the food (including a bag of pork rinds large enough to feed half of Texas), she thought, Hey, dumbo—you're only going to be here a few more days—just when do you think you're going to eat this second steak?
That's when she heard the loud thud of her butt landing in the dirt as she toppled right off that fence.
The shower. The lotion. The undies. The steaks.
Who the hell did she think she was kidding?
Jenna let out a soft gasp—the cashier asked her if she was all right—grabbed her bags and practically ran to the car. Boom-chicka-boom went her heartbeat as she fumbled getting the key in the door, then yanked it open, threw everything on the passenger seat, hurtled herself inside and slammed shut the door as if she could actually get away from…from…
The inevitable.
For some reason, the second she allowed the thought to complete itself—denial had never been her strong suit—a sense of peace washed over her. Of course, it was the same sort of peace she gathered a drowning person felt when they finally stopped struggling and simply let the water in, but still.
She shut her eyes for a second, muttered a prayer for strength, then pulled out of the parking lot and headed back to the Double Arrow.
Chapter 14
"Do you see this?" Jenna said the instant Hank opened his door, nodding toward the paper grocery sack in her arms, on the top of which lay the biggest bag of pork rinds he'd ever seen. Sensing food in the offing, Mutt trotted over to investigate.
"Uh…pork rinds?"
"Yeah. Pork rinds." She pushed past him into the house, then stood in the middle of the living room looking like she had no idea where to put the bag. Mutt planted his backside right in front of her, eager to aid in the decision-making process.
"And do you know what I was going to do with these pork rinds?" she asked, quivering with agitation.
"Eat them?"
"Exactly! And do you know why I was going to eat them?"
"Because…you were hungry?"
"Oh, yeah, I'm hungry all right," she said, finally stooping to set the bag on the floor beside the recliner. Hank could practically hear the dog's Yes!!! from where he stood.
"Uh, honey, I don't think that's a good—"
"Yep," she said, "that's just what I was going to do." She was all over the place like a pinball, her hands on her hips one second, forking through her hair the next, her expression contorted with a combination of confusion and panic. "I was going to go home and sit there by myself—" she darted to the sofa "—and scarf down that entire bag—" then back to the chair "—just as I've demolished bag after bag of Chee•tos—" and over to the window, only to spin around and head back to the sofa "—and potato chips and corn chips over the past two weeks…oh!"
Hank had intercepted her on her last pass, grabbing her by the shoulders. "Cut it out! You're making me dizzy!"
She went completely still in his arms, her eyes searching his. Then, on a strangled sigh, she collapsed against him. "Well, dammit, you're making me dizzy, too, Hank Logan. Not to mention fat."
He hooked a knuckle underneath her chin and lifted her face to his, feeling pretty much the way Mutt did with that grocery bag. "What are you sayin', Jenna?"
One shoulder shrugged, her small smile one of resignation. If not outright defeat. "That the fence is history." He nearly jumped when he felt the back of his shirt being yanked out of his jeans. "That I have no idea where this road is going to lead—" he shuddered at the sensation of her fingers tracing the muscles in his back "—but damned if I can resist finding out."
Well, all of this might have been a lot of fun if he hadn't heard the hysteria shimmering in her words. So he reached behind him and took hold of her wrists, bringing them around to tuck them against his chest. Rustling off to his right distracted him; he glanced over to see the dog nosing around the bag, but since he couldn't seem to get past the pork rinds, Hank figured he could let it ride for the moment while he tended to more important things. Like his future.
"Why?" he said softly.
"I told you. It was either you or those damn pork rinds."
"There's a first," he muttered.
"Don't let this go to your head, but frankly, it was no contest." She wriggled free and went straight for his shirt buttons—
"Dammit, dog! Git outta there!" He wrenched himself free and flew at the dog, who let out a yike and scooted away from the bag. Hank snatched it up, peered inside. "Shouldn't this stuff go into the fridge?"
"You've got exactly ten seconds," she said. He noticed she was breathing kinda heavy.
He hauled ass into the kitchen, threw everything in the refrigerator and tore back to the living room.
She was gone. Panic shot through him until "Up here!" sailed down from the second floor. A clap of thunder shook the house as he raced upstairs, a sudden gathering storm devouring the remaining daylight. She clicked on his bedside lamp just as he reached his bedroom door. For some reason, he'd expected to see her stretched out on the bed wearing nothing but a smile. Instead she was still wearing that clingy soft dress, sitting almost primly on the edge of the king-sized mattress and scanning the room.
"Where's the mess?"
"Perfection takes time. I've only been here a week."
The new mattress barely sagged when he sat beside her, her gaze direct and u
nflinching and encouraging when he slipped one hand underneath her hair at the back of her neck. She met him halfway in a kiss that went from tentative to desperate in about two seconds. "You sure about this?" he asked.
"About this moment? Oh, yeah. About anything more…?" She shook her head.
Well, he supposed he could live with that. "So…this is just sex?"
He didn't think she'd ever answer. But at last, she reached up, sifting her fingers through his hair. And shook her head a second time.
"But just remember two things," she said then, lowering her hand to his chest, her fingertips five points of fire against his skin. "One, this was your idea. And two, if this takes—" her eyes met his "—you're stuck with me."
Testing her, he let his fingers do the walking up the inside of one soft, mouth-wateringly smooth leg. When she made a funny little sound in her throat, he grinned. "Shouldn't we have gone on a date or something first?"
"Please. I haven't dated since my senior year of high school. Hated it then, have no desire to resurrect the practice now."
Her fingers skirted over his face, down his throat. Although she had obviously shaved, he remembered he hadn't. "I might scratch you."
"Promises, promises," she said, and he never stripped so fast in his life. Then he stripped her. Life was good.
"You know," he said a few seconds later as the flickering light from the dicey electricity strobed over their naked bodies, "you're pretty damned forward for someone who's supposed to be shy."
She smiled. "Only with strangers."
Which she demonstrated shortly after when, seconds later, even though Hank had pretty much resigned himself to a nice, long, agonizing foreplay session, her fingers wrapped around him. "Oh, goody," she whispered, obviously pleased. "I got the express."
Of course, what she didn't know was that he'd been ready to leave the station for weeks. "You telling me you're ready?"
"See for yourself if you don't believe me." So, naturally, he accepted her invitation. And somehow, her little hiss of pleasure brought out his perverse streak. What the hell—he'd planned on holding back for twenty minutes anyway, right?
"Um…what are you doing?" she asked, as he began a leisurely exploration of her breasts, her ribs, her belly, gently scraping his beard over her sensitive skin as he went. Her pale skin was nearly translucent. And she smelled so damn good he nearly cried. When he reached the small, barely visible scar, he planted an extra kiss there before heading farther south.
"You tormented me for two weeks," he said, nuzzling, kissing, smiling when her breath hitched. "My turn."
"Not…fair!" Her fingers tangled in his hair. "I didn't…oh!…do it on purpose!"
"So I am. Deal with it."
Suddenly his head got yanked up, her grasp on his hair almost painful. "Inside me. Now. Or suffer the consequences."
"Which are?" he said, shifting to substitute his fingers for his mouth. He wasn't picky. And despite her attempt to squirm out of his reach—he made sure she couldn't—he doubted she was, either. Lightning flashed outside, the ozone combining with her sweet musk scent as the first fat drops began pelting the roof, slithering down the window.
"You creep!" she said, although the way she opened to him, arching her hips the way she was, kinda told she didn't really mean it. "I'm too close…"
"You want me to stop?" he whispered, pressing kisses into her neck, tonguing a nipple, just a quick overview to see what she liked. He could always go back later for more in-depth research. Although, preliminary results seemed to indicate that she apparently liked everything.
"I want you—"
"In here, I know," he said, dipping inside, gently searching for…yeah. Right there. "How's this?"
With a startled cry, she shattered on a climax so long and hard, he damn near envied her. He'd always wondered if what they said about women in their forties was an exaggeration. Now he had proof positive it wasn't. Whew.
And then it was quiet. Too quiet. Well, except for the storm, which had gotten good and cranked up by now. Hank half heard the dog click into the room, plop down on the floor with a groan. He hadn't known what to expect—whether she'd become self-conscious, pulling the sheet up over her, whether she'd turn away or want to cuddle or even get up and get dressed again, apologizing for having made a mistake and that she hoped there were no hard feelings. His heart actually skipped a beat at that last thought, that she'd change her mind.
But she didn't do any of those things. Instead, she lay there on her back with one knee bent, unconcerned about her nakedness, one arm flung over her eyes. She was still breathing pretty hard, her small breasts, the nipples rosy, rising and falling and tempting him beyond all reason to see if what had just happened hadn't been a fluke.
Hank propped himself up on one elbow, lifting a hand to smooth the hair away from her face. "You mad at me?"
She peered at him from underneath her arm, her expression unreadable. "Told you I wasn't going to be able to hang on."
"Something tells me—" he skimmed a hand over her flat stomach, making the muscles flinch, then up to claim one of those pretty little breasts "—there's more where that came from."
"After that one? In about three weeks, maybe."
Finally he saw the smile trying to gain a foothold, the twinkle in those blue, blue eyes, and relief washed over him.
"You forget who you're in bed with," he said, and she groaned and covered her eyes again. So—just to prove his point—he started fooling around again. The nipple sat right up the instant he touched it, which he found extremely gratifying. Even if it didn't do a thing for his aching groin. Then she started some song-and-dance about being small, the way women did, and he told her he liked these just fine. Besides, he said, she'd look funny with big ones.
She burst into laughter, then lowered her arm to her stomach, concern flickering in her eyes. "Why didn't you join me?"
He had to think about that for a minute. "Because I wanted to be sure you were ready. For me."
Understanding softened her expression. "I wouldn't be here if I wasn't. So get over here and let me return the favor, huh?"
Which she proceeded to do with the flair of a woman who, yep, had definitely had a good sex life with her husband. But in between the dumb jealous pang that ripped through him and the time his eyes rolled back in his head came the realization of exactly what it took for her to do this—
His shout of release coincided with an ear-splitting thunder-clap. He lay there with his eyes closed, tracing the bumps in Jenna's spine as she lay molded to him, as both his heart rate and the thunder rolls subsided. When he finally got around to opening his eyes, it was pitch dark.
"Damn. First time it ever made me blind," he said, and Jenna started laughing so hard she could barely catch her breath.
And Hank knew, right then and there, that he'd do damn near anything to keep this woman in his life.
* * *
Well, hell. She'd done it now, hadn't she? As if she hadn't been already besotted with the goof before, she had to go and do the deed with him. And he had to go and be good at it, no less. Maybe even a ten, although no way was she going to tell him that. Might as well just plop her heart on a silver platter, hand it to him and say, "Here. No charge."
And the thing is, she knew he'd take great care of it. So why couldn't she simply let go of the damn tray, already?
They sat at his kitchen table in the candlelight, Mutt whining for one of the steak bones. Hank had pulled on his jeans—sans drawers, Jenna noted—while she'd slipped into his shirt. And her panties. No bra, though. There didn't seem to be much point. The outage had apparently not affected the motel or any of the cottages, according to Danny, although when Jenna had checked on Blair, the Gundersens, too, were without power. The girls had simply moved their party indoors, however, and were none the worse for wear.
Jenna didn't mention where she was, although it was disconcerting being inside a body that wanted to scream, Guess what I just did? to anything that
passed.
"Are you okay?" Hank suddenly asked, reaching across the table for her hand. Up until then, they'd talked about fairly mundane things—about Hank's not being certain yet what he wanted to do with the motel; about how Michelle had taken out a life insurance policy when they'd gotten engaged that he hadn't known about, naming him her beneficiary; how her parents had refused to let him give the money to them, which is why he had enough cash to refurbish the motel even though it wasn't yet running in the black—all related with an openness that stole her breath. And her heart.
Startled by the timing of his question, Jenna looked over at him. Not even candlelight could soften those features, she thought. Nor would she want it to. "Sure," she said, skimming her fingertips along a fairly recent scar on his forearm. "Why wouldn't I be?"
He shrugged. "Just wondered if you had any…doubts?"
"I'm not going to lie and say I don't. But that doesn't mean I'm the least bit sorry I'm here." She tapped the scar. "How'd this happen?"
A rueful grin touched his lips. "Ornery screwdriver. Don't ask." His thumb idly stroked her knuckles. "Do we know what comes next?"
She smiled, a little, relieved that he hadn't said something like, I love you, Jenna. Marry me. "I can guess. Although give me a minute to let dinner settle."
Hank chuckled. "Now, there's the woman who writes those books. But that's not what I meant."
"I know it isn't. But I can't think further ahead than tonight. Baby steps, Hank. That's all I can do."
"We need more time. To figure this out." The earnestness in his expression tore at her heart, even as it salved it. She'd forgotten how wonderful it felt to be wanted like this. She hadn't, however, forgotten what it felt like to want back. Or the consequences of that wanting—which was the spider-silk thread tethering her to habit, wasn't it? "Stay the rest of the summer," he said. "I'm sure Blair won't mind."
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