With a deadpan twinkle in his eye, Niall asks, “Do any of you know what the best pen for a writer is?”
Everyone shakes their heads, no.
“It’s a BIC pen. The letters stand for ‘Butt in Chair.’” He doubles over with a hearty guffaw.
“Oh, brother,” Libby says, rolling her eyes.
“I thought it was pretty funny,” Mick says, shoulders still shaking with laughter at his brother-in-law’s joke.
“And while I don’t use a BIC pen,” Libby retorts, smiling, “I do use a trick that keeps my bottom in the chair. I get the writing done by using a tea light.”
Greeted by blank looks, she continues. “When I sit down at my desk, I clear it of everything except for two items, my laptop, and a tea light candle. Once lit, the flame is my ‘contract’ to stay seated, and I continue writing until it burns out.”
“I love that idea,” Emma says. “May I steal it?”
“Yes, I’m glad it resonates with you,” Libby says.
“Scented or unscented?” Emma asks.
“I told you you’d make a good interrogator.” Mick laughs.
After giving her brother a haughty look, Libby replies, “That’s a good question, Emma. I use tea lights scented with peppermint essential oil. They’re easier to come by during the holidays, so I stock up then.”
“Any special reason you use peppermint?” Emma asks.
Ignoring her brother’s I-told-you-so look, Libby turns to Emma and says, “It’s a clean, fresh scent that boosts my concentration and keeps me alert.”
“Oh, brother.” It was Mick’s turn to roll his eyes in mock retaliation.
“Now, now, you two,” Niall interjects. “Break it up.”
While fingering her hand-carved pendant, Fran takes the moment of camaraderie to ask Mick, “The enclosure that came with our pendants explains that the designs originated with the Maori culture in New Zealand. How did you become familiar with them?”
“After high school, I took a gap year in New Zealand before going to college. It was one of the best experiences of my life. I’m grateful that our parents,” he says, nodding at Libby, “honored my request. I learned a lot about myself and did a lot of growing up during that year.”
Also looking at Libby, Cynthia takes the opportunity to ask, “I know you help a lot of writers with editing, you write short stories for magazines, and a column for the local newspaper. But I’m curious to know if you’re working on a book?”
Now it’s Mick’s turn to smile saccharinely sweet at his sister squirming in the limelight.
“Well,” Libby hedges. “Why don’t you tell me? You’ve read the lines on everyone else’s palms, let’s see what mine have to say.” She holds up her palm for scrutiny.
After some consideration, Cynthia touches a spot on Libby’s palm and says, “Do you see this split head line? It’s often referred to as the ‘writer’s fork.’ And if you look closely, this finger is slightly bent. That reveals that you’re a spiritual person. This aspect, coupled with the intuition line that runs opposite the life line up to the base of the little finger, culminates in these four small lines,” she says, tapping the spot. “These are known as the ‘healing stigmata.’
“The lines in your hand indicate that you’re driven to write a book. A self-help book. Now here, Cynthia says, pointing again, “can you see the deeper end of the head line and the upper one with a heavy middle zone to your little finger? That indicates you have a strong business mind as well. Perhaps your book will show people how they can create personal transformation at the intersection of business and spirituality, how they can enhance their profitability—body, mind, and spirit.”
“Cynthia, I don’t know what to say. You’ve floored me.”
“Am I right?”
“Well to be more accurate, you hit the bullseye!”
Overhead, thunder crashes like balls of lead dropping on a floor.
Hemingway’s bark is deep. His forelimbs are widely spaced on the floor, ready to protect. When the lightning flashes, they see rain lashing at the windows.
“Once it lets up, I’ll drive everyone back to their cottages in the ATV,” Mick says.
“I love a good storm,” Emma says. “Once it lets up, I’ll be fine to head back in my chair. I wouldn’t miss a chance to dance in the rain for anything.”
“Dance in the rain?” they ask in unison.
Emma’s eyes are lively, and her mouth is quick to smile. “Yes. Ever since I was a little girl, I’ve danced in the rain. Whether on foot or wheels, my parents taught us that life isn’t about waiting for the storm to pass, it’s about dancing in the rain. We took every opportunity as a family to dance in the rain. And I still do, even when I’m alone.”
“Well you won’t be alone this evening,” Mick says, eyes smoldering. “Once I return from dropping the others off, I’d like to join you if that’s okay.”
“I’d love to dance with you in the rain,” Emma says.
CHAPTER 13
“Sometimes making a story is as easy as putting two characters in a room and seeing what happens.”
—JIM TOOMEY
With a firm hold on Hemingway’s leather collar and smiling goodbyes complete, Niall and Libby close the heavy door of the main house as the last of their guests leave. The brass knocker seems to wink in collusion as a flash of lightning illuminates the rain-slicked circular drive.
Mick gazes into Emma’s rain-glistened, upturned face. “After dinner, you mentioned that you and your family dance in the rain.” Looking up at the sky with his hands held out, palms up to catch the rain, Mick bows at the waist and asks, “May I have this dance?”
“Yes.” Emma’s face beams up at him. She begins to bob her head and tap a rhythm on the now-wet tops of her thighs. “Do you remember the Billy Joel song, ‘For the Longest Time?’”
He looks into her eyes. “Yes. But there’s something you need to know about me.”
“What is it?”
“I can’t carry a tune in a bucket.”
“That’s okay,” she says, laughing. “I can.” And with that, she begins a cappella.
Mick stares at Emma’s upturned face bathed in rain. Eyes closed, her clear, low voice is rich. It almost has a smoky texture to it, he thinks.
His heart accelerates when she takes his work-worn hands in her soft ones and swings them back and forth in time to the upbeat tempo. Mick’s eyes are held captive by Emma. Even on this stormy night, dimly lit by the subtle walk lights along the path, her expressive eyes remind him of the deep blue Bahamian pools he’s scuba dived in. Her hair, darkened by the rain, is slicked to her head and shoulders; twin pearl earrings peek from the deep red, wet curtain.
Lightning jags across the sky, tearing it open to let the rain pour. Mick starts counting out loud. “One thousand one. One thousand two. One thousand three. One thousand—” thunder cracks. “The lightning’s about three miles away,” he says. He grasps the handles on Emma’s wheelchair and moves them along the path at a rapid pace.
Head tipped back, Emma continues to belt.
As they whir past, the garden has a wild look about it. Its wind-whipped floral heads are ducking and bobbing as if in time to the water-slapped rhythm of Mick’s fast-moving feet.
After Mick presses the exterior button, they enter Austen cottage with dripping clothes, wet faces, and rain glistened hair. Mick toes off his wet shoes, peels off his socks, then bends and removes Emma’s shoes, giving her feet a quick rub while secretly admiring her sexy bare feet with toes sporting bright red toenail polish.
“You’ve got quite a set of pipes,” he says.
“Back in the day, I was in a quartet. We called ourselves The Pastel Lollipops.” She laughs.
“The Pastel Lollipops?” Mick asks with an arched eyebrow. “That has a British ring to it.”
“It was our answer to The Beatles,” Emma laughs. “Enough about that. I’m soaked to the skin,” she says, looking down at herself.
�
�Me, too. Wait here just a minute,” Mick says.
In the bathroom, Mick strips out of his sopping clothes and wrings them out in the shower. Grabbing a deep-lavender bath towel, he runs it over his hair then slings it around his hips and grabs another towel.
After checking her closet, he finds Emma’s nightgown. Burying his face in the folds of the soft fabric, he inhales. Fresh and citrusy, like lime, with a hint of vanilla, he thinks. But there’s something more. After inhaling again, There’s an earthy and exotic scent like sandalwood, he decides.
The rain is pouring down now. Mick hears it lashing the roof and pelting the windows. Then a slash of lightning illuminates the interior of the cottage and is followed almost immediately by a crack of thunder.
When he returns to the living room, he hands Emma her nightgown. Holding a towel that matches the one he’s wearing, he offers, “I can dry your hair.” He waggles his eyebrows.
“I’ll just bet you can,” she says, with a smile. “I’ll be right back.” After snatching the towel, she wheels herself beyond his line of sight to the bedroom.
A few moments later, an ear-splitting boom and simultaneous flash are followed by inky darkness.
Mick opens the refrigerator door to verify that it’s an all-power outage.
“Stay put,” he calls out. “I’ll light a candle and be there in a minute.” Familiar with the cottage, he rummages in a kitchen drawer and finds the supplies.
With a lit candle in hand, he turns around. The air leaves his chest as if he’d been hit in the back with a two-by-four. Illuminated by the single flame, there sits Emma, a vision in lavender, with the towel wrapped around her torso, ending at her thighs.
Their gazes meet and lock.
Oh, my God, he’s handsome, Emma thinks. Glowing in the candlelight, his face seems to be carved from stone, except his nostrils are slightly flared. She looks down. He’s aroused. She brings her gaze back up and looks into his intense eyes. She feels a sense of untamed suppressed just below the surface.
Mick walks toward her.
Emma’s stomach knots in anticipation.
What the heck? Emma’s eyes widen as Mick continues right past her, leaving in his wake a faint mixture of lime and healthy male that tickles her senses.
While throwing the deadbolt, he says, “That’ll keep Hemingway from letting himself in and shaking out his rain-sodden coat in your cottage.”
When he turns back, exhilaration shoots through her. She has an idea of what he’s thinking, what he plans to do, but she’s afraid he’ll come to his senses and not do any of it.
She tries to swallow, but he’s so close she can’t even think.
After setting the candle on the end table, Mick bends down, picks her up in his arms, and carries her into the bedroom that’s lit by intermittent flashes of lightning.
She hears roaring in her ears but can’t tell if it’s thunder or her heart galloping in her chest.
With care, he positions her legs on the comforter then tweaks her big toe as he goes back to retrieve the candle.
When he returns, he lays down with his full length next to hers.
This close, Emma sees the glow from the candle’s flame reflected in the molten depths of his eyes. She can’t help but notice how muscular his shoulders are, how full his lips look. She lets her gaze slip lower, to the rest of his body, noticing how his abs ripple down past the edge of the towel still draped around his waist.
He pulls his head back slightly to look into her eyes. “My God, you’re beautiful,” he breathes as his lips meet hers.
Emma responds in kind. His mouth is so warm, the caress of his lips softer than she imagined. She ignites when he tastes her lips tentatively with his tongue. Emma opens her mouth with a low moan. She feels his hand slip up and down her side, unwittingly hiking the edge of the towel up with every pass. She sees in Mick’s eyes when that realization dawns on him, and he slides his hand behind and cups her firm, round bottom.
Emma’s heart skips a beat as her entire body roars to life, eager for his touch.
His eyes are warm as they study her, and she feels her cheeks flush in response.
He moves his hand to the small of her back and draws her close. His mouth brushes hers, retreats, then brushes again.
Gazing into his green eyes, dark with intensity, Emma’s about to speak, but before she can utter a sound, his long forefinger touches her lips, then he covers her mouth with his in a hungry kiss—a long, slow, lazy kiss. His tongue traces the outline of her lips, and she opens her mouth to him, her tongue dancing with his.
As the storm outside temporarily abates, it gains momentum inside Austen cottage.
After loosening the tuck in her towel, Mick pulls it aside, revealing her beautiful breasts. His eyes, warm to the point of smoldering, take in the view. He uses the pad of his index finger to trace an imaginary line from her temple, down her cheek, neck, and collarbone, then over the soft mound of her breast where he caresses the pink-tipped bud.
With a light touch of her thumb, she explores his lips before falling back to clear the way. Emma hears the catch in his breath, feels its warmth against her mouth. Yet she holds back, not quite kissing, sampling the excitement to be gained from waiting.
“Mmm, you smell good. Taste good,” Mick says between lips that cruise up Emma’s neck and skim her jaw before settling on her mouth. He drinks from her, his mouth languid, his tongue teasing, as she sinks her hands in his hair to keep him there.
Emma presses against him and moans into his mouth.
Mick gets the message. He shifts his weight, lifts her so that she’s on top, pressed against the length of him.
“You’re strong,” she says, peppering tiny kisses all over his face.
“You’re light.” His dark hair rubs against her face as he raises his to kiss her neck, nibbling the sensitive flesh.
Oh, the man can kiss! So slow, so soft, so decadent. She cups his stubble-shadowed face in her hands and pauses his mouth’s exploration to search his eyes. Deep green and naked with emotion, she sees what she hoped to find. Then her lips meet his, warm and wet with a whispered taste of wild blackberry.
Mick’s lips touch her skin, igniting a quick flash of heat. When his tongue makes a trail across her collarbone, then caresses the silken divot in her throat, she shudders, setting loose a warm ribbon of need that unfurls in her stomach.
Fueled by desire, Emma untucks what remained of his barely-there towel. That’s when she notices the silver scar on his hip.
Mick’s eyes narrow as her finger traces the raised scar.
“Does it hurt?”
“The skin over my hip used to feel like it was burned, branded by a hot poker. The surgeon said the scar would calm down—the color—but he couldn’t make promises about the pain. Some people find that wounds continue to throb for years. I’m fortunate.”
Emma’s heart nearly bursts from joy when Mick whispers, “I can’t take it anymore.”
She absorbs his warmth as he wraps himself around her—arms circling her shoulders, legs wound around hers—“Hold on,” she feels him say into her neck as he rolls them both over, then braces himself above her with outstretched arms.
Emma sees his eyes, dark with desire, study her still-damp, deep red hair, fanned out across the pillow with abandon like a wanton stroke from a painter’s brush. Her heart catches in her throat when Mick looks into her eyes. “Emma, I want you.”
“I want you, too,” she breathes.
She loves it when his lips graze her cheeks, her chin, and the tip of her nose. She parts her lips in a warm invitation, and Mick surrenders to his own ardent need. Her eyes encourage him as he lowers himself into her waiting arms, his body covering hers. A perfect fit. His hand traverses her skin, paying homage to her naked body.
Emma is struck again by the firmness of him, his long, lean length. Electricity shoots through her with every feather-light touch.
As his mouth takes possession of her lips, now swollen from h
is welcome attention, Emma runs her hands along his back, her fingers finding more raised scars. She moans into his kiss as his hips press into hers, and her body, excited by his presence, answers his. She is, she realizes, unmoored by his touch.
Mick shifts so he can cradle Emma. They doze, still wrapped together, still content. His heart beats against the softness of her back. When he’s sure she’s asleep, he repositions himself so that he can see her face. Her hair is tumbled onto her cheek, her lips unpainted and just parted.
Pull yourself together, Mick. He closes his eyes and rests his forehead against Emma’s as though he can make her calmness sink into him by sheer willpower. As long as you just stay away from her until she goes home at the end of the month, he says to himself, she can live her life with a happy ending. Not me. My best friend, Sam, died. My ex-wife, Victoria, divorced me. If I’ve learned anything in life, it’s that there are no happy endings—at least not for me.
Why have I thrown myself at Emma? I should have known better. I do know better. I got caught up in the rain. In the storm. In Emma. And I didn’t think at all. Because I’m a damned idiot. That much is clear. But it’s not the end of the world. The only thing I need to do is steer clear of Emma. He sighs. If only I can convince myself. A little willpower and self-discipline, that’s all I need.
He opens his eyes and looks at Emma’s sleeping face. He can’t help but kiss the tip of her nose. That is when all of his resolve flies out the window, carried on a gust of wind to the howling surf of the storm-ravaged bay.
CHAPTER 14
“Close the door. Write with no one looking over your shoulder. Don’t try to figure out what other people want to hear from you; figure out what you have to say. It’s the one and only thing you have to offer.”
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