He smiled. "When it comes to cheese, I don't sprinkle," he confessed. "I'm more of a smother-it kind of guy."
"That means you just keep grating until the pile is big enough." Finding the grater in the cabinet, she showed him how to use it, trying not to swoon as he stood right behind her. She could feel his presence, the bewildering rightness of his size—almost territorial in nature—yet as far from threatening as she could imagine. Her thoughts growing more ridiculous, MaryJo tried to ignore the warmth of his breath ruffling her hair. But—ignoring it didn't work. Instead, each breath sent a sizzle of awareness sliding down her spine. "When that's done—you . . . could start on the jalapenos." Glancing up, she found his gaze locked on hers. "I should probably warn you, the chili turned out . . . sorta hotter than I planned."
Travis grinned. "Then—I think I'll pass on jalapenos."
How long had it been since she'd had sex? Dazed by his boyish expression, she jolted at the thought. Not exactly something you should think about while grating cheese. "I followed the recipe this time," she stammered. "But, sometimes no matter how careful you are—things don't turn out the way you planned." A fleeting expression crossed his face—an emotion she couldn't quite pin down. Like confusion—but . . . more. Damn, was he bored already? Was she rambling? "H-how about diced onions?"
Onions, MaryJo? Seriously? Way to rebound with a conversational gem. In five minutes, he'd be out the door with a fake emergency phone call. "I'm not a huge fan, but lots of people like them on . . . chili."
"I'll skip the onions." His voice dropped a notch, the tone altering from teasing to silky, as though possessing secret knowledge she wasn't privy to. "In case I get to kiss you later—I don't want raw onions ruining the opportunity."
All semblance of calm left her body as his gaze intensified, pinning her. "Me?" Her breath hitching in her throat, it became increasingly difficult to speak. "Y-you—want to-"
Smiling over her sudden inability to complete a sentence, Travis raised a hand to her face, easing a strand of hair behind her ear. When his fingers trailed over her cheek, MaryJo felt the caress straight down to her toes. If she'd imagined she had trouble breathing before-
"It seems I do, MaryJo. What do you think about that?" ***
Chapter 5
A little surprised at himself for moving in so quickly, Travis awaited her response. Beautiful MaryJo, all pink-faced and flustered, was having trouble speaking. Since he still didn't know her very well, he wasn't sure whether that was a good sign. Her eyes, though, spoke volumes. Wide, and more velvety brown than he'd remembered, they betrayed shock, before a slow, warming pleasure illuminated the golden rims of her irises. More chocolate, than brown, he reflected, surprised by the trail of his thoughts.
"Well . . . maybe we should . . . just—get it over with first? Before—we have dinner."
Get it over with were not exactly the words he would have chosen to describe the increasingly compelling desire to kiss her. She grew more intriguing by the second. He grinned. "You're not exactly inspiring my confidence."
Her face flushed from pink to scarlet. "I-I'm not . . . I'm really not good at this."
"I think you may be wrong." Steeped in anticipation, Travis surprised himself. This weekend would likely be chalked up as a fascinating anomaly. Because MaryJo was not the woman he typically found himself spending a Saturday night with. On the surface, she was quiet. . . with moments of shyness that seemed almost painful for her. Yet, reading her fascinating eyes, he recognized a woman who—wanted. Who, quite possibly, would offer her whole self, if she were only asked.
Her expression suggested someone who was almost . . . waiting. To be discovered. But, unlike the women he typically spent time with, he sensed she wouldn't hesitate to dictate terms. Because MaryJo was very comfortable with who she was—and wasn't. And that—he was floored to discover, was more enticing than he ever would have believed.
"For starters . . . let's get that knife out of your hand." When she fumbled nervously to set it on the counter, she knocked into the cheese grater, which toppled over with a clatter. "I don't want to be grated, either. No sharp instruments allowed."
Smothering a giggle, she raised anxious eyes to his, peering at him through a fringe of tangled lashes. Tugging her closer, Travis savored the gentle nudge of her slender body colliding with his. She was strong, but with curves he couldn't wait to discover. Her too-wide mouth was still smiling when he lowered his head and kissed her.
It was probably the first kiss in his life that seemed to draw in the warmth and laughter of another person. Her lips softened against his, parting with a sigh that gut-punched him. She tasted of sunshine and heat and the tang of beer she'd sipped before he'd conceded defeat on the urge to kiss her. Capturing her face in his hands, he trailed the softness of her skin with his thumbs. His mouth moved to her bruised cheekbone, brushing it gently, careful not to hurt her. When she sagged against him, he pulled her even closer.
A sense of belonging stole over him when she reached up to circle his neck. Rightness—as though he'd somehow—arrived? At a place he'd never thought to look for. Her long, lean body nestled to his. A repeat of the sensation he'd experienced in the shower. Half dead, MaryJo had slung an arm around his neck and pressed her body closer. An unconscious gesture of self- preservation on her part—one his body had responded to instantly. Now, as she did it with awareness, the action felt intuitive.
He took the kiss deeper, wanting to know—more. The texture of her full bottom lip—where she seemed to worry it with her teeth. The sweetness of her mouth. The way she would react to his fingers sliding into her ponytail. Tugging the silky weight of midnight hair against his hands. Shifting her against the counter, he rested his hands on her hips.
Take it slow, his hazy brain cautioned, before the warning slipped away. As the kiss grew hotter, more intense. Sliding his tongue into her mouth to dance with hers, he suppressed a groan as the overwhelming urge to ravish her against the counter began to overtake him. The last thing he wanted was to scare her off. Yet, knowing he should slow down—and actually accomplishing that goal were very different things. Her sigh of pleasure crawled through him in a way that suggested stripping her from her sexy, red sweater would be a very good thing. That skin on heated skin would be the most amazing gift he could ever be granted.
A completely unfamiliar feeling settled over him. One of being steeped in sensation. Of his brain processing several messages at once. The cascade of silky hair sliding over him, her ponytail in ruins. The soft, scented skin of her throat—where his mouth kept returning. The hitch to her breath when she moaned. The delicate shudder tracing through her as her beautiful mouth grew more frantic. The comforting, anchoring weight of her in his arms.
"Travis-" Her voice husky with passion, MaryJo groaned when he finally lifted his head. "I'm not sure this was a good idea."
He registered her protest with a smile, her busy hands sliding over his body with ownership. Her fingers sifting his hair, tugging him closer. The simple touch sent pleasure scorching through his system. He sucked in a breath when she nipped his earlobe, her clean, citrusy scent enveloping him. Since he was contemplating knocking the cheese grater to the floor and taking her on the counter, he was mildly curious. "Why not?"
Her hands still loosely clasped around his neck, MaryJo's shy smile punched him again. "I—I think I might be burning the cornbread."
Laughter bubbled up from his chest, surprising him. "Hopefully, you'll think . . . this was worth it." When luminous, velvety eyes stared up at him, Travis realized he'd been dead wrong. There was nothing subtle or athletic or girl-next-door about her beauty. MaryJo was hot. Sexy. Beautiful. He was seeing the real her for the first time. And he wanted—her mile-long legs wrapped around him. The soft, silky hair fisted in his hands. Draped over him. He wanted to drink in her shy smile. To take her hand and pull her down the hall to the first darkened room they found. Hell—he just wanted. His mind suddenly consumed—wondering how great somethi
ng could be . . . something that twenty-four hours earlier, he hadn't known existed.
Blushing furiously, MaryJo released him. "I should check-"
Reluctantly, he released her, enjoying her flustered beauty as she took a few steadying breaths. Then, he dutifully stood aside as she donned a mitt and pulled a perfectly browned, sweet smelling corn bread from the oven. "See? It looks perfect," he pointed out.
She would keep him awake that night. Travis absorbed the knowledge as he would any other fact. Another sleepless night—yet, for entirely different reasons. This wouldn't be a bug-in-the-software kind of sleepless. It would be the sleeplessness of ravenous curiosity. Though he'd already seen her practically naked, he hadn't been able to fully appreciate it the previous night. Worry over her condition had left him focused on her health. Then, his baggy sweats had hidden her away, like a treasure waiting to be rediscovered.
"It's my mother's recipe," she said, scattering his thoughts. "At least that's what I was always told." A slight frown marred her forehead as she deftly slid the pan to the cooling rack she'd left on the counter. "She died when I was ten, so I have lots of stories about her. But, sometimes—I wonder whether my memories are really true . . . or if they're shaped from what I've been told."
"That must have been hard." A little floored by her matter-of-fact tone, Travis thought fleetingly of his own mother. Not that she'd been much of a caretaker, he admitted, but she'd been a presence in his life. One he'd ultimately learned to avoid. A body taking up space. Disappearing on occasion. Sometimes for weeks at a time. "Do you have brothers or sisters?"
"Nope." She sighed. "That would've been nice. My dad never remarried, either, so I missed out on the whole 'mothering' thing."
After the misfortune of four stepfathers in fifteen years, Travis doubted her assumption. He'd always believed his mother might have risen to the occasion—becoming a better parent, had it not been for the steady stream of overbearing pricks she'd allowed entry to their house—each temporary placeholder more of an asshole than the previous one. "Don't know about that," he offered casually, conscious that his bitterness might seep through. "My mother married four times after my dad died. I didn't get a lot of fathering out of the deal—just a bunch of guys who liked to remind me who was boss."
Glancing over her shoulder as she gave the chili a final stir, Travis read the flash of concern in her eyes and was warmed by it.
"How terrible for you-" Her expression was cautious. "If you don't mind me saying that."
"No—terrible is a pretty . . . accurate word." Warmed and—bothered, he realized, aware he was beginning to tread unfamiliar ground. Talking family was not something he did. Ever.
"Do you have brothers or sisters?"
As though aware of his sudden tension, MaryJo guided him back to the cheese grater. Relieved to have something to focus on, he got to work. "One half-brother. He's six years younger than me."
"That must be nice." Her back to him, she dove into the fridge for sour cream. "I always wished I'd had a sister."
It should have been nice. Yet, it wasn't. Curtis hated him. Or maybe hate was too strong a word. His younger brother resented him—big time. "With me being so much older, I was able to protect him from most of the . . . unpleasantness—but then I left for college."
"Oh, no." Her eyes clouded with a compassion that sent a strange, twisting ache through his chest. "He probably felt abandoned. Was it bad for him?"
This was dangerous territory, he acknowledged. And he sure as hell didn't know MaryJo well enough to be spilling details of his crappy childhood. Nodding, he shifted his attention to the pots arranged artfully along her windowsill. Who had time to grow their own herbs? "Is that basil on the windowsill?"
Though still not meeting her gaze, he sensed her awareness flare . . . as though she could somehow read the script running through his head. Confusion warred with annoyance over that possibility. Having spent the better part of his adult life building the impermeable wall around himself, he liked it the way it was. He liked it a lot.
"Basil, oregano, cilantro-" Her voice trailed off. "That's something we could chop up." Accepting his abrupt change of subject, he expected censure—or at least curiosity. Yet, MaryJo's smile was friendly as she moved to the window. Selecting one of the pots, she snapped off several green stems.
"I love cilantro in just about anything. Do you like it?"
Accepting the conversational baton she tossed, he was still disquieted, knowing she could sense things about him—things he didn't wish to reveal. "That's the green stuff in salsa, right?"
Smothering a giggle, she raised the cilantro to her nose to hide her smile. "Yes, that would be correct."
Relaxing incrementally, Travis nodded. "I warned you I'm not good at this cooking thing."
One eyebrow quirked. "Do you think you could chop this up for me?"
Matching her smile, his tension dissipated. "Show me how you want it." After several minutes of chopping cilantro and grating cheese, Travis had regained his footing. Thankfully, MaryJo had fallen back on neutral topics. Though relieved, he was surprised by a flicker of disappointment. She was someone he wanted to know better. But, for that to happen, he would have to open up a little. Or—do a better job of faking it. He'd nearly forgotten what it was like to engage in conversation with a woman who wasn't Patrice—or some variation of her. He might have to . . . share things. Because he wanted MaryJo to keep talking. He liked her voice. It was husky and melodic. It was—soothing. "Did you learn to cook for your dad?"
Skillfully transferring his pile of grated cheese into a bowl, she dusted off her fingers. "I'd always liked cooking with my mom, but . . . that skill obviously helped once she was gone." She paused, her eyes reflective. "My mother probably pushed me to learn more—once she knew she was sick. My dad worked so much . . . he was on different shifts. If we'd relied on him, every meal would have been chicken nuggets or mac and cheese."
"I love mac and cheese." Travis sensed her caution with him—as though she instinctively knew she'd floundered onto a topic that made him prickly—and was trying not to do it again. Somehow, her knowing he'd been uncomfortable—made him more uncomfortable. Despite his uneasiness, he forged on. "What's he like—your dad?"
"Sean—is really tough." Though a smile played around her lips, he sensed it wasn't entirely happy. "He raised me to be the same way. If you could picture a cross between a marine and . . . a six-foot raisin." When she smirked over her own description, Travis found himself smiling again. "He was a marine for twenty years, a state trooper for twelve more." She glanced up. "Then he retired and opened his consulting business."
"Wow."
"We had a nice life," she continued. "A . . . no-frills life. And while I always secretly wished I'd had another mother . . ." Her voice trailed off, leaving him wondering whether she would complete her thought.
"I guess you miss what you don't have," she concluded. "Sean wasn't the kind of dad I could have a heart to heart with, but I always knew he had my back—no matter what." Hesitating, she seemed to choose her words carefully. "Maybe he was right-"
"What do you mean?"
She shrugged. "Not introducing a woman who might throw off the balance we'd managed to achieve. As a kid, I always pictured a woman making our life better . . . but maybe I would've felt threatened by her. If my dad liked her—more."
"I guess that's something everyone wonders," he admitted, thinking of his own mother. He and Curtis had come in dead last in the race for her affection. She'd reserved her love—if it could even be called that—for the brutes she brought home. Even between husbands—they'd never been safe. Always hovering one alcohol-fueled glance away from a beating. His heart beating faster, Travis steered away from the dangerous island of memories—unwilling to allow their stain to mar this night. "We don't get the opportunity to replay it—to see how life would've turned out."
Her slender shoulders lifted in a shrug. "I'm just grateful my dad didn't leave me—or give me aw
ay-"
Shock flashed through him. Her remark so wildly off base, it fired his curiosity. "Why would you-"
"That was my biggest fear," she confessed. Her eyes widening, she spoke with the conviction of someone who had lived with an impression for so long it had become reality. "He was always so busy . . . I was always afraid he'd get sick of raising a little girl." Almost as though she'd forgotten him standing there, Travis watched a fascinating trail of memories cross her face. "Every time my aunt visited from California, I just knew he was going to ask her to take me off his hands."
He stilled, realizing almost intuitively that in some way—MaryJo maybe still felt that way. "Though I've never met him, I'm pretty sure your dad would never have done that."
"I made the mistake once—of asking for ballet lessons. I think I was twelve." She shook her head, her chuckle forced. "Sean just . . . stared at me—as though I'd suddenly sprouted two heads."
"Speaking as a guy—I'm thinking he probably just panicked." Travis suddenly hated the vulnerable expression on her face. "We're not really programmed for girly stuff."
Her sigh was filled with longing. "I really wanted that pink tutu."
Relieved when her smile turned impish, he laughed. "Next Halloween—you and me, MaryJo. You'll be wearing the pinkest, frilliest ballerina costume of your dreams." Sexiest, too.
Out on a Limb Page 7