Forcing herself to release him, she finally stepped back. "H-how did you find him?" Her voice uncomfortably rusty, she kept her gaze away from his.
Travis too, seemed to sense her discomfort. Fisting his hands at his sides, he managed a pained smile. "He found me. When I got home . . . Jack was waiting by the back door. He might have been there before I left, but I wasn't . . . really expecting him."
A gentle giant. Hesitating in her foyer, his expression clearly uncomfortable. Travis probably wished he could shed his coat. She'd bumped the heat up when she wandered in half-frozen. Now, it was a little too warm. And he was probably sweating. But—he was nervous, too. She could tell by the way he stood there. Unsure of himself. Uncertain what to expect from her. Probably grateful he'd had a reason to come back—his apology likely weighing heavy on him. He'd called a dozen times. Despite how he'd treated her, there was a decent person buried under the defensive layers. He could be thoughtful. There was kindness in him. Though they were likely meant to end as friends, MaryJo knew—eventually— one day, he'd make some woman very happy. The qualities were there. Just begging for the right person to nurture them along.
"Once I realized he was out there, I let him in and fed him some tuna . . . and then I drove back over here."
And called her three times. "I was making tea. Would you like a beer?"
"A BEER WOULD BE GREAT." Shrugging out of his jacket, Travis acknowledged the relief pulsing through him. She'd forgiven him. It was there in her eyes—a warmth that hadn't been there the first time. And that hug. Until five minutes ago, he never, in a million years could’ve imagined a hug—a mere embrace from a woman would feel better than . . . anything. Until MaryJo had thrown herself into his arms. And he'd been bombarded with too many sensations to process. Relief—because a hug meant she'd moved past his stupid comments. Heat, because hell—he still liked her. He still wanted her. He loved the way she fit against him just right—like a puzzle piece. Of the thousand in the box, she was the one—meant for that spot. The way she seemed to fill him with a sense of peace. And the strange flicker of happiness. He'd missed her. Besides the regret he'd nursed for the past seventy-two hours, he'd missed her. Their conversations. Her smile.
Entering her kitchen, he watched her extract a bottle from the refrigerator and wondered how he could feel this good when his apology still loomed before him. A mug sat on the counter, steam rising from the spicy, scented tea that made her kitchen smell like cloves and cinnamon.
Their fingers touched when she handed him the beer, sparking a forceful need to tell her everything. "MaryJo- I need to apologize. For my actions the other night. I was—so completely out of line." Shaking his head, he met her gaze. Stared into her beautiful, compassionate eyes and wondered what sort of monster could say such terrible things.
"I'm so sorry. I wish I could explain . . . I don’t know why I acted like such an ass. I was a jerk. I was nasty. And—I'm not normally . . . like that."
"It's alright, Travis," she dismissed. "We get to disagree about things." Her voice was carefully flat. Monotone. "I never meant to lead you on."
"I never felt that way," he choked out, remembering the cruel, condescending comment, insinuating she was wasting his time. "I was—being selfish and arrogant." Suddenly unsure of his footing, Travis fell back on her hinted remark. "This software project is a bear. I'm working crazy hours. I never seem to sleep anymore." Taking a deep breath, he released it slowly, risking a glance in her direction. "No matter what I do, we find new bugs to contend with."
She shook her head. "This wasn’t about your work."
Floored by the possibility she could see through him, he nearly panicked. The icy beer in his hand couldn't hide the fact that his palm was suddenly sweating. "I don't—know what you mean," he lied, stalling for time.
Her expression was probably the same one she used on Jack, when he knocked something off a shelf. That I'm-not-buying-it look. "Your comments were personal. Directed specifically at me. Because something I said bothered you." She shrugged. "You don't believe I'm worth seven dates."
"MaryJo-" Christ—how was she doing this? Could she read his damned thoughts?
"It's okay." She held up a hand. "At first, I took it personally. But, I realized you probably don't think anyone is worth that investment of time." Sipping her tea, she appeared to contemplate the direction of her thoughts. "It's okay to want different things."
"I don’t-" His voice died at her knowing smile.
"We do, Travis." Though her tone was amused, it also sounded final. "I want . . . a relationship with someone," she insisted gently. "I'm thirty-one. I've spent the last decade dating guys who didn't respect me. Who didn't want anything except-" Hesitating, she averted her eyes. "But, I meant what I said. I'm finally at a place in my life where I get to hold out for what I want. I know I'm worth being important to someone."
"You are important." As the words tumbled from him, his chest uncomfortably tight, Travis realized they were actually true. In only three weeks, she had become important to him. She mattered. And he'd pushed her away. Was that why he'd said those things?
"Well, I want it all," she confessed. "I want a guy who—wants to be with me. Who wants to make plans with me," she emphasized. "Someone who thinks I'm worth giving up everyone else." Her fingers trembling with the cost of her frank honesty, she carefully set her cup on the placemat. "Obviously, what we're looking for is very different. But—I think you're a great guy, Travis. I've enjoyed . . . whatever this is. So, maybe . . . we could at least be friends."
Friends? Their conversation was definitely not going down the way he'd envisioned. If there was any hope of salvaging it, he'd better get them back on track or he'd be catapulted into the friend zone—where he'd forever be relegated to . . . what? Watching basketball with her on a Saturday afternoon? Offering advice on every new jerk she started dating? Joining the crowd of guys she palled around with at Charlie's—half of whom probably still harbored the delusional notion they'd get another crack at her? Screw that.
"I don't—I don't want to be your friend, MaryJo." At her startled glance, he closed his eyes and plunged in. "I mean . . . I like you. I like you a lot. And—maybe that bothered me." The words blurted from him in a hot wash of bitterness. So much for the easy explanation. What the hell was he doing?
"I don't understand."
Avoiding her eyes—those all-knowing, compassion-drenched- "I'm not used to . . . relationships. I'm usually-" Releasing a sigh of exasperation, he gave in to the edgy need to move. "I—like being alone. I've always been . . . more comfortable keeping my distance." So people like you can't hurt me, he wanted to add. But—he couldn't admit that. Because what did it mean? Did MaryJo hold the power to hurt him? A swift tremor of unease jolted through him. Maybe letting her go would be better. Accepting the friend offer. Because somehow, in the last ten minutes, he'd morphed from relief to chilling fear. And Travis knew better than to attempt a game in an unfamiliar operating system. Where he didn't hold all the access codes.
"I would never want someone to change who they are." Her perfectly reasonable, rational voice intruded on his increasingly jarring thoughts. "If we were meant to . . . be together, then this-" She waved graceful hands in the space between them. "This thing between us . . . would just sort of work. Naturally."
"This thing was working great until I made those stupid comments," he argued. "I was an ass, MaryJo. I admit it. I got scared and I lashed out at you."
"Scared?" Her eyes registered confusion. "Of me?"
Shock swept through him. "Not—scared." He quickly cut her off. "I . . . used the wrong word," he lied. "I meant sorry. I'm—more sorry than you'll ever know." Why was he arguing this? When it would be safer to walk away? And why was MaryJo suddenly so eager to give it up? When she'd seemed as happy to be with him as he'd been with her.
Damn it, was that it? She made him happy? When he was with her, he experienced a strange sense of contentment. He felt lighter, less serious. Alm
ost . . . as though his problems became less like problems and more like something to laugh about with a friend. Her friendship was something worth hanging onto. Taking a careful step toward her, Travis swallowed the irrational panic threatening to overrun him. And took a chance.
"I'm asking you to forgive me. And maybe . . . you just can't," he admitted. "I said terrible things I wish I could take back." He hesitated, uncertainty creeping in. "I can't fix that. Words . . . aren't easily forgotten." Hell, this was pointless. He still remembered each stabbing, corrosive word his mother had inflicted on him—still saw her derisive face as she'd spewed them.
Shaking off the only image that still held the capacity to derail him, he concentrated on MaryJo. Her honest, expressive face. Focusing on her seemed to settle him. With a shaky breath, he tried again. "I want to be completely clear . . . I think you're worth it. You're unbelievably worth it."
"Worth what?" Her beautiful eyes reflected curiosity.
"You're worth seven dates, Mariela." Why had he thought it would be so hard to say? "Hell—you're worth fifty. And I'm incredibly sorry my cruelty may have caused you to doubt that—even for a minute. I just . . . wanted you to know that."
Relief draining him, Travis felt as though he'd completed a marathon, instead of a rambled, disjointed apology. Days of knotting tension dissolved with his confession, the heavy burden of it lifting from his chest. He would sleep tonight. Finally. Exhausted, he acknowledged her stunned expression. "It's getting late. I should leave."
HE'D NEARLY MADE IT to the door before MaryJo shook free of the paralysis his speech had caused. Hurrying after him, she stumbled, wincing when her ankle buckled. "Ow." Travis stopped, one arm already in his jacket sleeve.
"Are you—limping?" He stilled. "Are you hurt?"
"No," she dismissed, still reeling over his confession. "I fell. There was a car-"
"What car?" He yanked his arm from the sleeve. "Let me see."
"I’m fine." Had he actually said she was worth fifty dates?
"Did he hit you?" Travis dropped to his knees and rolled up her jeans. "It’s a little swollen."
"No." She frowned, trying to remember. "Almost," she clarified. "He'd circled the block a few times. Kept going by me. Then, he skidded on a patch of ice." She closed her eyes on a sigh as he gingerly examined around her ankle bones. "When I jumped out of the way, I fell over the curb."
"Jumped?" His hands paused. "How close was this?"
"Travis, I’m fine. I just twisted my ankle."
He rose to his feet, concern in his eyes. "You should get some ice-"
"Travis—wait." Suddenly tongue-tied, she hesitated. "I . . . thank you. For—what you said-" More than anything, she just wanted to hold him—to absorb his comforting strength. To erase some of the naked misery still visible in his eyes. The next time they met, they'd be back on equal footing, masks safely in place. But now, they were both vulnerable. His expression was both hopeful . . . and guarded. Travis had exposed a few truths he likely would have preferred not to admit.
Slipping into his arms, she was swamped with relief when they closed around her, his jacket sliding to the floor as he held her against him. They stood in her foyer, locked in the embrace for endless seconds, both seeming to need reassurance from the other. Raising her head from his chest, she sought his lips. Travis met her halfway, his mouth shattering her with his warmth. How could she think he was cold? Dizzy with the rightness of his lips against hers, she trembled in his arms and felt them tighten around her. This was what she needed. This was what she wanted. So desperately. "Travis-"
Reluctantly, he raised his head, his eyes bright with heat. With a shivering jolt of pleasure, she acknowledged he still wanted her. "I should go."
His gravelly voice rasped over her sensitized skin. "Maybe . . . you should stay here."
Releasing a ragged sigh, he rested his forehead against hers in the dimly lit foyer. "No, Mariela, I can't. If I do, I'm going to have you," he promised. "And it's too soon."
"It's not," she protested. His mouth nipped at her lips, driving her slowly, methodically out of her mind.
"I want you." His blunt statement had her swaying against him. "I've wanted you since I carried you into my house. Since I held your beautiful body under that shower," he confessed, his lips still nuzzling hers. "I've wanted you since I watched you sleeping on my couch."
If it were possible, his words were turning her on even more than his mouth. Even more than his oh, so capable hands, first grazing her breasts before cupping them, stroking her nipples into maddening, throbbing peaks. Leaning into him, MaryJo moaned with the need for more. So much more. "Please, Travis," she urged, her voice a rasp as she fought the awakening desire strumming through her.
His shudder told her more about his control than any words could. "I want to prove-"
"You don't need to prove anything." Her denial was swift. "It's over. I've forgotten it."
His slow smile acknowledged her passionate words as he tugged her robe back into place. "While I'm grateful you've forgiven me, I need to . . . prove to you I can wait. That I don't mind waiting," he emphasized.
"But, I want to prove you don't need to." Stumbling over her explanation, she sought the words that would clarify what she was feeling. "I like you, Travis. And I've wanted—hell, I would have broken my seven-date-rule the other night." Her confession made her feel awkward. "But you made me so furious, I ended up storming off instead."
Loosening his clasp, he chuckled. "For a minute—I thought you were going to throw your drink in my face."
"It crossed my mind," she admitted. "But that's not . . . who I am."
"No—it's not." His eyes held hers as he trailed a finger down her face. "You are . . . so special."
"Your suit looked really expensive." Restless against him, she held a glimmer of hope she could change his mind. Her fingers wandering over the buttons of his shirt, she paused, hearing his quick intake of air. "I would have hated ruining it." Raising up on her toes, she planted a kiss on the corner of his mouth. When he captured her bottom lip, tugging it methodically with his incredibly adept teeth, she shuddered against him. "Please, Travis. Let's—rethink this."
"Tell me why, Mariela." His voice was a silky, whispered caress against her ear.
"Why what?" Tilting her head, she allowed him better access to her throat, where he pressed his lips to the exquisitely sensitive spot she hadn't known existed before he’d come along.
"Why do you force yourself to wait?" When she stiffened against him, he soothed her shoulders. "No judgment—I'm just curious, that's all."
"I haven’t had sex in a while," she admitted. "I'm not even sure I have condoms here."
"Why not?" His voice held interest. As in—how could she not have a stockpile in her bathroom—like he probably had.
"The last few times—I didn't feel so hot about myself afterward." If her hormones hadn't still been raging, perhaps she would have handled his question more gracefully—but less honestly. His surprised expression didn’t sit well either, merely confirming what she’d suspected about his place. "It wasn't the guy's fault. It's just me." Shrugging, she ignored the embarrassed heat creeping into her face. "I need to think the other person feels something for me. That I'm not . . . just a stranger he's pretty much forgotten the next day. Even if it's not true in the long run . . . I have to at least believe it when I sleep with him."
"Good." Travis’ quiet comment, as he played with the lapels of her robe surprised her. Shivering now that the throb of passion dissipated, he tugged her against him, stroking her arms to warm her.
"Why is that good?" Though he seemed to be handling rejection well, MaryJo was grumpy. She’d waited forever to have sex, and now that she finally wanted to have it—desperately wanted to have it— with an amazing, gorgeous man—the thought of not having it was sort of devastating. Who knew when he’d show up again? There was a high probability he’d vanish. And this time it would hurt so much worse.
"I li
ke that you’re so choosy." Lifting her ponytail free of her robe, he kissed her. Gently this time, without the heat of a few minutes earlier. "I like that you chose me, Mariela."
"A lot of good it did me."
Despite their mutual frustration, Travis chuckled as he bent to retrieve his jacket from the floor. As though irresistibly drawn, his mouth traveled to her throat. "I'm going to last, Mariela." His whispered vow sent tingles of pleasure dancing along her nerve endings. "I'm going to drive us both crazy."
"Why?" Her question ended on a ragged groan as his hands grazed her body, leaving her skin hot, prickly and frustrated in his wake.
He hesitated. "Because I don't want there to be a shred of doubt that I respect you. I want to try something I've never done before. And I want to try it . . . with you."
"Damn you, Travis." Giving up, she straightened the collar on his jacket. "Can I at least see you tomorrow?"
After one last, amazing, frustrating, lingering, knee-weakening kiss, he released her, his smile unsteady. "I could stop by after work? Maybe we could have dinner? Or . . take a walk? Hell—anything, really."
Mesmerized by the hopeful gleam in his eyes, she nodded. It was an expression she'd never seen before, as though he'd stumbled down an unfamiliar path, unsure exactly where it would lead—but willing to continue the journey. "We have basketball practice tomorrow night."
"I'd forgotten." He smiled. "I’ll pick you up?"
When she nodded, he moved for the door. "It will be worth the wait, Mariela. Trust me on that."
When she finally closed the door behind him, MaryJo sagged back against it. Travis was completely, positively, absolutely right to take it slow, she acknowledged. Because, somehow, some way . . . she'd managed to fall in love with him in the space of only three weeks.
"SO, YOU still haven't slept with him yet?" Julie questioned her, one eyebrow raised.
Reaching for her wine glass, MaryJo gulped a rather large sip. "No. He's taken my seven date theory and completely run with it." Her frustrated expression must have been comical, because Alyssa burst out laughing. At least Jules had the decency to hide her smile behind her napkin. "Yeah, it's hysterical."
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