by Ally Blake
Nora shook her head, feeling as if she were coming out of a trance. “When did you get in? Did I miss a call?”
“The decision was made. I got on a plane. I am a man of action. When I want to be.” With that came a smile. A lazy kick at one corner of his beautiful mouth.
Holy moly. Nora was tingling so hard it was a miracle she didn’t set on fire.
“Come in!” she said, a small measure of sense finally finding a way through the fog that had overcome her. “Mi casa, su casa. Literally.”
With that, her mind stuttered back to reality. She remembered the kitchen she was yet to clean before the cleaner came, the clothesline still covered in undies and bras she’d set up by the sunny window in the sunroom out back, the dogs—
The dogs! She’d yet to tell Ben about the dogs. Or, you know, make sure they didn’t live here any more, as per his landlordy stipulations.
She cocked an ear, but couldn’t hear the telltale tick-tick-tick of Pie’s claws on hard wood, or Cutie’s desperate whimpers. Meaning they must be out back stalking a bird or digging up the garden. For now.
Still, what could she do but step back, swoosh an arm towards the hallway like a game-show host, and wait for him to pass?
The scents of the outdoors came with him as he entered the house, jasmine and myrtle, as well as something other. Something warm and rich and wholly delicious. Him.
Nora shut the door and leaned against it, using its solidity to keep her grounded as Ben Hawthorne filled the entrance. With his bigness and his elegance and his delicious scent.
He didn’t go far, the back of his head moving as he seemed to take the place in. Fair enough too. Everything he saw was now his.
Well, not everything. Not her.
“Has the place changed much, since last you were here?” she asked, her voice sounding not at all as if she had lemonade in her veins.
“Not a bit,” said Ben, his voice gruff.
Then he turned, shooting her a quick smile. When his eyes caught on hers, they darkened all the more. All the air seemed to disappear from the room.
Nora’s stomach swooped. Her heart thudded in her throat.
Ben.
He was right there. Within touching distance. Big, overwhelmingly beautiful, smelling like the woods in springtime, and looking at her as if he was rather taken by the fact she was within touching distance too.
“It seems I’ve caught you unawares,” he said, a definite hint of humour lighting his velvety voice.
“What? No. It’s all good. I’m fine. I was just—” She turned, flapped a hand towards the stairs, and her messy bun flopped sideways, a hank landing in her eye. She swished it back over her shoulder and held a hand to her face. “I have pillow marks on my cheek, don’t I?”
“Pillow—?”
“I was napping, see. Yes, in the middle of the day. Because I can. I’m decadent, that way. One of the joys of being footloose and fancy-free.” By habit she held out her arm, showing off her tattoo.
His eyes followed the move, took it in, before they dropped to her bare legs, slid smoothly over her tank top, under which she remembered she was not wearing a bra, then back to her face.
Nora pulled her arm across her belly, suspecting her distraction-by-sunshine move might not have near the same impact it usually did. Not with this man. This astute, acute, grown-up man.
“This is weird, right? I mean, I’m not sure whether I should shake your hand or...” or throw myself into your arms, bury my face in your neck and breathe you in till I faint “...or hug you.”
Ben breathed in, breathed out, and said nothing.
“So it’s just me,” she managed. “Good to know. If you don’t mind, I’ll duck up and get dressed.”
“Not at all,” he said. Though something in his voice made her think he’d prefer she stayed. Just as she was.
Breathless, light-headed, in need of a moment to reset, Nora moved past him, quickly breathing in his warm rich scent—like a sip from a sneaky flask at a dry wedding—before bolting up the stairs.
“Coffee machine is on!” she threw over her shoulder. “I baked, late last night, so there are snacks. I won’t be a minute!”
She hit the bedroom at a run, caught sight of herself in the mirror. Face pink, tiny curls framing her cheeks, eyes overbright. Nipples saying, Why, hello, Ben... beneath her thin white vest.
Oh, good gravy.
She found some floaty linen pants, a loose top, a bra, and hustled them on. She gave her hair a quick finger-detangle before twisting it into a loose side plait. Swiped on a little lip gloss. Tidied up her mascara. Gargled a minty mouthwash—
Then stopped.
She closed her eyes and breathed. Told herself to calm the heck down.
Ben was not here for her. Maybe something she’d said had helped him make the decision to come home, to claim his inheritance, but that was the extent of her involvement.
But he was here. Meaning her promise to Clancy had been fulfilled. She could grab her bag, right now, do the rounds of the neighbourhood, say her goodbyes, and go.
Anywhere. Land where she landed. Find a small patch of space for herself in a share house, or a motel. And start over. Start fresh. No expectations.
But something inside her tugged. Something unfinished.
If she gave herself just a little more time, maybe she could do more. Help Ben make peace with his wonderful grandmother. Then she could walk away from this whole experience, truly free and clear.
Nothing left undone. No regrets. No looking back.
On the way out of the door she spotted Cutie and Pie’s day bed in the corner. She grabbed an old throw from the back of her office chair, tossed it over the dog bed, and headed downstairs.
* * *
Ben didn’t move.
He could hear Nora moving around upstairs—footsteps, drawers opening, taps turning on and off. But he stayed where he stood, his hand gripped tight to the handle of his suitcase, his shoes glued to the floor.
For his senses were being bombarded with memories of his sneakers squeaking on the dark wood floors, counting the blown bulbs in the ancient chandelier, running his hands over the wallpaper every time he walked into the kitchen...
Despite Nora’s belief Clancy couldn’t boil an egg, the galley kitchen, with its wooden doors and dark green marble bench tops, was the room in which Clancy had spent much of her time while he was growing up: cooking Vietnamese salads, American burgers, Italian pasta sauces from scratch. He could almost smell the herbs, even now.
But then his throat tightened, the backs of his eyes gritty, as he remembered the first time he’d braved asking Clancy about his birth parents. She’d gripped the kitchen bench, her eyes haunted, her voice reed thin as she’d asked: wasn’t he happy there with her? Hadn’t she given him a wonderful life?
“Hey,” a voice called from behind him.
Ben flinched so hard his shoulder tweaked.
He took a moment to centre himself before he turned to find Nora at the bottom of the stairs, a hand resting on the railing.
From the moment he’d had his passport in his hand, he’d been on a forward trajectory. Book flight, pack bag, connect with heads of department to make sure they all knew this wasn’t a fortnight in the Bahamas. He was contactable. He was on the clock.
Then suddenly he was standing outside Clancy’s gate. The scent of jasmine near overwhelming. He’d been so cocky, so gung-ho, he hadn’t considered how it might feel to be back, knowing Clancy wasn’t there, and never would be again.
He’d walked to the front door on legs of lead. His arm not feeling like his as he’d knocked.
Then Nora had opened the door, and everything else had just melted away.
A vision of long brown limbs, sleep-softened face, and joy. Behind the surprise, she’d been truly happy to see him. Knowing it, feelin
g it, some deep, lawless part of him had unfurled under the regard of those big blue eyes. At the sight of a bare foot running up and down the back of her calf. The way her breaths had become deep and hard won.
It had occurred to him in that moment, the hold she had over him. The place she had made for herself in his head. If he wasn’t careful, he could get into a lot of trouble for this woman.
“Okay!” she said, clapping her hands, her eyes not quite meeting his. “Let’s start over, get you settled in. As you know, I have the apartment upstairs, but can move my stuff out in five minutes. Or the spare room beside the sitting room is made up. Or there’s Clancy’s room—”
“Spare room is fine,” he gritted out. His old room. Clancy had assured him when he’d first moved out, to go to university, it would be called “Ben’s room” until the end of time. Another equivocation in a long line of them.
“Okay, then,” said Nora.
Her eyes finally found his and a frisson of electricity, of heat, seemed to arc through the air. Connecting them. As if the bond he’d felt from, oh, so far away had been amped up to eleven.
She took an audible fortifying breath as she slid past him, as if that might negate the disrupting crackle of attraction. His feet finally moved, following hers.
When she hit his old bedroom door, Nora nudged it open, then stood in the doorway, her hands tucked behind her, her body at one with the doorjamb.
As Ben moved past Nora, he could feel the air around her shift. Could taste citrus at the back of his throat. Could feel a burst of sunshine on his wrist closest to her.
Thus unnerved, he entered the spare room to find small aeroplanes swooping over dark walls. The ceiling pale grey with fluffy white clouds. The chest of drawers sporting a small collection of stickers saved from the apples he’d eaten over the years. It was a time capsule, after all.
“I’ll leave you be—” said Nora, her voice tugging him back from the brink of near desperate discomfort.
“No,” he said, tossing his suitcase and jacket on the single bed and running both hands through his hair in an effort at keeping himself in the here and now. “I’d rather stay awake. Fight the jet lag. How about a tour?”
“Of the house?” she asked, eyes narrowing. “Trying to make sure I haven’t done off with the family candlesticks?”
“If there are any, you’re welcome to them.”
Her laughter was bright, and big. “Nah. I’m good.”
Nevertheless, she bowed to his request, taking him through the house, telling charming tales about her time there, and using the chance to talk up Clancy: how beloved she was in the community, her wild style, her wicked sense of humour.
The fact that she was as transparent in person as she was over the phone eased something inside him. She was the woman who’d drawn him here. Who he’d hoped to find when he’d stepped up to the front door.
“Keeping in mind you gave me no time to tidy up, you’re welcome to check out the apartment upstairs,” she said, suddenly finding her fingernails fascinating.
“But, Nora, we’ve just met.”
Her gaze lifted to his, a wild spark glinting within the smoky blue. “Ha-ha.” Then she took the first step, then the second, all but daring him to follow. “You’ve already seen my underwear, so I have nothing to hide. Come on up if you dare.”
Ben dared, having to turn his feet at an angle so as not to trip.
Once upstairs her bravado faltered as she quickly swept him past her unmade bed—he felt himself smiling at the sight of the dragonfly sheets. One pillow sat neat and trim at the head of the bed, the other at an odd angle, comforter askew, as if she was a restless sleeper. The bathroom smelt of fruity shampoo, and soft soap, and skin. Of Nora.
“So that’s it! Shall we...head back downstairs?” she asked, her voice lifting at the end, as if there was an alternative.
Ben took the initiative, moving out of the door, but not before sending her a feral grin that made her cheeks pink, even as she rolled her eyes.
Halfway down the stairs, his big feet turned so he didn’t fall off the edge, Ben stopped, turned, checked to see she was coming.
She was. Right behind him. With a loud, “Whoop!” she tried to stop her descent, her hands landing on his shoulders to steady herself.
But gravity had its own ideas.
Ben’s big feet, not having purchase, slipped down a step, or two. Ben grabbed her, spinning so that they didn’t both tumble down the damnable stairs. Even so, they landed awkwardly, her body sprawled on top of his, his face buried in her hair.
In the quiet that followed, Ben did a quick mental scan, assessing the damage to body and limb. Her breath washed over his ear as she huffed out a laugh, sending goosebumps shooting down his neck, and it was all he could feel.
“You okay?” he asked, his voice rough, his hands moving over her shoulder, her skull, swiping her hair from her eyes.
She nodded, her hair sliding through his fingers. Her body shifting, rubbing up against him in a most unfortunate way if he wanted to get out of this with his dignity intact.
“Are you?” she asked.
“I’m fine,” he said, his voice rough.
Her eyes flickered between his before her gaze dropped to his mouth. Meaning she didn’t miss a syllable as he growled, “Now you have me here, what do you plan to do with me?”
Her eyes shot back to his. Wide. Filling with heat, with smoke.
“In Melbourne,” he qualified, shifting a little to ease the feel of a step digging into his back, only to have the length of her slide more fittingly over his. “It’s been your mission to get me here. I’m here. So now what?”
“I can feed you,” she said, her chest rising and falling, eyes once again locked on his mouth. “Or we can head out for a bite.”
“I could eat,” he said. “Either way.”
When her eyes moved back to his, her pupils had all but swallowed the oceans of blue.
“Unless,” he said, barely in control of his own voice any more, “you have something better in mind?”
Later, he couldn’t be sure who moved first, but next thing he knew her mouth was on his. Hot, wet and wanton.
Somehow they moved, till she was lying back on the stairs, Ben over the top of her. Her hands were tugging on his shirt till she found skin. Splaying across his back, kneading, hauling him closer, waves of heat rocketing through his body while his hands were buried deep in her silken hair as they kissed. And kissed. And kissed. No teasing, no testing; wet, lush, exquisite.
When his tongue swept into her mouth and she groaned, he saw stars. Moons. Distant constellations.
As if the weeks of conversation, flirtation, of building sexual tension, of play, of talking late into the night, falling asleep to one another’s yawns and husky goodnights, had been long-build foreplay that had funnelled them here, to this moment.
Then Ben’s knee hit a stair, sending a sharp shot of pain up his leg, right as he heard something of hers hit the wood with a loud thunk. Her elbow, he realised when her head dropped back to lean on the stair and she dragged her arm between them to give her elbow a rub.
Ben shifted, giving her room. Himself too. Even as he found himself in all kinds of discomfort—from bumps and bruises and tightness in the front of his pants. Her eyes were scrunched closed, even as she laughed, the sound husky and raw, and sexy as all get out.
“What were we thinking?” she asked.
“I wasn’t.”
More laughter. He did love her laugh.
The pain eased from her face and her eyes fluttered open. “This kind of thing always looks so hot in movies.”
“Which movies? Tell me their names.”
Nora laughed again, and it felt as if diamonds were exploding behind his ribs. It was ridiculous. Reckless. Irresistible. His fingers of his right hand were near enough to her wild
braid, he let them get lost in a loose curl before giving it a light tug.
Then her knee shifted, sliding between his legs, making contact with a gentle insistent nudge. Before he had the chance to draw breath her body followed, undulating into him, all soft curves and bumptious invitation.
It was enough to bring him back to reality.
Giving her one last smile, he carefully pressed himself to standing then held out a hand to help her do the same.
She took his hand and curled herself upright. Standing two steps above him, she was nearly eye to eye. This woman, a walking, talking peril.
“I knew these stairs were a danger. I’d asked Damon to look into my liability in case anything happened.”
“This what you had in mind?”
He’d not had any of this in mind back then. Not an unplanned trek to Australia. Not facing Clancy’s legacy. And certainly not Nora Letterman.
She reached out and tugged the neckline of his shirt back into place, her small light hands running over his chest. Then she grabbed a hunk of shirt and tugged him towards her.
Her vivid gaze remained glued to his. Her tongue darted out to wet her top lip before her teeth dragged over the plump lower lip. Slowly, incrementally closing the gap; this time, giving both of them the chance to decide if this was a mistake.
By the time her lips met his she was trembling. Hell, maybe it was him.
Either way, if their first kiss had been an explosion of flint and steel, this was a slow, soft exploration. Her lips dragging over his. Again and again. Finding where she fitted best. His arm slid around her waist, bringing her closer, as if in slow motion; so that when her body finally lined up against his he could almost feel the house sigh in relief.
Eons later, when she pulled back, her eyes were closed. Ben turned her till her back was against the wall; his hand braced beside her head, determined not to let the stairs, or gravity, get the best of him.