Saving Andi: St. John Sibling Series: FRIENDS

by Raffin, Barbara

  "Got an address?"

  "Just flashes of places," he said, hesitant to mention the bakery goodies for two when he didn't even know what that memory meant.

  She nodded but said nothing more.

  "Maybe there's something you could use the land for without having to sell it," he said, bringing the conversation back to her problem.

  She peered up at him, a sad lift to the corners of her mouth. "You mean like I could throw up a couple cabins and rent them out for hunting season?"

  "Yeah," he said, excitement building through him. "This is hunting country. There're a lot of out-of-staters and downstaters who need a place to stay for a week or two. They'd pay big bucks for even a basic cabin."

  "You're right. But the kind of hunting season those folks come here for doesn't open until next November and the taxes are already past due. I'd also need cash up front to build those cabins."

  The excitement drained from him. But he wasn't giving up.

  "Your land has good elevation, yet is fairly flat. You're on a lake. How about renting out spaces for campers?"

  "Like trailers, pop-ups, and motorhomes?"

  "Yeah," he said, his enthusiasm mounting again.

  She'd stopped peeling and was looking at him with an expression that all but shouted, I need the money now. "And where would those folks with their fancy camping equipment accustomed to amenities get their electricity, running water, and sewage drainage?"

  He expelled a heavy breath. "I see what you mean. Nobody's camping this time of year and there's still cash output upfront. But with a business plan, you could get a loan…"

  "I've been told I'm not a good loan risk."

  "Even if you put up part of the land as collateral?"

  "I didn't want to risk losing the land."

  "Yet now you're faced with selling some it off."

  Her shoulders dropped and she nodded. "Guess I could try for a loan by putting the land up as collateral, but it would only delay the inevitable. I'd still have to pay the loan back to keep the land."

  "You could earn money this summer by offering rustic camping. You could start there and build…"

  "We're next door to the Ottawa National Forest which offers rustic camping."

  "What about a personal loan. Isn't there someone who'd…

  She cut him off with a shake of her head and handed him the half-peeled potato and knife. "If you're determined enough to keep after this topic, I might as well be smart enough to put you to work."

  "I'm out of ideas, at least for the time being," he said, eyeing the bucket of peelings and the potatoes piled in the pot of water. "What are you making with all these spuds?"

  "Pasties," she said, rising and gathering knife, cutting board, and several onions. "Do you know what they are?"

  "I'm not sure. There's something familiar about the word."

  "Given how much you know about our hunting season and morels, I thought you might know pasties."

  He shrugged, watching peelings fall from the blade of his knife, trying to let his mind go free so it might remember.

  "You know what a calzone is?" she asked.

  "Yeah. It's like pizza toppings wrapped up in dough."

  "A pasty looks a lot like a calzone. But the dough is flakier and the filling is usually potatoes, onions, and chopped meat. There're variations, but those are the basic ingredients used back when the wives of miners made them for their husbands to take into the mines for lunch."

  A memory flickered through his brain. "What you're saying about the miners, it sounds…familiar."

  "Good," she said as she stripped skin from an onion. "There's hope for your memory to return yet."

  "I hope so," he said, thinking how much easier he could make things for Andi if he could remember his name and where he'd come from…and whether or not he had the means to help her. He at least had to have a credit rating good enough he could borrow what she needed."

  "Do you have a problem with carrots?" she asked.

  "No," he said. "Why?"

  "I like to grate carrots into my pasties. They pretty much dissolve while cooking, but it adds a vegetable element and adds a sweetness to the pasty without overpowering the flavor of the basic ingredients."

  He nodded, but it was her nearness—their working together that made him long for…domesticity. Odd, since he sensed he'd never spent a lot of time being domestic. Maybe he'd never had a woman like Andi in his life before.

  As soon as the thought came to him, he reminded himself how dangerous it was for her for him to think in terms of a future between them. Best to keep to the topic, which was how to help her out of her cash flow problem.

  "I know you love those trees," he ventured, somehow knowing the Upper Peninsula's value as a lumber producer. "But there's a big market for timber. You wouldn't have to clear-cut the property, just selectively cut."

  She sniffled. He rose and stood at her shoulder, wanting to take her in his arms. But his hands were starchy from the potatoes. Besides, there was that hands off thing.

  "Does it hurt that much to think of cutting any of them?" he asked gently.

  A snort of laughter escaped her. "Geez, Cole. I'm not crying over trees. I'm chopping onions. That's why I'm sniffling."

  "Let's trade jobs for a while," he said, reaching around her for her knife.

  She peered up at him through her watery eyes, holding the knife from his reach. "No sense both of us suffering from the onions. Go back to your potatoes."

  "You sure?"

  "Have you always been this much of a Boy Scout?"

  "Wouldn't know," he retorted through a smirk. "I don't remember."

  She laughed, the sound like a summer breeze across his ears. He could live a lifetime without tiring of that sound.

  No. No future. Keep your distance.

  She eyed his pot of peeled potatoes and said through her fading laughter, "Time for you to learn another mundane skill."

  Setting aside her knife, she plucked a peeled spud from the pot and held it up to him. "These need to be cubed. Small cubes. I'll show you."

  She laid another cutting board on the counter to the far side of the sink from hers, took his knife, and sliced the spud until half of it created a mound of tiny cubes. Handing him his knife, she said, "Let's see you do that."

  He sliced and diced.

  "A little bigger," she said, one breast within brushing distance of his elbow.

  Don't go there.

  "That's more like it," she said. "Keep a few of the cubes I cut on the board for reference until you're consistent."

  Plunking another big pot in the sink next to his board, she said, "Toss them in here as you cube them."

  Then she went back to chopping her onions, several seconds passing before she said, "Select cutting isn't a bad idea. I'll call around and see who's interested in a small job like mine."

  The mood remained light as they brought their chopped onions and potatoes together, layering them with grated carrots and a mix of ground venison and pork in the big pot. She teased him about how gingerly he mixed the filling.

  "I had you wash past your elbows for a reason," she said as she rolled out the dough. "Dig to the bottom of that pot and mix everything good."

  Elbow-deep in pasty filling, he mockingly groused, "How many people are you feeding? There must be ten pounds of filling here."

  "The potatoes alone were ten pounds," she said.

  He groaned.

  "Don't make me come over there and show you up," she taunted.

  "I could roll out dough," he said.

  "I don't think so," she chirped.

  "Really," he said. "This can't all be for us."

  "No. I sell them." With a wink she added, "But don't tell anyone, as it's illegal since I'm not making them in a commercial kitchen and I'm not licensed."

  He laughed. "Maybe you should be making lots more. Raise lots of money."

  "I don't get cash for all of them. Mrs. Niemi trades me her homemade preserves and apple
butter, sometimes baked goods. I owe Art Pakaala a few dozen for the lumber I needed last fall to repair my roof. And John Joki keeps me stocked in honey from his hives as well as eggs."

  "When they're laying," he said, showing her he remembered what she'd said the first time they'd eaten eggs together.

  She smiled almost shyly. "Yeah. They don't lay much in the winter."

  "And you say you're not a people person."

  She shrugged. "They're neighbors I've known all my life."

  "They sound like pretty good neighbors to have."

  She stepped back from the table, revealing ten circles of rolled-out dough. "You got the pasty filling mixed good?"

  "I hope so," he said, drawing his arms from the pot.

  "Scoop up a pile between your hands and put it on one of the circles."

  The pile overflowed the circle. Andi laughed. "You've got bigger hands than me."

  She divided the pile between two circles, dropped a dab of butter on each, and folded the dough over the contents, rolling and pinching a thick seam along the open side, finishing by poking a vent hole in the top.

  "A half of one of your handfuls on each circle of dough should do it," she said.

  They were on their last round of dough circles when he asked if he could try the folding and crimping.

  He pressed too hard with the first one, his thumbs poking holes along the seam.

  "That's one way to vent them," she said, chuckling. "But we'll keep that one."

  "It'll be mine," he said, enjoying how sharing the job—the day had brought a lightness to her. If only life could be this happy, this simple for both of them. But it never could be.

  She mounded a pile of filling onto the next dough circle, dabbed it with butter, and stepped back, offering the sealing of it to him. His first twist tore a hole in the dough. She ducked under his arm, lifted his hands by their wrists and shook them.

  "Let go of the tension," she said. "Stop thinking heavy. Think light touch."

  Her hands were firm yet gentle on his. Damn, she felt good pressed against him, her curves soft in spite of her lean muscling. He tipped his head toward hers as she guided his fingers over the edge of dough, her hair like silk against his cheek.

  "Roll the edges together and pinch lightly," she said, her fingers against the backs of his, teaching him the right amount of pressure.

  She smelled of pasty meat and salt…and something more, something pure woman. The skin where her neck sloped onto her shoulder bared itself as she tipped her head.

  The next thing he knew, he was brushing his lips across that tawny stretch of soft skin. She started, her face turning to his, and his mouth found hers.

  Her lips were smooth and sweet, just as he'd dreamed they would be, her lips parting eagerly to the stroke of his tongue. How they wound up in a full body embrace, their tongues in full play, their hands roving, he didn't know. But he knew what broke them apart.

  In their heated exchange, they bumped the chair on which sat the pot of pasty filling, sending it clattering to floor, the contents now Tuff Stuff's supper. Andi braced herself back against the table, staring at the mess on the floor. "At least it was just a couple pasties worth of filling."

  The eyes she lifted at him were bright, hope-filled.

  He backed away, shaking his head. "That was a mistake."

  The hope died from her eyes.

  "Yeah," she said. "I know."

  #

  She returned from delivering her oven-ready pasties to the smell of cooked pasties. Cole had theirs on the counter covered with a dishtowel.

  "I tested them the way you said to," he said. "They felt done. Looked it, too."

  She glanced at her watch as she strode into the mudroom and hung up her coat. "Yeah, that's about the right time."

  "They've been out of the oven about ten minutes," he called as she washed her hands in the bathroom.

  "Then they should be good eating temperature," she said, emerging from the bathroom, shaking her hands dry.

  He slid two of the four pasties she'd kept onto plates and placed them on the table. "I remembered eating them the minute I smelled them cooking."

  "That's good," she said, sitting in her spot at the end of the table.

  He took his usual seat across from her, the silence stretching until… "I think I should move up to the loft. You need your bed back."

  Translation: Put more distance between us so there's less of a chance we might spontaneously kiss again.

  She could point out they were nowhere near a bed when they had kissed. She could tell him she was as determined as he to prevent another such mistake. But she'd been determined to prevent any such event before it happened, and determination hadn't worked, either.

  "You still have stitches and the steps to the loft are steep," she said instead.

  "The stitches are close to coming out," he said.

  Close to you leaving. Her stomach bottomed out.

  "All the more reason not to stress them," she said. "I'll move to the loft. The only reason I was staying on the couch was because you needed help moving around. Clearly you don't anymore."

  So it was settled. Except, when it came time for Andi to climb to the loft, she stood at the bottom of the stairs thinking about Cole's lips on her neck, about the glide of his tongue along the seam of her lips—about how readily she'd opened her mouth to him.

  About how much she wanted to live in the moment, not fear the consequences…like being hurt when he left. She buried her face in her hands.

  Live in the moment.

  He'll leave. It'll hurt.

  Will it hurt any less by denying yourself what you want?

  An ache throbbed in her chest—an ache so all-encompassing it blocked out everything but the moment.

  She strode into the first floor bedroom, climbed onto the bed, and straddled Cole. "I'm not a good girl, Cole."

  CHAPTER TEN

  Cole stared up at her, his hands clamped over her hips keeping her from moving them.

  "You don't want this, Andi."

  "Yes I do," she said, leaning forward and sliding her hands up under his shirt.

  He sucked breath through his mouth. She planted her mouth over his parted lips, her tongue quick to find his.

  He stiffened, his hands reaching for her shoulders intent on pushing her away. But the exploration of her tongue circling his and the skimming of her palms over his nipples were more than he could resist.

  He slid his arms around her and, for several glorious seconds, nothing existed but their bodies pressed together and their lips and tongues playing a hot, hungry game of need. But the warning shrieking in his brain would not be silenced and he broke the contact of their mouths.

  "We can't do this," he panted out.

  "The hell we can't," she said, rearing back and peeling off her shirt, not bothering with the buttons. "You just lie there and let me do the work."

  "It's dangerous for you," he said, his hands planted once more on her hips.

  She tossed her shirt aside and leaned over him. "I'm no innocent, Cole. You get my drift?"

  "Yeah," he said. "You're experienced. So what? I suspect I am, too. But hurt feelings aren't the danger I'm referring to."

  She yanked the quilt out from between them and settled her crotch over his growing arousal. "This is the only feeling I'm interested in right now."

  She sounded commanding, like she often did when she didn't want to reveal a weakness or her history…or her true feelings.

  He reached up and stroked the side of her face. She closed her eyes and tipped her cheek into the cup of his hand, a softness—a peace spreading over her features. In that moment, he knew hurt feelings were as dangerous as any gun-wielding thug.

  "Andi," he whispered, "I can't stay."

  Her body tensed, but she didn't move.

  "You know I have to leave."

  She lifted her face from his hand, with any ambient light coming from behind her he could see only that she'd opened her e
yes, not what was in them. "I know you'll leave. But you're here now."

  She pulled off her sports bra, baring high, round breasts with dark areolas and erect nipples.

  "Join me in this moment," she said in a low voice as she pushed his tee up and brushed her nipples across his bare skin.

  He groaned, his fingers twitching against her hips.

  "You want to," she said, nipping his earlobe and bringing one breast dangerously close to his mouth.

  "Touch me," she said.

  His fingers twitched against her hips.

  "I know you want to," she said, reaching down, snagging his wrist, and lifting his hand to her breast.

  He shook his head even as his hand closed over her compact fullness, even as his body reacted to the feel of her hard nipple against his palm. Her mouth reclaimed his, fanning the flames she'd ignited in his groin, turning his whole body into a conflagration.

  He had both her breasts in his hands now. His pelvis lifted against the apex of her legs even as warning screamed in his head.

  But with every glide of her pelvis over his, the warning grew fainter and fainter. He pulled his shirt off over his head. She rolled off him long enough to shuck her remaining layers of clothes while he fumbled out of his sweatpants.

  When she straddled him once more, she held a small, foil package in one hand. "Do you want to do the honors or shall I?"

  "You came prepared," he said, taking in the glory of her body.

  She nodded toward the nightstand. "I live prepared."

  He folded his hands behind his head and answered her initial question. "You can do the honors."

  She unrolled the condom down his shaft in two strokes. He gasped, almost undone by just that little touch. But then, he was the guy who'd been aroused just by her sliding a pair of sweatpants up his legs.

  She rose over him, light briefly shining between their bodies.

  "Andi," he all but cried out, taking one last stab at stopping this train wreck of a union. "I can't let you get hurt."

  "Too late," she said, sinking onto him, burying him deep in her hot, wet channel. "I'm already hurt."

  He curled toward her—reached for her to stop her. But she pushed him back flat against the bed, her hips rocking against his, her repeated "touch me" an intoxicant he was helpless to resist.