by Locklyn Marx
“That’s for the jury to decide,” she said ominously, hoping she sounded like she knew what she was talking about.
He shook his head and drove the rest of the way to her house in silence. When they pulled into her driveway, Lindsay reached over her bad right hand and opened the door with her left.
When she got to the front porch, she could feel him watching her from the truck, just waiting for her to struggle so he could swoop in and save her. Well, he was going to be disappointed. She didn’t need anyone to save her, least of all Chace Davenport.
When she finally got inside, she threw her purse on the kitchen table and then collapsed onto the couch. Suddenly, she was exhausted. The day had taken its toll. She knew she should call her mother and tell her what had happened — she had three missed calls from Sylvia on her cell phone.
She would rest her eyes for one minute, she told herself, and then she’d call her mom.
But a few seconds later, Lindsay was fast asleep.
Chapter Six
When Chace got back to The Trib, he found the place in complete disarray. The Boston Ladies for the Preservation of Cape Cod may have thought of themselves as fancy and refined, but they’d made a huge mess. Dirty dishes littered the tables, napkins had been tossed on the floor, and tables had been haphazardly pushed together and never returned to their rightful places.
It was going to take hours to get everything cleaned up, so Chace cancelled the dinner service and spent the evening with Chuck, the two of them working to put the restaurant back together.
When he finally got home, Maximilian was waiting for him on the porch, an accusing look on his face. Chace dropped the leftover steak he’d brought as a peace offering into the dog’s bowl and gave him a scratch behind the ears as the dog gobbled up his dinner.
Chace opened the fridge and surveyed the ingredients. The pickings were slim, but he did have some chicken breasts, and he always kept the pantry well-stocked with pasta. He decided to make himself a chicken parm. It was a dish his father had taught him to make, a recipe his dad had been extremely proud of, even though they weren’t Italian and his dad owned a seafood restaurant.
He began to bread the chicken, looking out the window toward Lindsay’s house as he cooked. Her lights were off. She was probably sleeping, exhausted from the events of the day. He hated thinking about her over there, alone in that house, unable to use her arm. What if she fell again?
It didn’t matter, he told himself. She’d made her feelings toward him perfectly clear. And honestly, it was better that way. For her and for him.
He finished breading the chicken, fried it briefly on each side, and then popped it into the oven. He took a shower while it was baking, letting the hot water beat against his shoulders as he tried to wash off the day.
He was back downstairs and had just finished draining the pasta when he looked out the kitchen window.
He peered closer. What the hell? Surely he couldn’t be seeing what he thought he was seeing. Lindsay was outside in her pajamas, heading down the driveway toward her car.
***
Lindsay had woken up to find the house dark. Her wrist was throbbing, her throat was dry, and her face felt grimy. She desperately needed some ibuprofen, a hot shower, and some food.
Unfortunately, she didn’t have ibuprofen or food.
There was a gas station a couple of miles away, up on the main road, and she knew she could probably pick up what she needed there.
She was pretty sure that when the doctor said she wasn’t supposed to use her wrist at all for forty-eight hours, it included driving. But what was she supposed to do? She needed food. She needed painkillers. And it was only a few miles. What could happen?
So she shrugged into her coat, grabbed her purse and keys, and headed outside.
She’d opened the car door and was about to slide into the driver’s seat when a hand reached out and slammed the door shut.
She whirled around, expecting an intruder. Instead, she found Chace.
“Oh, God,” she said, sighing. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“No, what the hell are you doing?” He moved around her, so that his body was between hers and the car. “Didn’t the doctor say you weren’t supposed to be using your wrist?”
“That’s none of your business.”
“Oh, really?” He crossed his arms over his chest. “It’s none of my business that you threatened to sue me for pain and suffering a few hours ago, and yet now you seem perfectly fine to just start gallivanting around in your car? That seems like something the jury would be interested in, don’t you think?”
She glared at him. “I’m not going to sue you, okay? So consider yourself off the hook.”
She tried to move around him, but he shook his head. “No.”
“No?”
“No.”
“No what?”
“No, you’re not going anywhere.”
“You can’t tell me where I’m going.” She went to move around him again, but this time, he put his hands on her shoulders. His grip was strong, and electricity zinged through her. “Lindsay,” he said softly. Her insides melted, her resolve disintegrating.
The way he said her name filled her with an ache. She suddenly had the urge to rest her head against his chest and just let him take care of her. “You’re not going anywhere.”
She nodded, the exhaustion overtaking her out of nowhere. She was too tired to fight, too tired to protest.
His strong arms led her across the lawn and to his house. As soon as the door opened, the smell of something delicious and spicy hit her nose. Her appetite roared to life. She remembered that chicken parm he’d cooked for her all those months ago, remembered it like it was yesterday. She’d always been the type of person who associated memories with food. Cotton candy from family vacations on the Jersey Shore, popcorn from all the movies she went to with her sister Jamie. And now chicken parm would always be connected to Chace, to their night together.
She hadn’t eaten it since.
“You hungry?” he asked.
She nodded, but he wasn’t waiting for an answer. He was already pulling two plates down from the cupboard next to the stove and piling them with pasta. He pulled a tray of chicken out of the oven, slid a breast onto each plate, then topped the whole thing with tomato sauce.
He laid a fork on the side of each plate, then sat down across the table from her.
Maximilian came trotting out from the other room, and licked her hand. Lindsay gave him a pat on the head, and he flopped onto the floor and did a happy sigh.
She took a bite of the food, and just like that, she felt her energy coming back.
The tomato sauce was spicy and comforting, the pasta and chicken perfectly cooked.
Chace was staring at her, watching her, making sure she ate. Being under his gaze like that made her nervous, so she glanced around the kitchen. It was a direct contrast to the kitchen in his old apartment.
That kitchen had been all old wood, refinished cabinets, and warm orange paint.
This kitchen looked like it had recently been renovated. The stainless steel appliances sparkled under the recessed lighting, the dark cabinets were set off by sleek granite countertops, and the floor and backsplash were a slate gray tile. It was very modern, exactly like something you’d see in a magazine.
“Nice kitchen,” she said in an effort to make conversation.
“Thank you. I redid it when I moved in.”
“Was it a fixer-upper?” She was interested, mostly because she knew that at some point, the kitchen in her little house was going to need to be ripped out and redone.
He shook his head. “No. I just didn’t like the look what was in here.”
“Oh.”
They sat in silence for a few minutes. Lindsay wasn’t sure what to say, how to act, what to do. Part of her wanted to get out of here, hated herself for being weak enough to agree to let him take care of her like this. But the other part, the part that se
emed to be winning right now, didn’t care about any of that, just wanted to prolong any interaction she was having with him.
“How’s your wrist feel?” Chace asked.
“It’s a little sore,” she admitted.
He nodded, then got up from the table, returning a minute later with a bottle of ibuprofen.
“Take it home with you,” he said.
She opened her mouth to protest, but he gave her that look again, the look that said he wasn’t messing around.
“Okay.”
“How long do you have to wear the splint?”
“Two days. Then I can take it off and start using my wrist for short periods of time. The doctor said I should be completely better in a week or two. It wasn’t that serious of a sprain.”
Chace nodded, then stood up and cleared the plates off the table, stacking them neatly in the sink. He crossed the room and pulled a wine glass down from one of the sleek cupboards, poured her a glass of red from a bottle he uncorked, then set it down in front of her.
“Thanks,” she said gratefully. She took a sip of the liquid, letting it slide down her throat and warm her belly. How did he know exactly what she needed, exactly what was going to make her feel better?
“Is your wrist going to get in the way of your writing?”
She shook her head. “No. I mean, obviously I won’t be able to write for a couple of days, but it won’t mess up any deadlines. I’ll just have to do double duty when I’m better.” She shrugged. “Not a big deal.”
He nodded. “Good.” He was sitting on the other side of the table again, still looking at her with that watchful gaze. She took another sip of her wine. Thoughts swirled through her head, mixing together to create a confusing hurricane. He’d kissed her last night. He’d shown up at her house this morning. He’d driver her to the hospital, had taken care of her when she needed it, had fed her and given her medicine. But why?
What did he want from her?
“Aren’t you going to have any wine?” she asked.
He shook his head. “No. I don’t drink.”
She snorted. “Since when?”
“Since I started to have a little problem with alcohol.”
“Oh.” Well, that made things awkward. What was she supposed to do now? Ask him about it? That would be weird. But it was weirder not to say anything, wasn’t it?
She tried to think of a good way to respond, but nothing came to her. She took another sip of her wine.
“You don’t have to be all awkward about it,” he said, rolling his eyes.
“I’m not all awkward about it,” she lied.
“Whatever.” He shook his head. “Anyway, I think you should stay here tonight.”
She almost choked on her wine. “You think I should what?”
“I think you should stay here tonight. You shouldn’t be alone in that house.”
“Chace, it’s a broken wrist, not a broken back. I’ll be fine.”
He shook his head. “That house is a death trap.”
“It’s not a death trap!” she protested. “It has character and charm.” She looked around the kitchen and raised her eyebrows, as if to say, ‘and that’s more than I can say for this place.’
She thought she saw a flash of sadness pass over his face, but a moment later, it was gone.
“You have boxes all over the place,” he said. “All I need is for you to get up in the middle of the night, trip and hurt yourself. I’ll wake up to the sound of you screaming for me to come and rescue you.”
“First of all, I would never scream for you to come and rescue me. I would call someone.”
“What if you didn’t have your cell phone?”
“I’d crawl to it.”
“You can’t move.”
“I’d wait until tomorrow.”
“Why, are you expecting someone tomorrow?”
“Well, no, but – ”
“Exactly,” he said, sounding satisfied.
She shook her head. “Why are we talking about this? It’s not going to happen.”
“You’re right.” He stood up and took her now empty glass of wine to the sink.
“Because you’re staying here.”
He was looking at her with that stare again, only this time, he leaned back against the counter, crossing his arms over his chest. He narrowed his eyes slightly and bit the corner of his lip, like he was trying to decide what to do with her.
She blushed, remembering him kissing her in her kitchen last night, the touch of his fingertips as he’d skimmed her sweater down over her skin.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” she said quietly. The mood in the room had changed, going from light to more serious in what seemed like an instant. Suddenly, she was aware that she was alone here, with Chace, in his house. Her face flushed and her pulse quickened.
“Why?” he asked. He licked his bottom lip. “Are you afraid of what might happen?”
She shook her head. “What would I be afraid of?”
He was next to her in a second, wrapping his arms around her waist, pulling her up and out of her chair. “I don’t know,” he whispered into her ear. His breath was warm against her skin, and she shivered. “You tell me.”
She raised her chin and tried to speak. “I’m not afraid,” she said. But her voice sounded unsure, even to her. “But I have things to do at home.”
This seemed to amuse him. “Oh, yeah?” he asked. “Like what?”
“I need to have a shower.” She knew it was the wrong thing to say as soon as the words were out of her mouth.
“A shower, huh?” He paused, tilted his head to the side, thinking. “I have a shower here.”
She swallowed. Her body was charged with electricity, her breath starting to get caught in her chest. Her heart pounded. She wanted to take a step back from him, but there was nowhere to go – he had her boxed in, the chair behind her.
“I can’t….I mean, I need to use my own shower.”
He put a hand on her wrist, turned it over, inspecting it. Her skin burned where his fingers touched. “You can’t get your wrist wet,” he said. “You’re going to need help.”
She swallowed again, tried to muster up the strength to shake her head. Speaking wasn’t an option. She’d lost her voice, lost the energy to say anything. She took a deep breath and tried to gather her thoughts.
He kept his hand on her wrist, then leaned in closer to her. “Lindsay,” he whispered. “Let me take you upstairs.”
She nodded, and he took her hand.
***
He led her right to the bathroom. Everything was remodeled in here, too — cool marble counters and travertine tile, a free standing shower and a Jacuzzi tub.
He shut the door behind them, then leaned against it.
“I don’t have any pajamas,” she said, raising her chin and forcing herself to meet his gaze.
He shook his head, like he couldn’t believe how silly she was being. Then he came toward her, slowly this time. When he reached her, he pushed a stray strand of hair off her face and then kissed her.
His mouth was warm and sweet. He tasted like danger and excitement, and her mind screamed at her to stop, that he wasn’t good for her, that she was going to regret this. But her body silenced those thoughts, her desire for him growing as the kiss deepened.
When he pulled back, she kept her eyes closed for a moment.
When she opened them, he was turning on the shower. Steam began to fill the room, the hot water beating a steady rhythm against the tile.
“We need to get you out of these clothes,” he said, grabbing the bottom of her sweater. He pulled it up just an inch or two, then pulled her close, his fingers sliding up under the back of her shirt, stroking her bare skin softly.
The air was getting warmer, and the steam from the shower began fogging up the mirror.
“I can’t… I mean, I need to make sure I don’t get my wrist wet.”
“I’ll be careful,” he said. He pulled his own shi
rt off and tossed it on the floor.
His chest and torso were lean, strong, and cut.
He moved back toward her, lifted her arms up, and pulled her sweater completely off. Her bra came next, and he let the anticipation build, unhooking it slowly, letting the cups rest on her breasts for a moment before tugging it down. Her nipples hardened under his gaze.
He racked his eyes up her body, like he was savoring every one of her curves. He kneeled down in front of her, then unbuttoned her jeans and pulled the zipper down with agonizing slowness.
When her pants were finally down around her feet, he bent her knee slowly, pulling her legs out one by one. Her skin flamed under his touch.
His hands moved back up, from her ankles to her calves to her thighs to her hips, his touch warm, his fingers causing jolts of electricity any place he touched her. When he got to her panties, he slid his fingers under the waistband and pulled them down slowly, inching them over her hips and down past her knees.
He hadn’t even really touched her yet, and she’d never been so turned on in her life.
His pants came next, followed by his boxers.
He led her to the shower.
“Careful,” he said, as she stepped inside. “You need to stay out of the spray.”
He took the spot closet to the faucet. She was facing him, her back to the opposite wall. Water pounded down over his back, and droplets bounced and danced around the shower stall.
He grabbed a bar of soap and slid it over her collarbone, his touch soft and gentle.
He continued, moving down over her shoulder, her elbow, her arm. The whole time his eyes were on hers, stoking her arousal. By the time he’d done her other arm and moved to her stomach, she had to bite her lip to keep from moaning out loud.
He dropped and kneeled in front of her, taking his time. The pulsing water from the shower head pounded off his muscular shoulders as he slid the bar of soap up her legs, starting at her feet.
Then he stood up.
“Turn around,” he commanded.
She did as she was told.
He took a bottle of shampoo down from the shelf and squeezed some into his hand. He massaged her hair, letting his fingers push into her scalp. Her body instantly relaxed. The shampoo smelled delicious, like grapefruit and honeydew.