by Stacey Lynn
I still can’t believe all the rustic furniture in his own condo and in Eleanor’s house was made by him.
It explains why his hands are strong, rough looking, with calluses on his palms and fingertips, a roughness I feel whenever he touches me. He doesn’t have the hands of a man who spends his life behind a desk, issuing orders.
He’s passionate about building things with his own two hands, and the fact that the furniture he makes is rustic, not elegant with fancy scrolls like a queen’s throne, keeps making me smile so much my cheeks hurt.
Caitlin’s comment about us not being that much different than I think we are makes more sense now.
Corbin Lane is letting me in, and he’s spent most of the drive talking to me about his history with Trey and Caitlin.
He’s just finished telling me of the night they met, Trey and Corbin encountering Caitlin in the stairwell of a dorm building. The guys were leaving a party, drunk and stumbling, but Corbin claims they sobered up as soon as they saw another guy with his hands and mouth all over Caitlin. He’d shoved up her skirt and had ripped her panties, which were tossed to the floor. He’d been trying to rape her.
She was bleeding from her cheek, clawing at the guy, trying to push him away. Later, she had told them he hit her, multiple times, in order to force her into the stairwell.
Since then, they’ve become her protectors against other assholes.
“This makes my heart hurt,” I whisper, rubbing fruitlessly at the ache in my chest. Poor Caitlin. I can practically feel her pain, even though this happened over a decade ago. “Is that why she’s told me she’s not interested in a relationship?”
“Probably. Don’t let her happy-go-lucky craziness fool you, either. She still needs help for it. Trey spends more time with her than I do and says she still suffers from nightmares.”
I turn to him. Tiny stress lines fan out at the edges of narrowed eyes. A muscle jumps in his jaw. She’s definitely not the only one not over that night.
“Is that why you bought her a place in your building?”
He flinches. “She needed help, but it wasn’t just that. The guy who attacked her was the grandson of a man her family knew—a CEO of a pharmaceutical company. When she went to them for help, they not only didn’t believe her, they told her if she pressed the issue, they’d take away her trust fund and kick her out.”
Jesus. Rich people were evil.
“So did she press charges?”
“No. She did tell her parents to shove her trust fund up their asses, though.”
That sounded like Caitlin.
“You’re a good man. Caitlin’s lucky to have men like you and Trey in her life.”
I reach for him as he shakes his head, an embarrassed look on his face. Why would he want to hide how good of a man he is? Why is it difficult for him to admit he’s a decent man?
“Corbin?” I ask, when he doesn’t say anything. My hand settles on his thigh. Hard muscles tighten beneath my gentle touch.
Seconds tick by with him still tense beneath my hand when his hand lands on mine. He covers my hand with his warm palm and squeezes firmly.
“Thank you.”
His voice is thick with emotion, but I don’t press him further. Something tells me Corbin grew up in a house where affirmation wasn’t freely handed out, only expectations and rules. Perhaps he’s simply not used to being seen for who he is, but I’m seeing him. Clearly.
And everything I see makes me like him, makes me want him more.
—
Since it’s dark when we arrive at Eleanor’s, floodlights and solar lights provide the only illumination for the beautiful landscaping around the front of her house and the detached garage. It feels almost creepy, all that black surrounding us, shadows from the rustling shrubs and ornamental cherry trees that have long since blossomed dancing along the mansion’s rock and brick facade.
Corbin pulls into the garage and turns off the engine. I haven’t been in here yet; the last time we were here he kept his car in the drive out front, and I’m not surprised to see three other vehicles taking up space in the garage bays.
The one that surprises me the most is an old black Ford Bronco, mud all over the rims and tires, splattering up to the windows, rust visible beneath the mud. It’s antithetical to everything else Corbin owns or drives, considering he whipped us out here in his Mercedes that’s now been fixed, but something tells me that it’s his, and that he loves it.
My heart softens further. The Bronco alone reminds me of growing up in Tennessee, going mudding on the weekends, high school parties on farm fields, sitting in the back of pickups and rusted-out SUVs with their tops popped and dancing around a campfire.
Caitlin’s words again flicker through my mind and this time they’re harder to push away.
What if we’re not as different as I thought we might be? What if despite his millions and inheritance and everything else the public knows about Corbin, something between us could actually work?
Butterflies swarm my stomach.
“Do you want to go see my workshop now or wait until it’s light out?”
I jump at Corbin’s voice, lost in fantasies and imaginations and hope of things that aren’t meant to be, and turn to him. “I want to see the workshop.”
He chews his lower lip, his uncertainty endearing him to me further.
Damn it. I’m falling for him. Hard and fast, and there’s no denying it.
Everything I learn about him pulls me closer to him, forces me under his spell.
“Okay then.” He nods once. “Let’s go.”
We get out of the car and I meet him at the back of the garage, where he’s digging through drawers on a shelving unit. He pulls out two flashlights, checks them to make sure they work, and hands one to me.
“We should have a lighted path to the barn, but just in case.”
“Thanks.”
I follow him through the garage’s back door, waiting while he hits a button to close the garage door. The noise echoes into the night as we head out on a paved path.
Last time I was here, I stuck to the house and back deck by the pool. I didn’t even know there was a building like this out here, it’s so far from the house. While we walk, I sweep my flashlight back and forth, trying to see as much as possible, but it’s all black beyond the glow.
I hear waves pounding the rocks in the distance, and coupled with the wind rustling through the trees, bugs chirping, and the occasional owl, my pulse quickens, lighting up my nerves and senses.
“It’s so calm out here,” I say, my voice just above a whisper, as if more sound would disrupt nature. “Peaceful and yet alive.”
Corbin glances down at me, and in the muted light, I can barely make out the twinkle in his eyes, the whiteness of his teeth as he smiles.
“When I was a kid, I used to beg Eleanor to bring me out here every weekend. Even through high school and college, as soon as I could get away from the city or campus, I couldn’t wait to be out here.” He raises his flashlight, lighting up a grove of trees I can barely make out in the distance. “Spent hours in the trees out there in the night, climbing them and sitting at the base of them when I was older. When Grandpa was still alive, he built me a tree house I used to beg them to let me sleep in.” He sighs, his chest expanding and falling, and keeps walking. “Always thought being out here was as close to heaven as you can get.”
“I don’t think you’re all that wrong. I was thinking of all the times I spent in the farm fields, wandering the creek banks when I was a kid. There’s something special about being alone with the sounds of nature.”
It sounds cheesy, and I turn away so he can’t see my embarrassment at saying something so inane, yet he makes a grunting sound, and I know it’s one of agreement.
We reach the barn, walking the rest of the way in silence, and I keep my flashlight on the door’s locks as Corbin digs keys out of his pockets.
He opens the door and turns to me. “This shop used to be my grandp
a’s. I’m warning you now it’s a mess. And it’s not like there’s anything overly special—”
“Corbin,” I say, cutting him off kindly. “I’m pretty sure I’ll like whatever it is you show me in here. You don’t have to be embarrassed.”
He scoffs, flicking on a light switch, and the barn lights up. “I’m not embarrassed.”
Sure he’s not. He fidgets with his keys, takes the flashlights, and turns them off, setting them by the door, but I’m barely aware of his presence.
I wander inside, my eyes skipping and dancing over everything I see, unable to focus on one particular thing.
This isn’t just a workshop of a man with a hobby, this is the home of someone who thrives and lives on creating.
The smell of cedar and pine and fresh wood invades my senses. It’s beautiful, sweeter than I’d imagine, but it explains why he always smells like he’s taken a walk in the woods.
He’s also a complete liar. I turn back to him and smile, walking farther, my hand outstretched, fingertips grazing along the unfinished wood stacked before me. “This is spectacular.”
His place isn’t messy, it’s cluttered and filled, but not messy at all. The floor is swept clean, plastic garbage cans near one wall, filled with wood chunks and shavings, and two brooms stacked neatly by them. There are rows of furniture in different stages of construction, some stained, some not, some with hardware, some without. Barn-style wood doors are propped against one wall in different designs.
I am in complete awe of what he’s doing, what he builds. Most are the similar farmhouse, rustic styles I’ve seen scattered here and there in the home here as well as his own. But there are also other designs, with elegant scrolls, and rich, sparkling clean finishes on them, some with marble tops. Dressers and tables, along with chairs, are elegant and fancy.
And in one corner of the pole barn is a living room, set up completely with a rocking chair, a worn rug on the floor, and a television, along with a kitchenette.
The only mess in the entire place is from a few random beer bottles left on worktops and by the sink in the kitchenette.
I’ve seen photos of Eleanor Lane, a petite and thin woman with beautifully silvered hair that rested right on her shoulders. Until the day she died, she was gorgeous, refined, and yet had a kind smile to flash for the cameras.
I can see her, imagine her now, sitting in the rocking chair and possibly a reading book or doing a crossword puzzle, keeping Corbin company amid the sounds of saws and sanders.
Tears fill my eyes and I blink them away.
“You’re incredibly talented.” My voice is thick, choked with emotion. I continue wandering down an aisle that has different kinds of saws I don’t know the name of, but it’s not important.
Everywhere I look shows Corbin’s passion, his stamp. My heart thunders against my rib cage at the overwhelming sensation of seeing the truth of who he is.
He’s not suits and tuxedos and paparazzi photos. He’s beer and Broncos and building incredible furniture with his own hands.
“What do you think?” Corbin asks, and I jump at his voice.
I’ve been so lost in my thoughts, in the weight of what he’s showing me, allowing me to see and know about him, I didn’t hear him walk closer. Now he’s at my side, his hand drifting over the same tabletop I’m petting like it’s a newborn baby.
“It’s all so beautiful. I can’t believe you make all of this. How did you start?”
It almost makes me sad that he sells it. All of his pieces, displayed in strangers’ homes, perhaps not being taken care of, makes my heart hurt.
He clears his throat and I face him, resting my hip on the table. “Whenever I would come here, I would spend time out here. My grandpa helped build this house for Grandma. He died before I really knew him, but afterward Eleanor would bring me here and as I grew older, it became my hobby.”
His emotion is so thick in his voice, his pride and love for his grandparents creates a beautiful ache in my chest. I change the subject before my own emotion overcomes me.
“I take it business is doing well, then?”
It’d have to be for him to take off so early just to come out here for a few hours.
I glance at him once I’ve blinked back my tears.
He nods slowly, gaze roaming around the vast workroom. “I’m having a hard time keeping up with orders.”
Questions flood my mind. How does he do it? When? Not why…the why is obvious. This is in his blood, somehow, necessary to him.
“How—”
“Caitlin takes all my orders. Handles the social media pages. She usually comes out every month and takes photos of everything new I’ve built or orders I’m working on.”
“But—”
And it’s like he can read my mind, because he keeps talking.
“I don’t really give a crap about Lane Holdings. I’ve always known I’ll have to run it someday, when I have to, and I’ll put my time in doing what I have to do there until then, but I’d give anything to be able to throw it all away for this. This land, this house, this town…this life.”
God. Tears I fought back earlier reappear and I can’t stop them.
I sniff, try to hide the overwhelming emotion, but it’s useless. Like he can read my mind, he knows I’m crying.
He turns to me, his hand cupping my cheek, and I freeze. It’s cool in the barn, but his hand is warm, on fire. His thumb brushes over my cheek, swiping away tears.
My chin trembles. He’s just shown me a vision of a life, of everything I’ve wanted. A simple life. A good one.
And it will only be mine temporarily. God. How will I walk away in two years from this man without leaving my shattered heart in Cannon Bluffs?
“You have to stop crying. I can’t keep up.”
His smile is soft, focused on my cheeks and tears constantly streaming down my face.
A burst of laughter escapes me and I try to pull back, give myself space, but he doesn’t let me go. “Why are you crying? Teagan?” His hand is at my neck, fingers at the back, thumb beneath my jaw, tilting my chin up so I’m forced to look him directly in the eye. “My idea stink so bad it brings tears to your eyes?”
“No. It’s beautiful. The perfect life.”
He blinks, whether stunned by my honesty or by the emotion in my voice, I don’t know. But everything around us freezes. The crisp air in the large barn simmers. Tension crackles, electrifying my flesh where he’s touching, and before I can think, before I can move or do the right thing—the smart thing—and get the hell out of here, away from him and his touch and his fantastical visions and creations, he yanks me toward him, seals his mouth on mine before I know he’s kissing me.
I relent as soon as my brain’s circuit kicks back online, hands sliding to his waist, his back, everywhere I can get a grip on him as he presses his mouth deeper against mine, sliding his tongue against my lips until my mouth opens, welcoming him.
And God, do I welcome him. My body is flush against him, and this kiss is so much more than what we shared in the car the other night.
He tastes like a bowlful of chocolate the day after you start a diet. So bad for you. So absolutely scrumptious. His scent of wood and hard work invades my senses and I’m lost to him. Lost in the feel of his hands on my neck and at my back, holding me to him, pressing against me.
“Corbin,” I gasp, pulling back only to catch my breath.
His hands move to my waist. He lifts me, sets me on the table, then his mouth is back on mine, my knees spreading until he pushes his body against mine, his hardness grinding against my center.
Good God. I can’t help myself. My hands dig at his shirt, pulling it from the waistband of his jeans and sliding beneath the thin, soft fabric until I meet hot, muscled flesh.
I swallow his pleased grunt.
I’m burning, twisting and unraveling, and I can’t stop myself from shamelessly rocking against him. Showing him my need.
His hand drops from my waist to the waistband
of my black pants I still have on from earlier, slides beneath my silk top, and the coldness of the fabric, the warmth of his flesh, are a contradiction that sends me into overdrive.
I’m panting, gasping for breath and for him, and when his hand brushes over my bra, his thumb dancing over my hardened nipple, I whimper.
“Please, Corbin.”
I need more. I need him to make me come, to unleash the spiral of pleasure quickly growing, and I move to show him exactly what I’m seeking. My hand slides from his back to his front and I cup his hard erection, and holy cow is it large, thick. The bulge is obvious, pressing tight against his thigh and denim. I run my hand along the ridge, pressing and moving to the button of his jeans to set him free when he stops his ministrations at my bra.
And then he’s gone.
Ice cold space and air he’s suddenly put between us falls over me like a blanket. I open my eyes and catch his gaze.
Only to be met with a look of complete regret and disappointment.
Chapter 16
Corbin
I have never had a woman who consumes me so completely, so quickly, as Teagan does. And I can’t believe I’ve just broken from our kiss, from the feel of her body against mine, beneath my hand or the way she so expertly massaged my cock through my jeans. But I don’t want her like this.
I don’t want her on a night of pent-up emotion that can only lead to regret.
I want her when I can lay her out on my bed, when there are no questions of what’s so rapidly building between us it feels impossible to keep up.
I want her, all of her, when she’s mine.
“Teagan.” I reach for her, but she jumps off the table I will never look at the same way again. Pushing down her top, she doesn’t meet my eye, and when I step toward her, she jumps out of my way. “Let me explain, please.”
Her laugh is harsh and brittle and I cringe. Let me explain. It’s exactly what Drake said to her last night.
Let me explain is what I started to say before she responded with, “How many men do I have to listen to explain why they decide it’s okay to treat me like crap?”