“Well, you’re one up on me.”
He stared at her for a moment, trying to reign in the doubt and uncertainty threatening to make him blow. He failed. “No, I haven’t asked my kids what they think. Why should I? They’re grown with lives of their own. I’m almost fifty years old and don’t have to ask permission.”
“Well, I’ve got four years on you, buddy, so I shouldn’t have to ask permission, either.”
Bram reared back, his jaw dropping in disbelief. “You do? You’re fifty-three? Fifty-four?”
She gaped at him. “That’s the part you’re latching onto?”
“You don’t look older than me.” A slow smile fought its way through his confusion. “You sure as hell don’t look like any fifty-year-old woman I’ve ever known.”
Her eyes narrowed to slits. “Is that supposed to be a compliment? Because, if it is, it sucked.”
He shook his head with a chuckle. “You’re a cradle robber.”
“Bram.”
Lynne slapped his arm and he convulsed with laughter. “A dirty old lady.”
Her eyes grew round as saucers. “Oh. My. God.” She buried her face in her hands.
He lunged across the seat, wrapping his fingers around her wrists to pull her hands from her pink cheeks. “Good Lord, who knew older women could be so sexy when they’re all hot and bothered?”
“Let me hit you again.”
Another laugh bubbled up. “Yes, please, ma’am.”
She bared her perfect teeth at him. “I hate you.”
He let his foot slide from the brake, and the car crept forward. His fingers slid over the smooth leather covering the wheel. He pressed them into the molded grips to keep from reaching for her. Trusting that her fancy ride must have some kind of autopilot feature, he held her gaze.
“Well, now, that’s too bad, ’cause I think I might be plum crazy about you, Miss Lynne.” She glared at him, and he raised a challenging eyebrow before punching the gas. The car lurched forward, spraying a plume of mud and gravel. “Ma’am,” he added, shooting down the lane like a bullet.
He jerked to a stop behind his pick-up, laughing as she flung her hair back from her face with a dramatic flip. She grinned when he killed the motor.
“You are a bad boy.”
“Oh, you don’t know the half of it,” he murmured, pressing the button to release her seatbelt. “You got an AARP card, sugar? Can you get me ten percent off things? The thought of it gets me hot,” he whispered, leaning over to crowd her.
Hell, who was he kidding? Being near her got him hot. He kissed her hard. The console dug into his ribs, but her lips were warm, sweet, and pliant under his. He melted into her, his body hardening as his kisses grew slower, softer, and deeper. Greedy, he wrapped his arms around her and nearly hauled her into his lap.
Lynne splayed one hand over his chest and his knee jerked, connecting with the steering wheel and jarring his entire body. She snickered, pressing her soft mouth to the pulse pounding in his throat. A low groan rumbled from his chest. “I think we both might be too old for this,” he muttered.
“Speak for yourself,” she purred against his ear. “I’m just fine.”
She kissed her way down the side of his neck. Shivers raced up his spine when her teeth scraped against stubble. Her hot tongue traced a lazy pattern along the underside of his jaw. “My truck would be better for neckin’. I hate bucket seats.”
“I bet my house can top your truck.”
“You’re trying to drive me crazy, aren’t you?”
“Working?”
He pushed her firmly back into her seat. “And to think I thought you were an angel.”
“You keep pushing me away,” she pointed out.
“Oh, but I sure don’t want to.” Before she could retort, he yanked the handle and bailed from the car. He skirted the back bumper and pulled on the door handle. When she turned, he reached into the car and hauled her out, holding her tight against his chest. His fingers threaded through her hair. “You know that, right?”
She nodded, a coy smile teasing her lips as she glanced at the house. “There’s a porch to fix, and I have supper… What the hell?”
“Wha… Aw, crap,” he growled when he spotted the mud-trampled linens stamped into the ground. He crossed the yard, picked up a filthy pillow sham, and brushed at a mud-caked footprint ineffectually. “Stupid kids.”
“Kids? What kids?”
“There are all kinds of kids around here,” he muttered as he stooped to gather her soiled laundry. “They think it’s fun to ride their four-wheelers through the fields after they’re plowed.”
“The kids or the fields?”
“The fields. Hopefully not the kids.”
Lynne sighed and reached for the bundle of spoiled laundry. “I better let these soak.”
He bobbed his head. “Run them through the wash and I’ll take ’em home to dry tonight.”
A glimmer of a smile lit her eyes. She stretched onto her toes and kissed his cheek. “You’re sweet.”
Heat warmed his cheeks. “I’ll bring the shopping in. You go on.”
She disappeared into the house, and he scowled at the muddy ground beneath the clothesline. Sunlight caught a glimmer of something shiny. He stooped to peer into the trampled grass and spotted a gold earring with dangling pink beads. His scowl deepened as he picked it up and tucked it into the pocket of his jeans.
Minutes later, he bumbled through the back door with two armloads of grocery sacks. She looked up as she poured liquid detergent into the old washing machine. She wore sparkling diamond studs in her ears. Recognition slowed his steps.
She glanced up with a radiant smile. “Got the shoppin’?”
Her smile could have made him forget his own name. It certainly chased all thoughts of missing earrings from his brain. She reached out, trailing her fingers over his bicep as he lumbered past. “Stop making fun. It’s not seemly for a woman your age.”
Chapter Twelve
A golden pound cake cooled in a loaf pan on the counter. She smiled her satisfaction as her gaze skipped over it. Thank goodness it looked okay. She knew she was a good cook, but she’d never been much of a baker. There wasn’t much need since she always lived within a mile or two of some of the best German and Italian bakeries on the north shore.
Holy cannoli, I’d kill for some pasticiotti from Manetti’s. She fantasized about the pudding-filled Italian pastry as she dumped slices of onion into the roasting pan. Lynne reached for a scrubbed potato. Each chop of her knife subconsciously mimicked the rhythmic blows of Bram’s hammer. She straightened, tucking her hair behind her ear and wincing when she caught a whiff of pungent onion.
“Mmm, sexy,” she muttered, moving to the sink. Rich foam flowed between her fingers. Her gaze drifted to the window above the sink and the yard beyond. She held her hands under the streaming water and stared at the muddy grass trampled below the bare clothesline.
She pumped more soap into her palm and started over again, hoping to erase the worst of the lingering scent from her hands. In the mudroom, the washing machine chugged, diligently removing all traces of mischief from the linens. She turned to glance at the ancient appliance, her gaze skipping over the spot where Thelma and Louise’s cage sat a short time before.
“Oh my God.”
A quick flick of her wrist shut off the water. Not bothering with a towel, she ran for the door, wiping her dripping hands on her back pockets. The storm door smacked against the side of the house. “It wasn’t locked,” she announced.
Bram didn’t bother straightening. He dropped a handful of nails into an open box on the step and peered up at her from under dark brows. “What wasn’t locked?”
“The back door wasn’t locked. Maybe that’s what happened to Thelma and Louise.”
His full, soft lips pursed. Razor-sharp cheekbones stood in harsh relief as he bit the inside of his cheek. Her heart gave a strange little leap, and she pressed her hand to her chest. Not even the skept
ical gleam in his bright blue eyes dimmed her desire to smooth the tiny furrow between his brows with her tongue.
“You think a couple of baby chicks went out for a stroll?” he asked at last. “It’s a nice afternoon, but.”
Her fingers curled into a fist. The liquid honey of his voice poured through her veins, thick and hot. For a moment, she had a hard time deciding whether she should smack him or smother him in kisses. She chose neither.
“I think,” she said with exaggerated patience, “whoever trashed my washin’ might have gotten into the house.”
He took two of the porch stairs in one stride before coming to an abrupt halt and shaking his head. “Wait. You think someone broke into your house and swiped your chickens?”
“Well, maybe they weren’t after the chickens to start with.”
“But when they saw them, they ditched your fancy laptop and whatever other fancy stuff you have for a couple of baby chickens?”
“Why do you keep saying fancy?”
“You’re fancy.”
“I am not.”
“You are.” He took her hand in his. Rough, work-hardened fingers traced her softer, more delicate digits. “You’re very fancy.”
“It’s only stuff,” she murmured.
Bram chuckled. “Stuff. From what I hear, your purse cost more than a tractor tire.” When she scowled at him, he simply smiled and pulled her fingers to his lips. “Tractor tires are mighty pricey, Miss Lynne.”
“At least a purse is useful,” she grumbled. He laughed, and she yanked her fingers from his grasp. “I carry that bag every day.”
He pursed his lips again, and the effect was even more powerful up close. She glared at him, trying to concentrate on not swaying into him.
“So it costs you less than five dollars a day, huh?”
An indignant huff of a laugh rushed from her lips. “Thanks for justifying my choices for me. For your information, that bag was a gift.”
“Wow. Nice gift.” He planted his foot on the next step, rising slowly and using his height to his best advantage. “Boyfriend?”
Her eyes narrowed to slits. “Jealous?”
“Just seein’ if I need to up the stakes to three dozen chickens.”
She gave an unladylike snort and planted one hand on his chest, copping a feel as she knocked him down a step. “My former mother-in-law was a designer diva.” She glanced out at the empty yard. “Me, I just want a few chickens around the place. That’s all.”
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“What’s the deal with the chickens?”
She shrugged. “My grandmother had chickens. She let me feed them.”
Bram’s smile crept up on her, wrapping her up in its warmth before she had a chance to brace herself against the onslaught. He reached for her hand again and laced his fingers through hers. “You want chickens, I’ll get you chickens.” He punctuated his statement with a nod. “Porch should be fine now. I’ll ask Mama if she knows of any of the high school boys who may want to earn a few bucks painting next weekend.”
“Thank you.”
“I’ve got a few things to do at home.” Strong fingers gave her hand a gentle squeeze. “I’ll clean up and be back around seven?” he asked, his eyes wide and hopeful.
Butterflies tickled her stomach as she calculated the time apart. “You can come by at six-thirty. If you want.”
His reluctance to release her hand was palpable. The boyish smile that creased his rugged face was almost too delicious. Sooty lashes lowered in a slumberous sweep to flirt with his cheekbones. They fluttered again. A wicked gleam lit his eyes as he leaned in and pecked a soft kiss on her cheek.
Another gentle squeeze reassured her. “Six-thirty,” he confirmed, his fingers slipping from hers.
Lynne sighed and cursed her weak negotiation skills. I should have gone for six o’clock.
****
Bram checked his watch for the fiftieth time. The pre-cut and sanded headrests he’d ordered from a lumber mill outside Eureka Springs were left in a crate at the door to his shop. He stacked them neatly on the workbench, checked his progress on the two orders he had working, and spent a whole fifteen minutes trying to concentrate on plotting out his work for the coming week.
He didn’t know why he bothered. His hand kept straying toward the half-finished salad bowl perched atop the silent boom box. Heaving a sigh, he checked the time again.
“Pathetic.” He gave his wrist a shake and checked again, but the hour hand remained stuck on the four.
He snatched the bowl from its resting spot, carried it over to the low-slung chair, and switched on the old lamp he used for extra light. Cupping the bowl in his palm, he tried to survey his work with a critical eye.
That didn’t work either. Within moments, he was envisioning that same hand cupping something else entirely. Something softer. Much softer.
Bram’s heart slammed into his ribs. His stomach clenched. His breath seeped from his lungs like he’d sprung a slow leak. “Oh shit.”
The bowl fell from his numbed fingers, clattering on the concrete floor, its hollow echo reverberating in his ears. “Oh shit, shit, shit,” he mumbled, curling his fingers into a fist and rubbing his scraped knuckles over his bottom lip. His mind whirred, clicking on various scenarios and possible outcomes. He launched himself from the chair, crossing to the door in four long strides. He glanced over his shoulder, half-tempted to hide out in the safety of his shop.
No. He caught his bottom lip between his teeth and stared at the bright circle of light spilling from the lamp. No. You can’t chicken out now. You want this. You want her. She wants you.
The pep talk continued as he forced himself to turn around and head back into the shop. This is right. This is good. This is healthy. He switched off the lamp and whirled resolutely on his heel. The pale afternoon light streamed through the open door, trapping dust motes in its golden glow. Enjoy this. Don’t think about her leaving. Enjoy being with her for however long she’s here. Doesn’t have to last forever. Nothing lasts forever.
He stumbled into the waning sunlight and drew in a deep breath, gathering strength from the wood-scented air. We’re two healthy, mature adults, enjoying each other’s company and maybe a little more, that’s all. The shop door slammed behind him. Even if it’s only for a little while.
His steps quickened as he crossed the lawn. Nothing has to happen. Best to be prepared. Like a Boy Scout.
He took the porch steps two at a time. The front door banged into the never-used coat rack. He jogged down the hall to the master bath. He yanked open the vanity drawer and began to paw through its contents. He found the small box he’d purchased in Little Rock years earlier and plucked the contents from its cardboard confines with two fingers. Squinting, he scanned the package, his shoulders slumping when he spotted the expiration date. He’d never been a Boy Scout.
His cell phone buzzed, and he stuffed the evidence of his failure back into the box before flinging it at the small trash can in the corner. Yanking the phone from the clip on his belt, he growled a hello.
“Hey,” Abe said in a cautious tone. “Bad time?”
Slumping against the vanity, he rubbed his forehead. “No worse than any other time.”
“So it’s okay to tell you we dumped a load on the way to Springdale?” his son said dryly.
“Aw, hell.”
“The guy said he swerved to miss a deer.”
He pinched the bridge of his nose. “How bad?”
“Not too bad. A few dozen. The driver said he secured the load, so he’s goin’ on. The carrier was bonded, so we’ll have to settle up with them.”
“You contact the farm to let them know?”
“Yep. They said they’d inventory what they get and let us know what they’ll need to replace them.”
“Plus a couple dozen more,” Bram added with a short, cynical laugh.
“I’m sure.” Abe hesitated for a moment. “The cost of doing business, righ
t?”
He chuckled at having his oft-spoken words thrown back at him. “And it ain’t chicken feed, boy,” he grumbled in a fair imitation of his own father.
“The old guys had a good time at the sale barn today.”
“I bet. They buy anything I should know about?”
“Afraid you’re gonna find another longhorn steer in your backyard?”
He expelled a tired sigh, feeling more like a steer than a bull, and glared at the box sticking out of the trashcan. “Wouldn’t you be nervous with Granddad and Rufus on the loose?”
“They can get a little wild.” His snort echoed off tiled walls. He began to reach for the box but pulled back when Abe said, “Dad?”
He stuffed his hand into his pocket. “Huh?”
“You okay?”
“I’m fine.”
“You sure? I mean, you sound a little…uh… You don’t sound okay.”
He raised his head, catching sight of his reflection in the mirror above the sink. His nostrils flared as he leaned forward, planting one hand on the cultured marble top. The salt was overtaking the pepper in his stubbly beard. The grooves in his cheeks seemed to cut deeper, and the tiny white lines around his eyes splayed like a fan.
I look like crap. When did I get so old? Maybe I’m too old for this. She’s older than I am, and she looks a helluva lot better. He tore his gaze from the mirror and focused on the toes of his battered boots instead.
“Dad?”
“I’m fine,” he whispered, but he wasn’t convincing either of them. Sneaking another glance at his watch, he cleared his throat and tried to inject a little more life in his voice. “I need to get going.”
Abe hesitated for a moment. “Got a hot date?”
“Yep.”
“Oh.”
Bram ran his hand through his hair, his fingers tightening on the phone. “How do you… Uh, are you okay with that?”
“Me?”
“Yeah.”
“Does it matter?”
He shot a worried glance at his reflection. “Well…yeah.”
“Oh.”
The sound of his own breath echoed in his ear. When Abe said nothing more, he stopped breathing altogether. The silence stretched, interrupted only by a crackle of static. “It’s okay if you’re not,” he said, the dregs of the air left in his lungs carrying the words. He shoved his hands into his pockets, his fingers curling around the earring he still carried.
Unforgettable Heroes II Boxed Set Page 39