That'll Be the Day

by Kress, Alyssa

  Maggie's expression froze when she saw him. He got the impression she wasn't particularly pleased.

  The impression expanded his own self-image as beggar, standing there clutching his brown paper sack of sandwiches. But he was determined to be a staunch beggar. Besides, he had an excuse. He'd come to get his car.

  "Ian," Maggie said. "This is...a surprise. Is everything...?"

  "Yeah, everything's okay." He did his best to attempt insouciance, if not outright assertiveness. "But it seems we both forgot you have my car—and my keys." Ha. How was that for a comeback?

  It was very good if the pink color rising to Maggie's cheeks was any indication. "Oh. Your— Oh, right. I have your car. Ah, I hadn't remembered that. Sorry." She turned to the highly-groomed woman who was flashing her eyes between the two of them with undisguised curiosity. "Alana this is my brother-in-law, Ian. Alana is the head designer for the landscape firm, Corporate Edges, Ian. You've probably seen their work all over town."

  I get it, don't worry. Big client. Don't embarrass you. Ian gave his best, let's-do-business smile to the woman. "Pleased to meet you, Alana." He came up the stairs to shake her hand.

  "Very pleased to meet you, too." Alana's smile was a lot less businesslike than Ian's had been. Her hand went relaxed in his and her dark eyes gazed upward suggestively. "Maggie's brother-in-law, eh?" Despite her words, Alana didn't seem concerned about the possibility of a wife, judging by her shark-on-the-prowl stance. Her eyes widened. "Oh, that's right. You must be the father of those two adorable children I ran into here a few months ago."

  Tilting his head, Ian looked at the woman. He supposed this was it, that sexual future his doctor had promised him. Ian had to admit she was an excellent specimen, in terrific physical shape, with a stylish flair in clothes and makeup. All in all, she was what should have been a very attractive package.

  He didn't feel a bloody thing.

  "Yeah, I've got two kids." Ian had no trouble remembering her question. "They're great. Everybody should have a pair." He turned to Maggie. "I brought us lunch, I'll show you as soon as you're done here. Nice meeting you, Alana." With a pleasant smile, Ian strode resolutely past them and into the building.

  He didn't care if Maggie was surprised to see him, or even displeased. He was staying. He strolled straight to her office area behind the counter, took the sandwiches out of the bag, and reached over to switch on the computer. Just act natural, he told himself. He unwrapped the sandwiches and strained his ears for the sound of Maggie re-entering the building.

  She was taking her sweet time with Ms. Big-deal Client out there. Ian was seated in Maggie's old desk chair and once again fiddling with her bookkeeping program when she finally came back through the front door.

  "Ian." Her gaze took in the sandwiches neatly laid on the counter, then Ian firmly ensconced in her chair. "Uh, let me get you your keys."

  "No rush." Ian pretended deep interest in the numbers filling the computer screen. "Besides, how are you going to get home if I take the car?"

  "Oh, I can walk. My house is only about half a mile from here."

  Ian felt a slow burn inside. She was trying to get rid of him. Dammit, why? Had her friendly behavior the past week been nothing but pity? Keeping his face bland, he said, "Oh, you shouldn't have to walk home on my account."

  "Ian." She sounded like a mother confronting a recalcitrant child. "I'm sure you have things to do. Places you'd like to go."

  If only he did. With an abrupt movement of the mouse, he quit out of Maggie's bookkeeping program. "I remember you had this baby palm you wanted to repot."

  "Did I? Oh, yeah, but—" Frowning, Maggie crossed her arms. "But you're not supposed to be lifting."

  "Doctor said I could start. That baby palm should fit the bill nicely as a first step." Rising from his chair, Ian dared to look her in the face.

  Her exasperation appeared to war with her innate compassion. There was something else going on, too, some deeper emotion Ian could not identify.

  Unsure Maggie's compassion would win out, Ian decided to keep the ball in his own court. "Where's the plant?" he asked, striding past her into the nursery.

  He breathed out in relief when he heard her footsteps rushing to follow him.

  "Look, Ian, I'm not sure this is such a good idea..."

  Ian turned to face her. "I am. I can do this. I'm supposed to be doing stuff like this, building up my strength. Now, where's the tree?"

  Maggie hesitated but ended up relenting. "This way."

  She went past him and led the way between some climbing vines. Ian felt only a smidgen of triumph, however. She was planning on kicking him out as soon as he'd finished helping her transplant the tree. The burn inside him intensified.

  Had he been such a terrible blot in her life the past week she was so eager to be done with him? Hadn't she been enjoying their time together, the way he had?

  "Right here." Maggie stopped in front of an admittedly cramped-looking baby palm. "Are you sure?"

  Ian suppressed the urge to explode. Taking a minute to calm down, he examined the tiny tree. "Looks like the whole thing is about twenty-thirty pounds. And I won't be lifting it, exactly, just supporting its weight while you tug the old pot off. Should be fine."

  He could feel Maggie's eyes on him, then her gaze shifted to the plant. "Okay." But she sounded like the whole business was anything but okay. "Why don't you grab that end, and I'll tip it over?" She sounded intensely uneasy.

  Ian wasn't going to explode, though the burn opened deeper inside. He positioned himself by the branches of the tree, and caught hold of some fronds while Maggie tipped the pot onto its edge.

  "Let's see here..." She straightened to regard the plant, now tipped at a forty-five degree angle. "How can I get this pot off?"

  "Maybe if I shake it?"

  "No, no. Don't do that." She put her hand up, like a traffic officer. "Let's see, maybe if I..." She bent over the potted portion of the plant. "...loosen it up a little..."

  Definitely not a woman to balk at getting her hands dirty, Maggie stuck all ten of her fingers into the edge of the pot. Ian was left supporting the top of the tree while she bent over and dug around in the soil.

  "Didn't exactly have this worked out, did you?" he remarked, still burning inside.

  "Ah, sometimes you have to get into things to figure out what to do." Maggie continued with her finger digging. To Ian's mind, she wasn't accomplishing much, except maybe providing him with an excellent view of her rear end.

  He tilted his head, regarding said rear end. Her worn jeans hugged some definitely female curves as she jiggled about, trying to loosen the baby palm.

  Tempting, he thought, briefly fantasizing sending his shoe into Maggie's twitching butt. He wouldn't plant it very hard, just hard enough to let her know he wasn't a complete wuss.

  "It's—pretty stuck," Maggie grunted and renewed her hand-digging with vigor. Her tail continued waggling beneath Ian.

  Yes, definitely tempting. Come to think of it, Maggie's jeans-clad rear had quite a nice shape, round but not too wide, with the suggestion of the flesh underneath her clothes to be somewhere between the states of firm and giving.

  A fellow could really sink his fingers into a rear like Maggie's, Ian considered. Grab a good hold, yet feel a healthy resistance. And then when the fingers started to slide, when they started to take that dark and dangerous exploration...

  Standing there, trying to keep a hold of the now-vigorously rattling tree, Ian felt a burn of a very different sort flash through him.

  It was so hot, so unexpected, and yet so powerful, he thought he was going to fall to his knees. Maggie's rear—he could imagine sinking his fingers into it. He liked imagining that. Hell, he lived for the idea of grabbing Maggie's rear end.

  Ian's heart sped like a race car. He visualized his fingers spread over the silky white smoothness of Maggie's rear. It would be a little cool but very soft. He would warm the flesh, making circles with his palms, letting the
tips of his fingers drift in, searching for hot, damp, secret flesh.

  Oh. My. God. The burn took over his whole body, from the tips of his hair to the soles of his feet. He was one blazing firebrand. The heat made his body feel heavy, particularly around his groin. The heavy pulse of blood in that area made his puncture site ache, but he couldn't have cared less. This—this other sensation was so much bigger, so terribly pleasurable.

  His brain reeled. Meanwhile, Maggie straightened from her digging. The joyful temptation of her rear disappeared beneath her spine. But she put her hands on her hips and puffed out her cheeks, regarding the tree in frustration and revealing by such action the delightful thrust of her breasts.

  Ian's well-lubricated imagination immediately placed his hands there, on Maggie's full, generously-curved breasts. He could practically feel how soft they would be, the female weight of them. He could practically see them, creamy pale and erotically accented by the darker, nubby flesh of her erect nipples.

  "Huh!" Maggie said. "Maybe I do need to think about how I'm going to do this, after all." She lifted one arm to gesture to Ian. "Go ahead. Lift it back up."

  Ian was, of course, unable to respond to this command. He barely heard it.

  Maggie turned from her scrutiny of the baby palm to shoot him a quizzical glance.

  At least, that's probably what she meant to do. It didn't happen that way, though. What happened was Maggie did a major double take.

  Ian could hardly blame her. Every image, every hot fantasy and sexual urge flashing through his brain must have shown in his face. He didn't have time to hide any of it. Nor was he sure he'd have bothered hiding it if he could. This felt too good, too alive and powerful, to want to stem or hide.

  And so he stood there, his newly reacquired lust exposed for Maggie's astonished perusal.

  But did she gasp? Did she fall back in horror and dismay? Not exactly. She froze into a very good imitation of a statue. Meanwhile, her eyes, as Ian stared into them, went from grass green to the color of a storm-tossed sea.

  Oh, Ian thought. Oh. My. God. She's feeling it, too. Maggie's turned on, too.

  He hadn't known he could blaze any hotter, but he did. The blood that had been pooling so heavily in his groin shot to where his imagination was already putting it. In the span of half a second, after two-and-a-half years of inactivity, he was fully, painfully, ecstatically engorged.

  Ian's fingers tightened on the branches of the tree. Pure reflex. In fact, it was Maggie he wanted to grab. He wanted to put his hands all over her, that rear end, those breasts, and everywhere in between. He wanted to kiss, to enjoy, to devour...

  He could see Maggie's throat work. Oh yes, good idea. He would suck on her neck, right there at the ridge of her windpipe. And while he did that, his fingers would explore, divide, penetrate...

  "Ian." Maggie's voice cut through the thickest part of the haze that engulfed him. She sounded choked.

  Ian sucked in a breath, and wondered if he hadn't done that in a while, breathed. "Yes, Maggie?"

  She swallowed again, the movement a lovely temptation. That neck— "Ian, you can put the tree up."

  He could? What tree? Oh, yeah. Getting rid of the tree, freeing his hands. That would be a very, very good idea. Ian adored the fact Maggie was so smart. She kept her focus on the practicalities. Slowly, feeling like he was moving through a thick soup, Ian raised the tree back to an upright position.

  But he couldn't take his eyes off of Maggie. She was...a shimmering pillar of temptation. Hot sin. Every inch of her custom-made for his consumption. And she wanted him right back. She wanted him!

  "Ian." Her voice was very soft, not intentionally so, but as if soft was the best she could manage. "I'll take care of the tree," she claimed. "Why don't you...go?"

  Go? She wanted him to go? It took Ian a second to process the information, it was so discordant. He wanted to remove all her clothes. He wanted to spend unimaginable blocks of time melding his body with hers. And she was telling him to go? He blinked and looked at her.

  But there was no mistake. Her lips were pressed thin, her face strained. She was not interested in pursuing what they both apparently wanted.

  It took a long moment for Ian to douse his hormones enough to think. Oh, he then realized. Oh-h-h-h. The truth hit him like a blinding, ten-ton flash. This, this, had been Maggie's problem, the one he'd been trying to figure out all week. She was turned on by him—but she didn't want to be.

  He almost laughed. How blind could a guy get? The whole time it had been right in front of his eyes. She wanted him.

  Okay, okay, she didn't appreciate that fact. She wasn't considering this the wild and wonderful and delightfully unexpected circumstance that he did. But it was still true!

  Ian held up his hands, palms out, a gesture of harmlessness. "You want me to go, Maggie. I'll go." What else could he say?

  She stared at him with those extra-wide, extra dark eyes. "I want you to go."

  "Okay." He took a step back, his hands still up. He had to surrender. But a strategic surrender. "Uh, where are my keys?"

  "Oh." Dismay crossed her face. "They're in the office."

  Ian moved his hands into a gesture of suggested movement. Maggie should lead the way to the office, where she could give him his keys.

  She hesitated. Ian had the impression she wanted to warn him off, but then thought better of it. Maybe she thought she could still pretend this wasn't here if she didn't put words to it.

  Fat chance.

  "Come on," she said, and started briskly down the plant-lined path.

  Ian's gaze drifted to her delightfully swaying rear as he followed her toward the office. This was here, and he, for one, wasn't about to pretend any different. Doubted he could manage pretending any different, nor did he the least bit want to.

  Maggie's gardening boots made a soft clumping sound as they hit the stone floor of the sales building.

  Ian gave her space as she went into the office area behind the counter. Strategy over tactics. Fall back now, gain more later.

  Maggie opened the top drawer of the desk, beneath the new computer whose screen had gone into sleep mode. She lifted out Ian's set of keys. "Here," she said and turned.

  Their eyes met. An accident, no doubt, on Maggie's part. Ian felt excitement zigzag through him, a wonderful sensation of being one-hundred-and-fifty percent alive.

  Oh, no. He was not going to pretend this wasn't happening.

  "Thanks," Ian said and held out his hand.

  Was it the way he was smiling, perhaps an expression of satisfaction in his gaze? Something rose in Maggie's eyes. Anger, frustration, or maybe the tension of a desire she was trying too hard to rein in.

  "Here," she said and dumped the keys into his hand. Her gaze flashed upward, defiant.

  In that moment, Ian could not have desired the woman more. She was power, independence, strength—in short, one terrific hell of a challenge.

  His hands closed over the keys, material evidence he was coming back into his own power and independence. His blood was pumping, healthy and vigorous. For the first time since his heart attack—no, for the first time since Sophia had died—he was feeling like a complete man again. "Goodbye, Maggie."

  For now, he added to himself.

  Something flickered in her eyes. Regret? Uncertainty? "Goodbye, Ian," she replied.

  Clutching his keys, Ian turned. He smiled as he walked out the nursery door and cantered down the front steps with a balloon of joy inside. Goodbye...for now. Because he'd be back. You could stake money on it.

  Ha! Ian had just discovered his future.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  He'd found out. After a harrowing day at the nursery, trying to pretend everything was normal, Maggie stepped through the front door of her cottage. Here, back home, she hoped to find some relief, a sense of safety and security.

  She dropped her keys into the little ceramic bowl set on a brightly painted lamp table by the front door and kicked off her shoes. A
scruffy black cat came slinking from the hallway.

  "Hello, Inky." Maggie bent to pick up the old tom. "No, I'm not running in and out this time. Tonight I'm here to stay." Indeed, and it was nice to stay in her own home for a change. She could live her own life again.

  Holding the cat, she moved across the fluffy fake fur rug of the combination living/dining room to the sliding glass door that led to the backyard. The twilight of mid-spring allowed her to see the deliberately overgrown grass and the cheerful bursts of native wildflowers. A single stately oak stood guard at the far side of the yard, spreading its gnarled branches wide.

  She'd picked this place with no help or influence from anybody else. Oh, what a joy that had been, to live free of her father's blustering voice, to be able to do whatever she wanted, without a word of disapproval or criticism.

  She turned and regarded her living room: the furniture picked up at garage sales and lovingly refurbished, the sentimental paintings of desert scenes discovered in a gallery in New Mexico, the ceramic pots and woven baskets created by various friends and strangers. All chosen by herself, all giving her a sense of her own identity, one she'd relished ever since leaving home.

  Maggie rubbed her cheek against the soft fur of the cat. Today she'd felt like she was starting to lose pieces of that identity. When Ian had looked at her with that primitive wildness in his eyes, something important inside herself had slipped.

  Merely remembering sent a nervous, shaky sensation through her stomach. Oddly, it was hard to tell if the sensation felt more like dread...or excitement.

  The cat squirmed, and Maggie let it leap out of her arms. No. She couldn't have found anything exciting or positive about that awful moment when he'd discovered her secret. When her identity had wavered. Of course not. She was proud—not sad—that she'd told him to leave. She was glad—not disappointed—that he had done so.

  Perhaps he'd come to his own place of sanity. They were born to be antagonists. Oil and water. Fish and bicycles. She had her private complaints about his personality and he, no doubt, had similarly disparaging thoughts about hers. There was no way the two of them were going to— would do anything like— Uh uh.