Riding High

by Vicki Lewis Thompson

  “Here’s my stuff.”

  She turned, and much as she tried not to, she stared. No woman with a pulse would have done any different when faced with Regan O’Connelli in an undersize bathrobe. He stretched the shoulders of that white terry to the breaking point, and the lapels didn’t quite meet, so a sliver of his chest, complete with enticing dark hair, peeked through the opening.

  He’d belted the robe as tightly as possible. Because he had narrow hips, the overlap was more than adequate there. Good thing, if he’d included his briefs in that pile he’d brought her. Although, in the long run, whether he was covered up didn’t matter much. She still knew he likely was naked under that robe. How had she failed to calculate the effect of that on her little plan?

  She accepted the clothes and shoved them in the washer. If he had any loose change or important pieces of paper in his pockets, oh, well. She wasn’t taking the time to check. Her primary goal was to get everything washed and back on his body. His muscled, golden-skinned, infinitely lickable body...

  Dear Lord, she was done for. Turning away from the washer, she dusted her hands together. “There. That’s done.”

  “Lily?”

  “What?”

  “You didn’t turn it on.”

  No, I didn’t, because I’m already turned on enough for both me and the washer to operate at top speed. “Thanks.” She walked back and punched the button.

  “You were right.” He held out his arms. “This fits better than I thought it would.”

  “So it does.” She spun on her heel, because if she looked at him for even one second longer, she’d grab the sash of that robe and have her way with him. “Let’s eat.”

  “Sounds good. I’m starving.” He followed her into the kitchen.

  She could swear, even though he was a good ten feet away from her, she heard every breath he took. She imagined what it would be like to run her fingers through his still-damp hair, to lay her palm against his chest and feel his heart pumping hot blood through his veins. Despite the spicy aroma of baked lasagna, she could smell the soap-fresh scent of his skin, and the underlying musk of virile, almost-naked male.

  Her plan for resisting him seemed flimsy at best, but she’d stick to it as well as she could. “Which would you like with dinner, wine or beer?”

  “With lasagna? Wine, I guess.”

  “Wine it is, then!” She knew she sounded deranged. Grabbing two wineglasses out of the cupboard, she took the Chardonnay out of the fridge.

  “Let me open it.” He walked over to the counter. “Got a corkscrew somewhere?”

  “You bet. Second drawer from the left.” She snatched up a couple of pot holders and made a beeline for the oven, which put some distance between her and Mr. Yum-Yum. If she’d had anything else to cover his body besides the terry robe, she’d be hauling it out now. There was the Hawaiian muumuu her mother had brought her from a trip to Maui a few years ago. Regan probably wouldn’t go for that.

  She pulled the lasagna pan out of the oven and managed to set it on top of the stove without dropping it. That was a little miracle in itself, considering how her hands were shaking.

  “Wine?”

  “Oh!” She turned to find him right next to her, a glass of Chardonnay extended. “Sure. Thanks.” She accepted the glass and promptly gulped down a third of it before she remembered that hadn’t been the strategy. But Regan O’Connelli was standing in her kitchen, naked except for a bathrobe that could come open at any moment. How could she be expected to keep her cool under those circumstances?

  “Can I set the table?”

  “Good idea.” And it would get him out of the kitchen for a little while. “Utensils are in the first drawer from the left. You’re a terrific guest. Somebody must have trained you well.” No telling why she’d been compelled to say that, except that she tended to babble when she was nervous.

  “My ex. I think she’d memorized the etiquette books.”

  Lily went completely still. Damn. A clue. Without getting him sloshed, she’d managed to extract a significant clue. But she had to handle the information with great delicacy. “You have an ex?” She hoped her nose wouldn’t grow for that whopper.

  “Doesn’t everybody?”

  Beep. Wrong answer. She closed her eyes in frustration. “I suppose so. I have an ex-boyfriend. What sort of ex do you have?” She crossed her fingers.

  “Ex-fiancée.”

  “Ah. Recent?” She held her breath.

  “Since last Christmas.”

  “Ouch. Tough time to break up.”

  He walked back, leaned in the archway separating the kitchen from the dining room and sipped his wine. “Is there ever a good time?”

  “Guess not.” Her heart ached for him. Nobody should be betrayed at Christmas, when everyone else was laughing and partying and kissing under the mistletoe. But he hadn’t said his ex had betrayed him, only that they’d broken up. Lily vowed to remember that she was supposed to know only what he’d told her and nothing more.

  She had enough information to make her case against sleeping with a guy on the rebound. Once they got into a discussion about the kiss they’d shared while standing in the mud hole, she’d be ready with her argument. She’d apologize for surrendering to the moment.

  Most women succumbed to a man’s charms under a silver moon while surrounded by fragrant blossoms and serenaded by violins. She’d almost given it up in a mud puddle.

  “How soon before we eat?”

  She snapped out of her daydream. Men liked to eat. She’d been without a boyfriend since last fall, and she’d forgotten a few things about the male of the species. “Let’s give it ten more minutes to cool and set. I’d suggest we have a seat in the living room, but I don’t have any furniture in there yet.”

  “I noticed.”

  “I’ll get some eventually. My parents gave me their old dining room table and chairs, but they’re not ready to replace their living room stuff.”

  He gazed at her, a question in his eyes.

  “You probably wonder why I don’t just go out and get my own.”

  “It crossed my mind. You must care about this place, since you spent a lot of time painting the outside of all the buildings.”

  “Because painting is fun! I would have painted inside, too, but then more horses arrived, along with the chickens, and now the pigs, so I don’t have time. And everyone knows you’re supposed to paint before you bring in furniture.” She tried not to stare at his legs, but the hem of the bathrobe reached only to his knees. Nice calves. Yeah, very nice.

  “That’s a good point. Painting should come first.”

  “But that’s not the real reason. I can’t get excited about furniture.” But she was getting quite excited about watching the gentle rise and fall of his chest. Whenever he breathed in, the terry shifted to reveal more of that delicious territory. It would be so easy to walk over and slide her hands under the lapels...

  “I thought women like shopping for furniture. In general, I mean.”

  Furniture. Right. She redirected her thoughts to the topic at hand. “It all looks the same to me—boring.” Which certainly wasn’t a word she’d use to describe Regan. His thighs were probably as impressive as his calves. “I’d be fine with those throw pillows you might have seen stacked in the corner, and maybe a beanbag chair. But my mom convinced me I need a couch. They’ll be replacing theirs soon, and at that point my dad will bring me their old one.”

  “Is their couch boring?” Amusement lit his brown eyes.

  Luckily her attention had been on his face at the time, so she caught that. “I’m afraid so, but then, what couch isn’t? And it’s not just the color, which in this case is beige. I realize you can find them in red, or purple, or paisley. I object to the basic shape—a big, bulky rectangle that takes up space and do
minates the room. And is heavy. Omigod. A couch can weigh you down.”

  “I never thought of it that way.” He sipped his wine and the bathrobe sleeve gaped open, exposing his entire forearm. His skin was tanned to a golden hue, probably a gift from his Italian ancestry.

  She bet he tasted as good as he looked, but she continued the conversation as if she had no interest in licking him all over. “Couches aren’t practical, either. Three people could sit there, but then they’d be like birds on a rail, or people waiting to have their group picture taken.”

  He laughed at that, and the terry lapels shifted again.

  Mercy. “No, really! In practice, only two people ever sit on a couch, even though it takes up so much floor space.”

  “Sometimes two people lie on a couch.” Was that a challenging gleam in his eye?

  “Yes, and it’s crunched and crowded. A bed’s better.” She sucked in a breath. Where had that come from? Yikes!

  “More wine?”

  She glanced at the glass in her hand and discovered it was empty. Apparently she’d been chattering, ogling and drinking. The only thing she could say in her defense was that she hadn’t been licking and kissing. Did she know how to draw a line in the sand or what?

  Setting her glass firmly on the counter, she opened a cupboard. “I’m going to hold off on the wine for now. I’m sure the lasagna’s ready. I’ll dish up.”

  “I have an idea.”

  If he had one idea, she had twenty, and they all involved untying the sash of his robe. She pulled two plates out of the cupboard. “What’s that?”

  “Let’s build a fire and sit on the floor in the living room. It’s cool enough tonight for one, and I noticed you have wood.”

  “The Turners left me some, and I used some last month. It was a cool May.” His idea sounded different and fun. And potentially dangerous.

  “So what do you say? We can sit on two of those floor pillows.”

  “I guess that would work.”

  “It’ll work great.” He drained his glass and left it on the counter. “I’ll start the fire while you serve the lasagna.”

  He’d already started a fire, and she had no extinguisher handy. Eating picnic style on the floor could heat things up even more. The whole setup was becoming too cozy, and she wasn’t helping. She gave herself a stern reminder about the speech she was going to deliver, even if she could have done that more effectively while sitting at the dining room table.

  Too late to change her mind, though. The sound of crinkling newspaper and logs settling onto the grate indicated he was into his fire-building routine. “Is the flue open?” he called out.

  “No, it isn’t. Pull the lever toward you.”

  Metal creaked. “Got it. You know, I figured you for a picnic-on-the-floor kind of woman. I couldn’t ever convince Jeannette to do this, but I thought for sure you’d be all over it.”

  So his ex’s name was Jeannette. And she didn’t go for picnics on the floor in front of the fireplace. Lily should ignore that thrown gauntlet. But being a normal woman, she wanted to prove that she was more accommodating than dumb old Jeannette, the idiot who had betrayed this beautiful man on Christmas Eve. The question remained, how accommodating did Lily plan to be?

  6

  REGAN WASN’T OBLIVIOUS to the effect he was having on Lily. He wasn’t above using it to his advantage, either. He could hardly be blamed for wearing a bathrobe that was several sizes too small for him. His only other option was a towel, and that wouldn’t have helped matters.

  As they settled themselves on her colorful striped pillows and balanced their plates in their laps, he was careful to keep the bathrobe closed over his crotch. This game was all about teasing, anyway, not flashing the goods. Besides, nothing could happen between them without those little raincoats. He doubted she had a supply. The woman didn’t even own a make-out couch.

  She was a puzzle in so many ways. Even though she couldn’t stop looking at him, he could tell that she was fighting her reaction tooth and nail. She’d kissed him with enthusiasm, but she’d cautioned him that it was a mistake. He needed to find out why she’d said that, and sitting casually in front of a fire seemed like a better venue for sharing confidences than perched at the formal-looking dining table.

  She’d agreed to a second glass of wine, but she was taking tiny sips instead of knocking it back the way she had her first glass. Her speech about furniture in general and couches in particular had been entertaining. Enlightening, too. She viewed a couch as a boring anchor, so maybe she was more like his parents than he wanted to believe. Maybe, despite her dedication to these animals, she’d grow tired of being in one place and take off. He might want to keep that in mind.

  For sure Lily was nothing like Jeannette. Jeannette had been perfectly okay with owning an expensive and very boring couch. Now that he thought about it, that couch might have been a symbol for whatever had been missing in their relationship. He’d asked Jeannette to marry him because he’d cared for her. Now, though, he questioned whether they’d truly been in love.

  She’d appealed to him because she was deeply rooted in her hometown and she had ambition. After growing up with his rootless and unfocused parents, he craved Jeannette’s lifestyle and figured they’d be blissfully happy enjoying emotional and financial stability. And a boring couch.

  They’d had all that, but not much in the way of wild passion. If he were honest, he’d admit that the life they’d created as an engaged couple hadn’t been very stimulating. Getting married wouldn’t have changed that dynamic. She might have been bored, too, although she’d never said so. That she had sex with his best friend might have been a small indication. Ha. No kidding.

  One thing he could say after spending time with Lily King—he wasn’t bored. She appeared to have as many facets as the crystals hanging in her living room windows. They were the only decorations she’d put up, and there was something soothing about her minimalist approach, especially with a cheerful blaze crackling in the fireplace.

  Crystals always reminded him of his mother, who loved them. As he watched the crystals reflect the light from the fire, he felt a tug of nostalgia. And he was never nostalgic about his parents.

  His vegetarian folks also would have praised Lily’s lasagna. Regan glanced over at her. “You didn’t exaggerate about your cooking skills.” He pointed his fork at the generous helping on his plate. “This is terrific.”

  “Thank you. Listen, Regan, we need to talk about that kiss.”

  Good thing she hadn’t said that when he was drinking wine. As it was, he nearly tipped the lasagna right off his plate. But he recovered quickly enough to keep it from falling into his lap, which would have been bad on many levels. The food was hot, his privates weren’t well protected and this was his only outfit.

  Putting the plate safely beside him, he cleared his throat and turned to her. “Okay. Let’s talk.”

  “You don’t have to stop eating.”

  “I think I do. This is important.”

  “All right then.” She put down her plate, too. “The kiss was a mistake.” She looked him in the eye, her expression resolute.

  “How come?”

  “You broke up with your fiancée six months ago, right?”

  “Right.”

  “I’ll take a wild guess that you haven’t dated anyone since then.”

  “Nope, and that’s why I felt completely free to kiss you. And from the way you kissed me, I’d say you’re not dating anyone, either.”

  “I’m not, but that isn’t the point I wanted to make. If you haven’t dated since you ended your engagement, you’re on target for a rebound relationship.”

  He blinked. Although he hadn’t known what to expect from this discussion, that comment took him by surprise. “Who says?”

  “It’s common kno
wledge.”

  “What the hell? Is the entire population of the Jackson Hole area discussing my love life?”

  “No, of course not. I didn’t mean it that way. I’m just saying it’s generally accepted that people suffering a breakup usually rebound to someone else for temporary comfort and a chance to get their groove back.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I know what you’re talking about, but not everybody goes through that. And what’s with me being on target for it? Is six months significant? Is there some timetable I don’t know about?” And underneath that barrage of questions was guilt, because his thoughts this morning could easily be interpreted as a guy wanting to get his groove back, as she’d termed it.

  “No timetable. But why haven’t you dated since you broke up with Jeannette?”

  “Didn’t feel like it.” He took a gulp of his wine. His mellow mood was disappearing fast.

  “But now you do feel like it?”

  “I did until this conversation started. Not sure that’s still true.”

  “So you’re not attracted to me anymore? Is that because I hit the nail on the head?”

  He gazed at her, and his irritation faded. “You might have hit the nail a glancing blow.”

  She blew out a breath. “Thanks for admitting that.”

  “And for the record, I’m still attracted to you.”

  “Maybe because you’re at the stage where you need someone and I’m handy.”

  “No. It’s not like that.” She was so much more than handy. Tendrils of her hair had escaped from the arrangement on top of her head, and they seemed to dance and glow whenever she moved. The freckles across the bridge of her nose beckoned to him, tempting him to kiss each and every one.

  He anticipated his next move. The scent of her shampoo drifted across the space between them, drawing him closer. He longed to slide his hand up the curve of her neck, cradle her head and finally allow himself to taste her pink lips again. This time they would make that magical connection without benefit of mud or pesky pigs.