When We Touch

by Tia Louise

  “We’ll be more comfortable sleeping here,” I say, holding the door for her as she slips out of the cab.

  She’s right in front of me, her head only reaching the center of my chest, and I cup her cheek. The shadows are thicker here, the moonlight more ambient. I press my lips gently to hers, and I feel the tension leave her body. When I pull away again, our eyes meet, and we’re back.

  I take her hand and continue to the house. “So you didn’t date,” I say, hoping to continue the story.

  “After we graduated, Mason left to go to the mission field. I didn’t want to go to college, but I wasn’t sure what else I’d do.”

  I unlock the door, and we step inside. She gasps, and I smile. “I know, right?”

  “It doesn’t look anything like it used to.” Her voice is a whisper as she walks carefully around the living room, touching the back of the couch, the pillows. “It was only a shack when we came here.”

  “Dad had it completely redone.”

  She nods. “I remember when it was happening. I… I never could bring myself to come back. Not after…”

  “I know.” I do know. We shared several firsts here. I painted her here. We can revisit those times later. “So you went to culinary school?”

  That gets me a laugh, musical and soft. “No.” She shakes her head. “I never went to culinary school. I did hair. I sold makeup, I sold leggings, I was a teller at the bank for about five minutes…”

  “Jesus, you’ve done everything in Oceanside!” I laugh because my insides are warm with love.

  “Not true,” she laughs, leaning into me for a quick kiss. “I never painted houses. I never worked at the hardware store, and I never made poboys.”

  “What got you interested in cakes?” I push a lock of damp hair behind her ear. “How did that start?”

  “When Coco had her first birthday, I’d planned this whole Little Mermaid theme.” She sits on her knees on the couch, and I walk around to sit in front of her. “I wanted a cake with blue raspberry and strawberries and cookies for the clam shells…”

  “What happened?” Her energy telling this story pulls me in.

  “Everybody looked at me like I was crazy. If it wasn’t a basic round, two tiered sponge, nobody knew how to do it.”

  She’s already talking over my head, but I don’t want her to stop. “So?”

  “So I found a cake baking book and I did my research and I made it myself.” She sits back, a smug look on her face.

  “And it was good,” I finish for her.

  She leans forward as if letting me in on a secret. “It was really good.” Her nose wrinkles, and she’s fucking adorable. “My aunt Agnes—”

  “The lady who owned the five and dime?”

  “Yes!”

  “She always gave me free candy.”

  A sly smile curls Ember’s lips. “Cinnamon.”

  I can’t resist. I lean forward and kiss her. “Tell me more about the cakes.” We’re catching up so fast, our conversations flying from one memory to the next seamlessly.

  “Aunt Agnes believed in me from the start. She said I had a natural gift for baking. I started baking cakes for birthday parties, which led to special occasions, and eventually weddings. It started as a hobby until I read a magazine article about Peggy Porschen…”

  I frown and shake my head, and she explains. “Peggy Porschen owns this super-famous bake shop in London. It’s gorgeous. It has flowers everywhere and chandeliers and the whole front entrance is pink with a huge rose garland above the door…”

  “I understand your interior design choices now,” I tease, but she’s serious.

  “It’s everything I aspire to be. I’m going to work my ass off, own my own shop, and take care of Coco and me… And maybe I can bring some business back to Oceanside.”

  Sliding my finger along the line of her cheek, I don’t say aloud that I plan to be the one taking care of her and Coco. I love her dream, and she can bake as much as she wants. But now that I have her in my arms again, no one is taking her away from me—past or present. Ember Rose is mine from now on.

  A shadow crosses her face, and my chest tightens. “What’s wrong?”

  “My mother says it’s a ridiculous pursuit, especially as a career path. She doesn’t believe anyone will pay enough for cake to support a family.”

  “I don’t like to agree with your mother, but in this part of the country, where everyone bakes…”

  She nods, grasping my forearm. “I know, but Aunt Agnes was looking ahead to the future, to where we are now. Things have changed so much so fast!”

  “You’re right.” I nod, lacing our fingers. “In the city, a cake shop like yours could easily support your little family with plenty left over. Here, you might have to get more creative with your business plan.”

  “Tabby wants to set up a website for online orders, and as time passes, I’m getting more orders for things like birthday cakes, special occasion cakes… Women our age don’t bake as much. It’s becoming a specialized thing.”

  “It sounds like a great idea, and you’re a natural. Right?”

  Her chin drops, and she looks up at me through her lashes. “You’ve never had one of my cakes.”

  Leaning forward, I kiss her nose. “I’ve tasted other things of yours, and they’re very good.”

  “Jackson!” She slaps my arm, which makes me laugh. “I don’t make coochie cakes…” She pauses, and I see her thinking. “Only penis cakes.”

  “What?”

  She laughs loudly at my surprise. “Betty Pepper orders penis cakes!”

  My eyes go round, and I stand, pulling her to her feet. “Are you telling me you’re a dirty Betty Crocker?”

  She snorts loudly, and it makes me laugh. Scooping her off her feet, I throw her over my shoulder and start for the bedroom. “I’ll give you penis cake…”

  “Jackson! Put me down,” she laughs, but I head down the hall to the bedroom. As we pass the smaller room I’ve been using for a studio, she starts wiggling out of my grasp. “Stop. Wait!”

  I set her on her feet, and stand beside her as she looks into the room. The sketchpad is where I left it propped on the easel. Light from the doorway falls directly over the charcoal drawing I did of her, and the effect is dramatic.

  Every curve and shadow seems more pronounced, and she walks slowly toward the image of her. It’s a replica of my painting. Her legs are strategically crossed to cover her private parts, but from the waist up, she’s exposed.

  Her dark hair flows in ripples around her shoulders, and her beautiful breasts are on full display. I took my time on them, sliding my fingertips under the curves, over the nipples…

  She reaches out and holds her hand above the lines and shades of her face. “When did you do this?” Wonder is in her voice, and my stomach tightens.

  “Do you like it?”

  Her chin lifts and she looks up at me. “It’s so good. It’s… like the other one.”

  Stepping behind her, I wrap my arms around her waist, leaning down so my chin is on her shoulder. She places one arm over mine.

  “I couldn’t get you out of my head any other way. I had to draw you.”

  “You still paint?”

  We’re both speaking as if we’re in church, hushed and reverent. We’re in the presence of my dreams, both of them married together on paper in front of us.

  “I haven’t painted in a long time. About ten years.”

  “But you sketch?” She steps out of my arms, turning to face me and hold both my hands in hers.

  “This is the first sketch I’ve done in about as long.”

  Small lines crease her brow. “Why did you stop?”

  Now it’s my turn to look away. “I lost my inspiration when I lost you.”

  “And now you’ve found it again?” It’s a quiet question, a question so full of meaning. It’s the question of what will happen next.

  “That depends…”

  Mentally, I’ve already made a place for
her and her daughter here. I have unfinished business, we have truths to sort out, but the outcome doesn’t change. Ember belongs with me.

  Lifting her fingers to my lips, I kiss the top of her hand. “I’d like to paint you again now, with all of your changes.”

  Her nose wrinkles. “Ten years older?”

  Lowering her hand, I reach out and slide my finger under the strap of her dress. It drops down her arm, exposing her breast. My lips heat, and I lift my hand to touch her. Her breath catches in a soft gasp as I cup the weight, sliding my thumb over the tightening nipple.

  “They’re larger,” I say in the same quiet voice.

  I lift my other hand to do the same, lower the strap, expose her breast. Only this time the entire dress drops to the floor. The blood rushes below my waist, and my cock rises.

  My eyes are fixed on her body, her beautiful curves in my hands. Her hips are more rounded. “You were only a girl when I painted you last time. Now you’re a woman.”

  When I look up, I see her eyes are dark. Her lips are parted, then the bottom one is clutched below the tips of her white teeth. “I want you inside me.”

  Fuck. My hand drops between her legs, and she moans softly as I touch her.

  “You’re so wet.”

  “Please…” she hisses.

  I don’t have to be asked twice.

  I quickly shove my jeans to the floor, allowing my cock to spring free. She grasps it, pulling gently, sliding her thumb over the damp tip, blowing my mind. I can’t wait to carry her across the hall to my bed. I grasp her hips, lifting her off her feet, and push her back against the nearest wall.

  “Oh, God!” she gasps as I lower her body, sinking my throbbing dick deep into her clenching heat.

  We’re instinctual and hungry. My hips thrust up as her thighs push against my pelvis. Her breasts bounce, and she moans, digging her fingers into my shoulders. I can’t hold out any longer as the fierce orgasm spirals up my thighs, tightening my pelvis, and shooting out of me.

  “Ember,” I groan against her neck, pulsing deep.

  In that moment, all uncertainty is gone. This is my future—us, here, together. It’s the only thing I want.

  Sixteen

  Ember

  Having Jackson Cane in my life again is like waking from a ten-year sleep. It’s like touching a match to the ashes lying dormant in my soul and suddenly being surrounded by light and warmth and protection. It’s like stretching up to ride the wind or folding inward and becoming the fire.

  Last night I lost the battle of resistance. I surrendered to the deep need I’ve been fighting since he returned. His touch awakened all that had gone quiet in my soul when I lost him…

  Only, I didn’t lose him.

  Last night I was able to put these questions aside and luxuriate in the decadent satisfaction of reunion. Jackson touches me like no one ever has. He coaxes the sleeping goddess awake. When we touch, I remember all the first times. He’s my teacher, my lover, my friend, my everything. When he says I’m his, my soul rings with assent.

  I am his.

  He is mine…

  And he wants Coco.

  He’s not put off by her. My jaw tightens at the memory of the cruel words my mother spoke.

  Lies, always lies.

  The lies end now.

  Wyatt is trimming the box hedge around the perimeter of his yard as I ride my bike toward my mother’s house. I pass Kay Johnson on her knees in her front flowerbed, striking the stereotypical ass-in-the-air pose.

  With each push of the pedals, an ache of satisfaction echoes deep in my core, and it makes me smile remembering making love last night, so many times. Nothing has changed between us. If anything, our passion is hotter than ever…

  Now it’s time for truth.

  I’m rounding the corner toward the enormous house where I grew up when Betty Pepper comes racing down her walk to meet me.

  “Emberly! Emberly Warren!” She’s waving one hand over her head and clutching her bouncing bosom with the other. “I need to speak to you right this minute!”

  Remembering what happened last night provokes a little growl in my chest, and I’m already on an angry errand. Still, I push the pedals backward and skid to a stop.

  Stepping off Dixie, I walk her to the white picket fence surrounding BP’s house. It’s almost noon, and the blazing sun makes me squint and wish for sunglasses.

  “Good morning, Miss B,” I say without enthusiasm.

  “Emberly!” She’s gasping for breath and touching the beads of sweat off her upper lip. “I swear it’s so hot today, I had to wear my Bermooda shorts!”

  “Bermuda,” I correct under my breath.

  “Where is my Bucky? It’s lunchtime, and he’s still not home. Did he spend the night with you last night?”

  “Good lord,” I growl. “He did not spend the night with me. He tried to spend the night, and when I told him no, he tried to force me.”

  The older woman’s hand is pressed to her chest as if she’s on the verge of a heart attack. “My stars! I’m sure that was a misunderstanding. Bucky would never—”

  “It was not a misunderstanding. Jackson was there. He got Bucky off me, and I called Chad Tucker. When Chad finally showed up, Bucky had run away!”

  “What! I never… Well, that’s just like you Emberly Warren!” Her face is indignant. “Bucky has a tender heart. He made you a special squirrel. I watched him spend hours getting it just right, and you stand here making up falsehoods about him! He’s a good boy, and everyone knows the loose morals you have. Ever since you were a girl running around with Jackson Cane then getting pregnant out of wedlock by some stranger…”

  White-hot anger flashes in my face and neck. “Don’t you dare talk about my daughter.”

  “You’re talking about my son,” she shrieks. “Why, you probably tried to seduce him, and when he resisted, you told lies about him… like Joseph in the Bible. You’re a Potiphar’s wife!”

  My hand twitches at my side, and I remember the stories Bucky said his mother has been spreading around town about me. I’d like nothing better than to slap Betty Pepper into next Tuesday.

  Instead, I turn my bike, grumbling as I go, “Bucky smells like deviled eggs and he looks like Kip Dynamite. I’d rather seduce a pig!”

  “Don’t you walk away from me, Emberly Rose! You’ve got to help me find him! You were the last one with him.”

  “I’m not doing anything for you,” I shout.

  “You’ve always been this way, Emberly. You can’t hear the truth about yourself. You never could.”

  Shoving my bike against my mother’s fence, I spin around and storm across the street again, fire blazing in my eyes. “Don’t tell me what I can’t hear, Betty Pepper! You don’t know me, and you clearly don’t know your son.”

  “Oh, I know you. I know all about you and your family!” she hisses. My fists clench, and the old woman draws back, her elbows rising like a chicken. “What are you thinking? Don’t you hit me!”

  Her neck is pulled in, causing a double chin to form along her jawline, and her old blue eyes are bulging. I’m breathing so hard my chest rises and falls rapidly, and I realize how this must look. Last thing I need is everyone saying I hit an old woman.

  Taking several deep breaths, I force myself to relax. “Tell your son to stay away from me. If you try to slander me, I know at least two other girls who will testify against him.”

  I turn and head back for my mother’s house. My fight isn’t with Betty Pepper, and I won’t let her distract me from why I’m really here.

  “Hypocritical busybody trying to hold me to some double standard to make herself feel important,” I mutter.

  I have a bigger fish to fry.

  Pausing on the massive wrap-around front porch of my mother’s house, I center my thoughts. I’m here for one very important reason. Inside, I don’t see anyone on the first floor. Music comes from the second floor. It sounds like Coco is watching one of her children’s shows. My brow
furrows when I think about her hearing what I have to say. I almost back out when my mother rounds the corner from the kitchen into the foyer.

  “Emberly?” She stops fast as if I’ve caught her in the act of doing something illegal. “What are you doing here?”

  Several sheets of paper are in her hand, but I can’t make out what’s on them. “Is Coco here?” I ask, looking up the stairs.

  “No, she had a play date today with Polly. I told you—”

  “We need to talk.” I sidestep her, going into the sitting room. “Would you mind?”

  She hesitates, watching me. “What is this about?”

  I’m not sure what to make of her defensiveness, but I don’t have time to lose. “I talked to Jackson last night.” Among other things…

  “Jackson…?” She actually tries to pretend she doesn’t understand.

  “Jackson Cane?”

  “Oh.” She strides into the room and sits on the edge of her Edwardian loveseat. Her back is straight as a board. “Jack Lockwood.”

  “He never liked that name.”

  “It’s his name.” Her voice is flinty, and her eyes are cold. It’s a side she likes to keep hidden, but I’m well acquainted with my mother the superbitch.

  “After he left for college it seems he and I both got the same story.” As I speak, my mother’s eyebrow arches. “Why did you lie to keep us apart?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  I take a deep breath and step toward the fireplace, putting my hand on the mantle. “You didn’t like me with him. Why?”

  “Emberly, your imagination is—”

  “Why, Momma?”

  Her eyes flash, and she speaks quickly. “He’s a liar. He comes from a family of liars.”

  “Is lying genetic?” I sure hope not since Marjorie Warren is the queen.

  She stands up in front of the small sofa. “He ruined you the same way his father ruined this town… the same way his mother ruined our family!”