“I’ll walk. I can almost see the river.” She took two steps back and pointed.
His half-smile turned into a full on teasing grin. “What’s the matter? Too close for comfort?”
“Please, I’ve ridden with bigger studs than you, Coach Dalton.” Lies, all lies.
“Actually, I wanted to show you something if you’ve got time.”
She totally needed to head back. Evelyn was due to leave soon, but the hesitancy in his voice had her saying, “Sure, why not.”
She mounted behind him. The curve of the seat slid her pelvis into his butt. She arranged her feet on the pegs behind his, and her thighs closed around his hips. Her lungs inflated with what should have been a steadying breath. Instead, it pushed her breasts into the warmth of his back, and her nipples pebbled.
He turned his head, his face in profile. “Put your arms around me. It’ll be bumpy.”
She obeyed, trailing her hands to his abdomen, her chin resting on his right shoulder. The machine leapt forward. The gears changed with small jerks, and her legs tightened around him. He steered them up the path, away from the river. A few of the smaller trees had started changing colors, a flash of color in the green and brown. Squirrels jumped branches overhead, and birds flew out of brush at their noisy approach.
The land rolled, and the ATV jumped at the apex of a small hill. Her stomach swooped. The next small jump incited giggles, and his answering rumble forced her hands flat. They wandered up his chest, settling along the lower ridge of his defined pectoral muscles. With every direction or gear change, his body flexed and moved against hers.
She closed her eyes and pressed her cheek against his shoulder blade. He smelled like … man. Not soap or cologne. Something much older, more primal, and infinitely arousing. God, Ada was right. Pheromones.
The ATV slowed its headlong gallop through the woods, and she opened her eyes. An abandoned house sat in a clearing of tall grass. Her breath hitched, and she was off the ATV as soon as he rolled to a stop. Brambles and vines reaching up the sides of the house worked on dragging it back to earth, and trees sprouted out of the crumbling foundation.
The house had been a favorite haunt in her youth. As soon as Logan had discovered it, he’d dragged her out to see it. They’d spent hours exploring and making it their official clubhouse. And in high school, she’d had her first beer ever with Logan, their legs swinging over the rotting edge of the porch.
Robbie joined her at the foot of the caved-in steps.
“I haven’t been out here for years,” she said absently, pulling at a vine that had wound up a square column to the portico. Crumbles of shingles sprinkled down. “This was our special place.”
“I know.”
“How did—?” Her gaze pinged from the house to him. “My letters,” she added in a whisper.
He shrugged and took a huge step up to the porch, bypassing the broken planks. He turned and offered her a hand. She slipped her hand in his, allowing him to pull her up beside him. She would have held on, but he dropped her hand to shoulder the door open. “Careful. There are some loose boards.”
The intervening years had not been kind. A few boards were gone, giving a view straight to the black dirt ground underneath. Remnants of animal nests were scattered throughout the room. She glanced at him from the corner of her eye, but in the dim light, his expression was unreadable.
“Who lived here? What happened to them? Why did they abandon it?” He’d come here and asked himself the same questions many times. She was sure of it. He stepped to the fireplace and ran a hand over the simple mantle.
“The Golightly family built it. They sharecropped for the Wildes, but were long gone before Logan and I stumbled over the house. I don’t know what happened to them.”
She stood next to him, imagining the house as it must have looked in its prime. Whitewashed walls and pictures spread out. Handmade quilts and rugs. Had there been children? She didn’t know.
Softly, she said, “I can find out though. If you want.”
He kicked at the crumbling bricks of the fireplace. She sensed it was important to him for some reason. In all the time she and Logan had spent in the abandoned house, she’d never been afraid of ghosts, but now an unfamiliar melancholy sent shivers up her back.
In a quiet voice, he said, “What if something terrible happened? Maybe it’s better not to know the truth. Maybe it’s better to imagine something happy.”
She didn’t have a good answer. Many people’s lives were riddled with tragedy. Instead, she squatted down and ran her hand down the wood-planked wall to the right of the fireplace. She found the grooves and smiled.
He joined her, their knees touching. His fingers followed hers, tracing the grooves like Braille. “Logan and Darcy.”
“I found my grandfather’s old pocketknife in the back of a junk drawer when I was around ten. It’s a miracle I didn’t contract tetanus, the number of times I nicked myself. I carved our names as proof we’d been here. Proof we existed.”
In contrast to her lightly said words, his voice rumbled deep. “You imagined some girl or boy finding your names a hundred years from now. Wondering who you were, what you did with your lives.”
His words were straight from one of her letters. A burn of tears clamored up her throat. As Logan’s emails from Afghanistan had grown more despondent, Darcy had ramped up her efforts to soothe him. She’d filled pages with their shared memories, hoping her words transported Logan from whatever hell he faced, but never imagining a stranger would read them. Yet, Robbie wasn’t a stranger. Not anymore.
“Do you have a knife?” she asked.
He pulled a foldable knife out of a cargo pocket and handed it over. She flipped it open and screwed the point into the wood an inch below her name. The wood had softened with age and decay, making the work go faster than she remembered at ten.
“Not as deep as I’d like, but it’ll survive longer than the house will.” She blew across the cuts. A cloud of wood dust settled to the floor. “Proof you’ve been here.”
His name carved below hers was barely visible in the dim light. Robbie. He traced the letters with his forefinger, his exhale long and slow. “I’m not sure I belong, but thanks.”
On her knees, she shifted toward him. Betrayed by her hand once more, she brushed fingers across his cheek. “Of course, you belong.”
He wrapped his hand around her wrist and leaned his cheek into her palm a moment before pulling her hand away. Grease from his face blackened her fingertips. He cleared his throat and stood, dropping her hand. “Jesus, I’m a mess. I’m going to wash off up at the spring.”
She followed him out and hopped off the porch. Dappled sunlight danced through the leaves, an antidote to the gloom shrouding the house. She took a deep breath and stretched her arms and face toward the sun.
He climbed a steep hill behind the house and disappeared over the slight ridge. A noise sounded deep in the woods in the opposite direction. It was probably a tiny, harmless squirrel bounding through dry leaves, but the image of a drooling, rage-filled pig sent her up the hill after him. As soon as he came into view, she stopped and clung onto a birch tree, her cheek pressing against the smooth bark.
Sweet baby Jesus, he’d taken off his shirt.
The spring spurted out of a crack in the rocks and trickled down the hill, absorbed into the packed red-clay ground. Handfuls of water cleaned the black paint off his face. More handfuls wet his hair, and he scrubbed his fingers over his scalp and nape. Finally, water sluiced down his arms. Dappled sunlight emphasized his shifting back muscles. A military-grade tattoo decorated his unmarred shoulder blade, and dark blond hair sprinkled his chest, running into the waistband of his pants.
She squeezed her legs around the tree.
The full extent of his injury glared red. Scarring covered not only his upper arm but also extended to his shoulder and the top part of his chest. The pain must have been excruciating. If she were close enough, she’d kiss his boo-boo for rea
l.
He shook himself like a dog. Water flew, dazzling in the sun. His shirt was halfway on when he spotted her. He paused with one arm in and one out, leaving his taut stomach exposed.
No use in pretending she was invisible. She stood up straight and propped a hand on her hip in a show of nonchalance. Bobbing her head, she thumbed over her shoulder. “Heard a noise. You know, so … just checking on you.”
Slowly, he pulled his shirt the rest of the way on. Damp spots formed and molded the cotton to his torso. The man would win a wet T-shirt contest hands down. His gaze flicked from her hair to her feet and back again. His approach was a practiced stalk, and like any wild animal, she retreated breakneck down the hill.
His descent was more deliberate and less frantic. She waited at the ATV and pretended to examine the house.
“Were you spying on me?” he asked.
Her reply consisted of a series of half-words and harrumphs, before she managed to say, “Of course not.”
A teasing amusement lightened his face and quirked his lips. Her stomach tumbled.
“I really did hear something.” She jerked a thumb over her shoulder toward the dense woods again. “I don’t want to get eaten by a pig.”
“I don’t know. I bet you’d be delicious.” His voice still teased, but his blue eyes smoldered.
What did he mean by that? Her head told her he hadn’t meant to imply anything, while her body thrummed. The memory of the kiss in his truck flamed her body. She drew her hands into fists to keep them in check. They wanted to take hold of his shirt and pull him close. Her arms wanted to wrap around his broad shoulders, and her lips wanted to brush over his smiling mouth. It was a compulsion she barely kept in check.
Instead, she slid her phone out of her back pocket. No service. “I need to get back. Ms. Evelyn is going to kill me.”
“No, she’ll just lecture you for hours.”
“Even worse,” she quipped.
He mounted the ATV, and she slipped behind him without a prompt. The machine growled to life, and they did a slow turn before he hit the throttle and sent them hurtling down the path with wild recklessness. She allowed her body to curl tightly around his, allowed her hands free reign while she had the excuse. Too soon, the old bridge was in sight.
Kicking into high gear once they were safely on the other side, they sped across the field, the tall grass bending to let them pass. He stopped at Ada’s front steps. She didn’t want to let him go, didn’t want to get off. Evelyn hustled out the door, hands on hips.
“You want to come in for some tea?” Darcy propped her chin on his shoulder, her mouth close to his ear.
“I’d rather face a wild pig.” An echo of his teasing amusement returned.
“Okay. Well.” She climbed off and bit her lip, searching for something non-idiotic to say. “I’ll see you tonight. For our fake date. Got to put on a show for the town, don’t we?”
“Sure. Listen, I’ve got some stuff to do in town so I’ll meet you there.” He didn’t look at her. The engine revved, too loud for a reply to be heard, and the ATV shot away. The tall grass wavered like water in his wake.
Chapter 11
Showered and wearing a T-shirt and jeans, Robbie headed to The Tavern. His foot eased off the accelerator as he passed Miss Ada’s. Darcy’s car was still out front. His eyes peered, trying to see through the walls, but nothing moved.
Not for the first time, he reminded himself these were fake dates. Fake. Not real. Except, the more time he spent with her, the more real they felt. He didn’t need to fake the ease that coursed through him around her or the attraction that nearly brought him to his knees. On their ride back from the old house, her soft body curved against his back had him gunning the ATV before he could do something foolish like pull her around to straddle him.
And as if controlling the physical attraction wasn’t hard enough, she had to go and carve his name under hers. As proof he’d been there, proof he existed. She didn’t know anything about him. Not really. Yet, even now, hours later, her sweetness resonated through him like aftershocks.
Regulars crowded the bar. Claiming a stool, Robbie whistled for Logan. “The kitchen open?”
With a grin, Logan said, “A limited menu, but for you, my friend, anything. Where’s Darcy?”
“She’s meeting me here. Burger and fries. And a beer.”
“Coming right up.” Logan passed a slip to the nearest waitress and pulled a long-necked beer out of ice. “All you have to do is dance a couple of times. Convince people something is heating up between the two of you. You look like I’ve given you a suicide mission.”
“Maybe I should be drinking Kamikazes.”
“I realize Darcy’s not your type, but she turned into a decently attractive woman. Believe me, it was not looking promising there for a couple of years.”
“She’s damn near gorgeous,” Robbie said before thinking. He took a pull on his beer to avoid the question in Logan’s eyes. “Wait, what’s my type?”
“Vapid beautiful shells. The kind you walk away from and forget. That’s not Darcy.”
It’s not like he sought out vapid shells to date. They sought him out, and as he had never been looking to settle down, he … settled. His gaze strayed to the door as he killed the beer.
Logan replaced it with another and whispered, “Watch yourself.”
Sheila approached with swinging hips and a dark liquor drink. Beyond her, Rick leaned on the corner of the bar nursing a beer, his gaze glued to Sheila. The woman was no doubt a beauty, but more viper than vapid.
“Hey, Coach, you looking for some company?”
“I’m meeting someone,” he said.
Her smile faltered, and her eyes flared. “Alec Grayson coming?”
“Nope. Darcy Wilde.”
“Darcy—” She dropped any pretense of seduction. She emptied her glass in three swallows and tossed her hair over her shoulder. A cloying musky perfume tickled his nose.
Robbie tipped his beer up and nearly choked on the first cold swallow. Darcy stepped through the door. Jeans encased her lithe legs. Heeled black boots put her at a respectable height. A tight, sleeveless, light pink shirt complemented her complexion, and the deep vee set off her cleavage. Her hair was pulled back in a low, sleek ponytail.
Her gaze bounced over him, but she averted her face, rubbed her hands down her legs, and headed for a table in the middle of the room. A brief chat with the waitress garnered her a beer. She took a few sips and then pulled and scraped at the sweating label. Vultures gathered. Two men stared at her from the sidelines and planned their attack.
Logan settled a plate of food in front of Robbie and jerked his head toward Darcy. Robbie turned to the side in order to eat and keep his eyes on her. Unfortunately, Sheila took his move as an invitation to hang around.
Sheila leaned back against the bar, her breasts thrust out. “Darcy Wilde is trouble.”
The first bite of burger settled in his stomach like a giant, tasteless wad of gum. The two men had worked up their strategy and slid into seats at the table. Darcy sat up a little straighter and tucked nonexistent hair behind her ear.
“Why do you say that?” Robbie gave Sheila only a fraction of his concentration.
“Her mama got around, and I’ve heard tell the apple didn’t fall far.”
Darcy knew the two men. Their conversation had the ease of old acquaintances, not strangers. Both men wanted her. Legs braced apart, they leaned over the table vying for her attention. The burger burned a path up his throat.
“You shouldn’t believe everything you hear, Sheila, and you sure as shit shouldn’t repeat it.” His jab must have hit home. Her hair brushed his arm on her turn, and she retreated to the stool by Rick. Robbie forgot about Sheila and focused on Darcy.
Distress straightened her back and tightened her mouth. Neither man had touched her, but she was either upset or pissed as hell. Pink to match her shirt burned up her chest and into her cheeks. Maybe it was unconscious, but sh
e sought him with her eyes, with the turn of her body.
He slid off the stool. In the same moment, she rose. Their gazes latched, and she weaved through the tables toward him.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“Nothing.” She shifted on her feet and brushed her hand all the way down her swinging ponytail.
He almost called bullshit but tempered his response. “You look upset.”
“I … no, I’m not.”
“You are. Tell me why.”
Her lashes dropped, and with a slight, fake laugh, she said, “You can’t escape the past, can you?”
It was a question he couldn’t answer. His past always hovered too close for comfort. Her gaze meandered back to his, and he wanted to punch the men who had filled her blue eyes with sadness.
Logan ambled over. “Well …” he said, waving his hands leadingly.
“What?” Darcy and Robbie said together.
“For the love of Pete, get out there and dance. You two are hopeless.” Logan threw his hands up and went to the jukebox. A slow, sexy country song dampened the bar’s raucous laughter.
“Might as well do this.” The need to pound heads cut his words with rude aggression. He took a deep breath and offered his hand.
“You really know how to turn a girl’s head, don’t you?” She ignored the hand.
“Come on.” Stiff legs carried him to the dance floor.
She didn’t follow. Instead, she folded her arms under her breasts, and her hip popped out. His eyebrows rose, and he gestured her forward with two fingers. If she didn’t get her sweet butt on the dance floor, he’d spank it and no doubt enjoy the process. Damn, he didn’t want to feel this protective. He didn’t want to want her this bad.
Logan muttered something in her ear, prompting her to move. Otherwise, she would have left him hanging. With a mulish expression he’d seen her grandmother wear more than once, she joined him. Even in her heels, she was a couple of inches shorter than him. His hands circled her waist, and hers lay on the curves of his shoulders. Heat burned through thin cotton, belying her soft touch.
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