by Susan Fox
He chuckled, his body relaxing again. “I felt that when you locked your legs around me.”
“Yoga,” she said smugly. “Works wonders for muscle tone, strength, and flexibility.”
“If that’s a commercial, you’re selling me.”
She chuckled. “I’d love to see you in yoga pants.”
His body shook with laughter. “You see me like that, I might have to kill you.”
“I think you just did. The little death, isn’t that what the French call it?”
“I dunno, but what a way to go.” He lifted himself up on his elbows. “Seriously, Maribeth, I need to get up and deal with the condom.”
“Oh, right.” She released him so he could pull out and roll off her. Usually, she was a practical woman, but tonight she’d forgotten all about that detail. An especially critical detail now, since she was no longer on birth control. After all, she thought wryly, she wouldn’t want to get pregnant—even though having a baby was the one thing she most desired, and she was sure she and Mo would make an amazing one. But it wouldn’t be right. She’d never do that to a guy.
“Fire’s burned down,” he pointed out. “Want me to put more wood on it, or . . . ?”
“What’s the weather doing?” she asked, sitting up.
He walked to the window, unself-conscious in his nakedness, moving with easy masculine grace. When he pulled back the edge of the curtain, he said, “Snowing heavily. Rough guess, there’s a good eight inches so far.”
“Snowed in,” she said. “You should stay. You and Caruso. Maybe you should check on him, Mo.”
“Good idea.”
As he left the room, she rose, took the multicolored afghan from the back of a chair and wrapped it around herself, and then went to look out the window. The falling snow was thick enough that she could barely see the streetlights, but they did add a golden glow that gave the scene a sense of serenity.
She was still by the window, smiling as she watched the snow come down, when Mo returned. “Is Caruso okay?” she asked.
“Curled up all warm in his bed. And speaking of warm, you never answered my question about the fire.”
“Yes, let’s get it going again, and I’ll make hot chocolate. This is the first big snowfall of the year, and snuggling up in front of the fire seems like exactly the right way to celebrate it.”
“But no Christmas music, right?” he teased. “Because it’s not December yet.”
“Laugh all you want,” she said without rancor. “My way makes sense.” She poked her feet into her slippers and, clad only in them and the afghan, went down the hall.
Peeking into the sunroom, she saw Caruso just where Mo had said he was. The dog raised his head, saw her, and rested his chin back down on his paws.
“Sleep tight,” she murmured.
In the kitchen, she hummed as she set about making the drinks. Riding, brisk air, a hearty meal, the fire, and fantastic lovemaking had conspired to make her feel tired yet very content. What a lovely day, and Mo was a huge part of it. Being with him was invigorating and satisfying, and felt just plain right.
But that was dangerous thinking. She didn’t want to get ahead of herself.
At least no further than spending the night together and waking up together in the morning.
Chapter Eight
Mo felt surprisingly at home on Monday morning, wearing yesterday’s clothes and pouring orange juice in Maribeth’s kitchen. She, looking cute in a forest-green bathrobe, wearing glasses, her hair skewered into a messy pile atop her head, cracked eggs into a bowl. It had stopped snowing sometime in the night after having deposited several inches, and the white world outside was dazzling in the sunshine.
He’d spent the night. After hot chocolate and fire watching, he and Maribeth had made love on the rug again, under the afghan. They’d checked on Caruso and then gone upstairs to spend the night in her comfy queen-sized bed. There’d been more lovemaking in the middle of the night, and then lazy, laughing wake-up sex before they got up.
“Coffee ready?” Maribeth asked.
He checked the machine. “Yup. If you can call that stuff coffee.” She’d insisted on making decaf.
“Feel free to brew yourself a separate pot of regular coffee if you need the caffeine.”
Pouring two mugs, he said, “After last night, I almost do. But I guess bacon and eggs will get me going.” She had a big pan of bacon cooking, too. “What do you take in your coffee?”
“A splash of milk. I need some for the scrambled eggs, too.”
He doctored her coffee and then handed her the milk jug. She added some to the eggs, whisked, and then poured the mixture into a frying pan.
She looked like every guy’s fantasy of a sexy librarian or schoolmistress in those glasses. After the number of orgasms he’d had in the past twelve hours, he’d have thought his body was immune to arousal, but now it proved him wrong, stirring to life.
“You’re giving me that slow, lazy grin,” she said.
“That what?”
“That utterly devastating smile. Don’t tell me you don’t know when you’re doing it and don’t know the effect it has.”
He bit back another grin. Mostly, he didn’t think about it; he just smiled when he felt like it—which, until he’d met her, hadn’t been often. But yeah, he’d been known to use a smile deliberately, like when he’d asked the lady bus driver to make an unscheduled stop.
“So, what’re you smiling about this time?” she asked.
“I’m not used to you in glasses.”
“I don’t put in my contacts until my eyes are awake. What, you don’t like glasses?”
“I do. They’re sexy.” Behind the lenses, those stunning green eyes looked even larger.
She rolled her eyes and then turned her attention back to the eggs and bacon.
Watching her cook, Mo felt something more than arousal. Something deep in his bones—contentment, maybe?—that he didn’t recall ever feeling before. Almost like he was a man who had the capacity to be happy. It was a feeling he didn’t quite trust. After all, what right did a guy like him have to happiness?
“There’s bread in the bread box,” she said over her shoulder. “Can you get some toast going? I’ll dish out Caruso’s breakfast and you can put it in the sunroom.” When they’d checked earlier, he’d still been curled contentedly in his blanket nest.
By the time Mo had put a couple of slices of seed-studded bread into the toaster, Maribeth had a bowl full of scrambled eggs and crumbled bacon ready. “Maybe the snow will turn Caruso into a homebody,” she said, handing it to Mo.
“Guess we’ll see.” He couldn’t resist brushing a kiss against her delicate ear, exposed by her upswept hairdo. One day, he wanted to make love to her when she was dressed exactly like this. He wanted to kiss her ears and nape before freeing her hair to tumble down, and then he’d unwrap that body-concealing robe to reveal the beauty beneath. But he’d leave her glasses on and gaze at those huge green eyes as he thrust deep inside her.
Those eyes stared into his right now, glittering, and the flush on her cheeks suggested she might be thinking something similar.
The toaster popped with a ping. Maribeth gave a sort of shiver-shrug and said, “Breakfast’s ready.”
Mo hurried to take the food to the sunroom, where he found the door open a wider crack and no sign of Caruso but for a haphazard path in the snow.
Leaving the food, Mo returned to the kitchen, where Maribeth had served up two plates of eggs and crisply fried strips of bacon and was buttering the toast. After she seated herself at the kitchen table, Mo sat across from her. The table was wooden, maybe oak, and battered enough to have character. On it were bright woven place mats and pots of jam and honey. It was homey, which was a rare and unexpectedly pleasant experience for Mo.
He spread blackberry jam on his toast and dug into the meal. After a few delicious bites, he said, “I’ll shovel your driveway and front walk so you can get out.”
“Tha
t would be very nice. Not that I couldn’t do it myself, of course.”
“Yeah, yeah. I know. You’re . . . what was it? Strong and toned and flexible? Of course, if you want to prove it by doing the shoveling yourself—”
He broke off, laughing, when she reached across the table to swat his arm.
“It would be a big help if you did it,” she said. “Days of Your is closed on Mondays, which means it’s chore day, and I have a bunch of things to get done.”
“Will the roads be plowed?”
“Yes. We’re used to snow here, even if this is the first biggie of the year. The main roads will be plowed by now and they’ll be working on the residential streets so everyone can get to work and school. Are you working today?”
“Hank’s open six days a week and he said he’d take Saturdays and Sundays off if I took Sundays and Mondays. So technically, no. But I’m guessing the garage will be busy after the snow. Folks who haven’t got their snow tires on yet, cars that won’t start, a fender bender or two. Thought I’d drop over and offer him a hand.”
“That’s nice of you.” She smiled at him and rose. “More toast?”
“Please. This sure is a fine breakfast.”
She put more bread in the toaster, refilled their coffee mugs, and then brought two slices of toast to him along with the butter dish.
Once she was seated, finishing her breakfast, Mo asked, “So, uh, when will I see you again?”
“Not tired of me yet?”
“Nowhere near.” Right now, it was difficult to imagine ever being tired of the multifaceted redhead.
“Well, I have plans tonight. At least if there isn’t another dump of snow to clog up the roads.”
“Oh?” It was none of his business.
“A few girlfriends are coming over.” Her smile was gone and something tugged at the corner of her mouth: a hint of uncertainty, perhaps.
“Sounds like fun,” he ventured.
“It will be.” Her noncommittal tone didn’t match up with her words. She picked up her juice glass and took a long swallow. “Then tomorrow night I’m babysitting for friends. You could come along, the kids are fun.”
“Doesn’t sound like my kind of thing.”
She frowned slightly. “Okay.”
They both ate in silence for a few minutes, and then he asked, “So maybe Wednesday night? I could take you out for dinner.”
“I’d like that,” she said quietly. Gazing across at him, she added, “We’ll take it one day at a time, right? Our relationship, I mean.”
“You mean no expectations? No, uh, specific goal in mind?”
“That’s what you want, isn’t it?”
It was his turn to frown. “You’re okay with that, aren’t you? I mean, I told you up front that I’m a ‘tread lightly’ kind of guy. I’m not good at relationships and I’m not looking for anything serious.”
“That’s what you said.” Again she sounded noncommittal. “And yet you came to Caribou Crossing to see Brooke and Evan.” She captured a wayward curl and tucked it back in the messy pile atop her head. “Speaking of which, have you arranged to see Brooke again?”
Had Maribeth just changed the subject? Well, at least he had made himself clear about not looking for anything serious, so he moved on and answered her question. “I called her and we talked about getting together for lunch one day this week. She said she’d check her schedule and e-mail me. I should drop by my apartment so I can check e-mail on my tablet.” He should also shovel snow there, since his landladies were both in their eighties.
“If you got a phone, you could check e-mail on it.”
“When I had a phone, the only people who ever called were telemarketers.”
“Hank might need to get in touch,” she said. Then her eyes crinkled. “Or who knows, someone might want to call you at night for phone sex.”
He grinned. “Someone might?”
“You’ll never know until you get a phone.”
“I’ll buy one today and let you know the number.”
She put on an innocent expression, but her tone was teasing when she said, “You thought I was referring to myself?”
“You’d rather someone else called me for phone sex?”
She chuckled and then said, “Just to be clear. One day at a time and one partner at a time. Understood?”
“Works for me.” Why would he want to be with another woman if he had Maribeth? Breakfast finished, he stood and went around the table, where he bent to kiss her soft temple. “If you do the dishes, I’ll get going with the snow shovel.”
She put her arm around his waist, holding him at her side as she looked up at him. “What are you going to do about Caruso? He can’t sleep outside at the garage, not in the snow. I don’t mind leaving the sunroom door open for him, but I’m guessing he’d rather be with you.”
Mo scratched his head. “Crazy dog. Wish he’d just stay at the shelter.”
“No, you don’t.”
“Maybe not,” he admitted. “He does seem okay inside if the door’s open a crack. Guess I could talk to my landladies, but I can’t see them wanting a half-wild dog in their house.”
“Landladies? House?” She cocked her head. “I assumed you were in an apartment building.”
“No. It’s a house owned by a couple of women in their eighties.”
“Ms. Haldenby and her wife?”
Mo raised his eyebrows, and then said, “Small town, eh?”
“Ms. Haldenby was my fourth-grade teacher. She was everyone’s fourth-grade teacher until she retired. She’s, hmm . . .”
“Hmm?”
“When I was her student, I thought she was pretty strict, but later I realized how much I’d learned from her. Not just academically, but things about being a decent, productive person. She was, uh . . . principled, is a good word for it. But I admit that, even now that I’m an adult, she kind of scares me. She seems so starchy.”
“She was a little starchy when they interviewed me,” he agreed. “Ms. Peabody was more laid-back.”
“A friend of mine, Cassidy, rented that apartment when she first came to Caribou Crossing. Now she’s good friends with both the women. She says Ms. Haldenby is a compassionate woman who doesn’t suffer fools gladly.”
“Caruso may be crazy, but he’s no fool. I wonder what the ladies would say about him?”
“You don’t know until you ask. Take him over with you this morning and let them see how handsome he is. Maybe he’ll sing for them and charm them.” Her lips curved. “His singing tends to have the same effect as your smile. You and Caruso might want to go for a double whammy.”
He chuckled. “Thanks for the advice.” It seemed that whether he’d intended to or not, he’d acquired a dog and the responsibilities that went along with that. “Well, there’s lots to do before I head over to the garage. I’d best get my butt in gear.”
“Nice butt.” She squeezed his jean-clad ass.
“Keep that up and your snow will never get shoveled.”
Laughing, she pushed her chair back. “Just don’t forget, in that long list of things to do today, that you need to buy a phone.”
With phone sex as motivation, that was one task he wasn’t likely to forget.
* * *
Late Wednesday afternoon, Maribeth primped in the bathroom at the back of Days of Your. Mo was taking her out for dinner and they’d decided that rather than both go home after work, he’d shower at Hennessey’s and then come to her shop. This would be his first time here, and she’d spent almost as much time fussing over the displays of clothing, shoes, and jewelry as she had on figuring out what to wear. Not that Mo was even likely to notice the finer touches of a thrift shop, but Days of Your was her creation, and pride urged her to make it perfect—at least in her own eyes.
He would, however, definitely notice her. She’d made sure of that, changing from her more casual work garb into ivory-colored dress pants, cinnamon-colored boots, and a scoop-neck leopard print top that not on
ly hugged her ample breasts but showed off her cleavage. She’d added dangly copper earrings and a wide copper bracelet, and painted her fingernails a deep, shimmery nutmeg brown.
Twenty minutes ago, she’d turned the sign on the shop door to the CLOSED side, so when she heard a firm knock on the glass, she figured it would be Mo.
Her heart raced as she hurried toward the door. She’d barely talked to him since Monday morning. Though he had bought a phone, the promised phone sex had yet to come about. Last night, she’d babysat until late, and with a couple of little kids asleep upstairs she hadn’t felt right about calling Mo for sex.
And Monday night she’d been up late with her old girlfriends, gorging on her homemade brownies, catching up on everyone’s news, and discussing the merits of various sperm donors. After much deliberation, Maribeth had decided that if she did proceed with insemination, the baby’s biological father would be the family practitioner. He had all the good stuff—education, intelligence, health, physical attractiveness, and lack of medical problems—but in the end it was the warmth and compassion in his eyes that had tipped the scales over the extremely hot veterinarian. Dr. Jones had said that once Maribeth selected the donor, the clinic could put a rush order on the sperm, in hopes it would be there when she next ovulated.
Maribeth had instead, after considerable reflection, chosen to hold off for a month and see what happened between her and Mo. Although she hated to put off the opportunity to get pregnant, how could she opt for an anonymous donor when she felt so drawn to Mo? Even though at the moment, having another child seemed to be the last thing he wanted—or, at least, that he thought he wanted. Not to mention, she didn’t yet know whether that magic click really did mean he was the love of her life. How, in such a short period of time, had her life become so complicated?
When she unlocked the door, Mo said, “Everything okay? You’re frowning.”
“Oh, sorry. Just . . . something on my mind.” She shook her head, trying to rid it of her dilemma and to focus on the moment. And the man.
“Want to talk about it?” he asked, stepping inside and shrugging out of his denim jacket.
And have him turn tail and run? “No, thanks. It’s, uh, female stuff.”