Nashville Crush

by Bethany Michaels

  "I...just...get...freaked out sometimes thinking about all this. I mean marriage. It seems so serious. So....permanent."

  A female commitment-phobe? Interesting—or would be if he cared about her relationship MO. Her fiancée-wannabe should have figured that out before he popped the question and sent her running, though.

  "It is serious. And permanent, if you're lucky." He hoped the pain that suddenly speared through him wasn't evident in his tone. He cleared his dry throat and turned away, getting another water out of the fridge. "You gonna pass out or what?"

  "I'm fine." He recognized his words coming back to him and the corners of his mouth twitched. She was feisty, Hank's niece. He liked that.

  But she was right about his lack of knowledge about women. His relationship with Amy had been easy and since there hadn't been anyone else since her. Trent didn't have a lot to offer in the way of relationship advice and the idea of getting sucked into some sort of girly hanky fest where they discussed relationships and feelings was right up there with contracting the plague or getting his balls stuck in a meat grinder . He couldn't deal with a weepy female, either. It was time to lay off the Oprah moments and find a distraction.

  He grabbed a second bottle of water and handed her one. "Wanna watch the game?"

  She blinked, staring at him as if she'd suffered mental whiplash, but after a beat, she took the water and the bait. "What game?"

  His mind went blank. Game. There had to be a game. He'd paid for the $259 ultimate sports pack to make sure there was a game. Baseball, NASCAR, tennis, water polo, badmitton...something. Anything.

  "The game," he said as if she should know exactly what he was talking about. He went into the living room and dug the remote out of the couch cushion. Crap. He should offer her something to eat, maybe. It had been way too long since he'd had guests to worry about, especially guests of the female variety. But she wasn't a female guest, not really. So he'd just pretend she was Hank and they were watching a game.

  "You hungry?"

  "I—no, I'm fine. Thanks." She settled into the plush cushions of the leather loveseat and turned her head attentively towards the screen mounted over the fireplace.

  Trent turned on the TV. Before he could even search the guide for "the game" Hank's niece let out a little squeal.

  "Oh my God, it's Sweetwater Vampire University, Inc.!"

  Perfectly airbrushed 20-somethings with bad hair extensions cavorted on the screen, looking angsty, horny and mildly menacing in dark eyeliner and biker boots.

  "Do you mind if we watch? It's a rerun but I love this episode. This is where X tells X about the love spell and then X and X hook up, but he doesn't know that X is pregnant with X's vampire baby and— "

  Trent's eyes crossed and he didn't even process the rest of her explanation designed to catch him up on the series. The way she was perched on the edge of the cushion staring at the screen told him there was going to be no game-watching happening. But on the upside, all the painfully awkward relationship chit-chat was forgotten, too.

  Sometimes you had to look at the least painful option as the win so Trent set the remote aside and settled into his recliner to try and imagine how messed up that network pitch session had been and the 20-year-old executive who'd ordered the series.

  But as the closing credits rolled and next week's teaser titillated its teen-aged audience, he realized he hadn't thought about the accident once, even though it was the anniversary of that horrible night. He hadn't numbed the pain with alcohol and he hadn't wallowed in a boatload of self-pity and guilt.

  The silly little show and the woman perched on his couch had held the darkest shadows at bay.

  *****

  Patterson was pretty sure hanging out with her watching SVUI was not how Trent Ryder spent most of his evenings. But he'd stayed for the whole episode and even asked a few questions about this character or that during the commercials. It was not high entertainment, she had to admit. But it was campy and fun and worrying about who was fanging whom took her mind off more immediate problems. Like X. Who she wasn't thinking about right now. Her chest had lost that tight feeling she's gotten when she'd been telling Trent about everything. He was hardly like a girlfriend she could open up to, but he was better than nothing and he was so sweet to her even after the crappy day he’d had.

  "Well, what did you think?" she asked, standing up and stretching. It was full dark outside and the only light in the living room came from a reading lamp behind Trent's recliner and the soft glow of the enormous TV. What was it with guys and giant TVs anyway? Did they think their penis size somehow increased with the size of their flat screens?

  "Is this what people your age watch?" He hit the mute button.

  "Sure. That and reality TV."

  He snorted. "That crap is not reality. Nobody finds a husband in front of a million viewers in 10 neat episodes.”

  "Agreed." She was aware of his gaze on her, shaded and heavy-lidded. "And no girl is OK with her potential husband dating 20 girls at once. Those shows make Heidi Montag look genuine."

  The corners of his mouth turned up slightly. He looked so much younger with his hair shorter and his beard trimmed down. He looked less Grizzly Adams and more Adam Levine. Warmth swept through her body as she became aware of just how alone they were here in his house. She was aware that he wore only a t-shirt and those baggy shorts and how his bare feet propped up on his recliner's footstool were so large and tan, just like the rest of him.

  "I'm hungry." He put the recliner upright and stood.

  "Want me to make something?"

  "No." He'd already started to the kitchen and she smiled to herself.

  "I'm not that bad a cook. It's just been...a really weird day."

  He opened the fridge and peered inside. "That's the truth."

  Patterson went to the island and leaned on her elbows, watching her host's round ass and muscled bare legs as he hunted something for them to eat. She forced herself to look away and think of something else. "Does your head hurt?"

  "Yes." He pulled out some grapes and a block of cheese. "This OK or should I order a pizza?"

  "It's fine." Patterson wasn't all that hungry. Not for food anyway. "Got any wine?"

  He froze, his back to her and she wondered if she'd said something wrong. His shoulders dropped. "Just the X you saw earlier."

  His voice was tight. "Water's fine," she said. Maybe he was saving the wine for something special. Or someone. It had been weird to see all that beer and wine and whiskey laid out on the island earlier like he was an Olympic drinker and yet she hadn't see him pop even a beer all day. And now he was all weirded out by her asking about a glass of wine. Maybe he was a recovering alcoholic or something? But then why would he have enough liquor in the hose to start his own club?

  "If you want the wine, go ahead," he said. "I'm not going to drink it."

  She started to decline but she'd been seriously stressed the last few days. A glass or two of wine to take the edge off might be what she needed to sleep tonight. It would ease the last of the tightness in her chest. "If you're sure you don't mind."

  He got a wine glass out of the cabinet and handed it to her without a word then dug through a drawer until he found a cork screw. He grabbed one bottle of the wine and opened it a little clumsily before setting it down on the island in front of her. His hand trembled slightly.

  "Thanks." She filled her glass.

  He'd turned his back to her and gone to work on slicing the cheese at the counter next to the fridge. As the silence stretched between them, punctuated only by the thwack of the knife hitting the cutting board, Patterson felt like she needed to say something, anything, to break the tension between them that was becoming sexual with the darkness and the isolation and the intimacy of sharing food in an empty kitchen. At least it was on her part. She doubted he saw her as anything other than a pain in the ass who liked bad TV and couldn’t cook.

  "So what do you do when you're not watching sports or scaring off
intruders from Uncle Hank's house?"

  He didn’t say anything for a moment and she wondered if he’d heard her at all when he finally answered. "I fish."

  Patterson waited for the rest of the list, but apparently that was the end.

  "All day? You don't have a job?"

  "No." The knife thumped against the cutting board with a little more force.

  "I... you're a songwriter, right?"

  "I was."

  "Retired?"

  He put the knife down and grabbed a plate out of the cabinet. "Yes."

  Ok. Obviously a sore topic. She'd chalk that up to temperamental artist behavior.

  "I'm a graphic designer," Patterson offered as he delivered the plate of fruit and cheese to the island and pulled a stool up opposite her. "I'm doing album covers right now. If I stay here I might try to get some more of that kind of work."

  "I thought you were a hairdresser."

  "Well, I was. For a few months." She grinned. "I was also a nursing major for a couple of semesters. And then I tried pre-law."

  "Didn't like any of them?"

  "Oh, I liked them fine, I just didn't love them. Not enough to say that it was what I wanted to do the rest of my life."

  He nodded at the fruit plate as if confirming something.

  "What?"

  "You can't make a decision to save your life."

  "Not true. I decided to come to Nashville and here I am."

  "That was a reaction, not a decision."

  She was quiet, nibbling her cheese. She wasn't sure she liked Trent psychoanalyzing her. Especially when he clearly had some pretty serious issues of his own going on.

  "I'm a student of life," she said finally, with an airy tone.

  He snorted at that. "Typical of your generation."

  "What's wrong with not settling? For holding out for what I really want and not stopping until I find it?"

  "Nothing." He popped a grape into his mouth and Patterson couldn't help but notice his straight white teeth and strong jaw line, defined now that it wasn't covered in bushy beard. "Just make sure there's something you're running to and not just running from."

  She sipped her wine. It was too sweet for her taste, but she didn't want to offend, especially after the way he was all weird about it. "So now you're a life coach or something?" She teased him gently, no real animosity in her words.

  "Hardly. It's called experience."

  She wanted to ask more, had an odd urge to pick away at his tough outer layer until she figured out what squishy parts inside had made his shell so hard. But she knew he'd just shut down and go back to the one-word answers he excelled at. No, best to keep it light.

  "Yes, clearly your advanced age has given you access to all sorts of wisdom." She rolled her eyes.

  He frowned. "Not that old."

  "Dan said he was pushing 40 but that you were younger than him."

  "You talked to Dan?" he frowned at that.

  "Sure, when he came to look at the door. While you were asleep this afternoon."

  Trent frowned harder.

  "Something wrong with Dan?"

  "He likes women."

  Patterson laughed. "I don't see that as deal breaker."

  "You wouldn't."

  "What's that supposed to mean?" She popped a sweet grape into her mouth.

  "He's slick. That's all. Good with the ladies."

  "I thought he was nice. Cute, too. Nice dimples."

  Trent frowned harder. "Did he ask you out? Maybe offer his services as tour guide?"

  Patterson shrugged. "Yeah. So?"

  "That's his MO." Trent looked a little smug. "A tour of the Parthenon, maybe the Ryman, have a couple of drinks at Tootsie’s or The Stage and then end up at the Hermitage Hotel for an extended overnight tour."

  Patterson couldn't help but smile. "How do you know that's what he does?"

  "Where do you think he learned it?” He almost smiled.

  "Oh really?" she laughed at that, thinking about this reserved, loner type plotting to get a woman alone in a hotel room. "I can't see that."

  "It was a long time ago. And you’d be just Dan’s type.”

  "Uh huh. And what's your type?"

  "Tall, blonde, thin." Basically the exact opposite of Patterson. But he looked at his fruit as he said it. He wasn't doing much for Patterson’s ego.

  "Well, I think Dan is nice. And I promise to end the tour at the Ryman, if that makes you feel better. I’ve always wanted to see it."

  "I told Hank I'd look out for you." He was frowning again.

  "I don't need a babysitter."

  He arched a brow and looked at her. "Clearly. You don't even have a phone or a place to stay."

  "That's temporary."

  He grunted at that. Patterson was really beginning to hate that self-satisfied grunt of his.

  She finished the too-sweet wine and got up to put the glass in the sink. "I'm not looking to start something with Dan," she said. It was nice of him to tell Hank he'd keep an eye on her, even if it was totally unnecessary. She kind of liked that he felt protective of her, even though he barely knew her. It spoke of old-fashioned gallantry, like opening a car door or asking her father's permission before he proposed. Guys she knew wouldn't even wonder if she had a father until it was time to pony up money for the honeymoon.

  "Good." He got up and took the empty plate to the sink. He silently washed the plate then dried it and put it back in the cupboard. When he was done, he leaned against the counter and just looked at her.

  Patterson was sure there were depths of unspoken dialogue running through his head and she wished she could eavesdrop on his thoughts for just a moment or two. He was a tough nut to crack.

  "If you want to see the Ryman, I could take you." He said it quietly and without a hint of sarcasm, like he was afraid of being rejected or something. Maybe he didn't hate her. And maybe he was just being nice to his friend's sorry little niece. But he was making a gesture and seeing a guy who was little more than a hermit offer to show her around made something melt inside of her.

  She smiled and took a step closer. "I'd like that. Thanks." Hardly realizing she'd moved at all, she drew closer, as if drawn by an invisible thread.

  She was just an arm's length away. She could smell his soap and the purely male scent that was all his, a little musky and earthy.

  He stood in the juncture of the two counter tops, leaning against them, his hands resting on the cool black surface on either side of him. His feet were crossed at the ankles. It was a relaxed pose, but Patterson could see the lines of tension in every muscle. His dark eyes blazed down at her, unshuttered now.

  Despite his reserved exterior, he wasn't cold at all on the inside. Beneath his distant, reserved surface, he was burning hot, like a snow-capped mountain with a volcano lurking underneath, just waiting for the subtle rumble that would provoke it into a fiery eruption.

  Her insides shuddered with an awareness she really didn't need to be feeling right now, especially not towards this man who was not only her uncle's friend, but at least a decade older than her, emotionally damaged and clearly in a very dark place a good part of the time.

  She didn't need even more complications in her life, especially her love life, and that's what this man would be. Complicated, messy and devastating no matter the outcome. No, she didn't need the sudden desire that flamed to life after having run at a low simmer each time she shared space with him all day. She didn’t need any of it, not at all.

  But she wanted it. Wanted him.

  All the breath left her and she closed the space between them, her eyes locked on his, drowning in his intense gaze, unable to look away, unable to prevent the inevitable. She rested a hand on the warmth of his torso, rose on her tiptoes and pressed her searing lips to his.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  This wasn't happening.

  Only it was. He could feel her soft lips on his, moving, caressing, teasing, firing his blood. He could feel her small hand on his belly, scrunchin
g his shirt in her hot little palm and could imagine what it would be like to feel her nails rake across his bare skin when she climaxed beneath him. He could feel her breasts, pert and firm against his chest as she leaned into him. He could smell her—sunblock and chlorine and sunshine—and he could taste the sweet wine on her lips.

  She overwhelmed his senses and took him by surprise, even though somewhere in the back of his mind he'd wanted this from the first moment he saw her push out of the pool, all female curves and sex.

  Trent stood stock still, like a possum frozen in the headlights and about to be flattened, and let her kiss him.

  And then she pulled back and was gone, without a word or a smile or a gasp of horror, she was gone. Trent blinked after her, not moving, staring at the doorway where she'd disappeared. Well, parts of him moved. Parts he hadn't known were still able to react that quickly.

  He shoved a hand through his hair, his fingers sliding right through the newly shortened stands. It wasn't enough, so he did it again.

  Was the hell was that? A thank-you kiss? A pity kiss? Or did she kiss him and then run away because she expected him to follow her up the stairs and right into the guest bedroom? Did she want that? Did he?

  He didn't have to glance at his distorted shorts front to answer that question. He was as angsty as one of those vampires from the show she obsessed over. Only he wasn't undead—or 20 years old—so he didn't have a good excuse.

  It was a thank you kiss. Or maybe 'I'm sorry'. That was all. A little peck for the old guy who'd taken her in and fed her a couple of meals as a favor to her uncle. There hadn't even been any tongue. Nothing to get a boner over. He was turning into a dirty old man and he hadn't even hit 40.

  But what if she'd felt what he had—that pull between them? It had been like they were two magnets when their eyes met and locked. Only he hadn't been able to move. She had, and did. She’d kissed him and then run.

  Impossible. She had an almost-financee, though if she married the guy it would be a mistake. He'd meant what he said about her being no "maybe". When you loved someone with passion, you jumped in with both feet and didn't look back. There was so thinking, no logical thought pattern at all. Only the thought of possession, wholeness, yes. That's not what Hank's niece felt for X. But did that make making out with her any less wrong?