“Then we’re more alike than we realized.” He uncrossed his ankles and pushed away from the truck, so he stood right in her personal space. “Because I think you’re one of the most courageous people I know.”
Her heart beat an unsteady tattoo inside her chest and butterflies danced in her stomach. Unsettling feelings . . . and rather thrilling at the same time . . . because no one had ever looked at her the way this man did. “Fool’s courage, maybe. You’re talking to someone who essentially hid in a barn for the past eight years.”
“You’re not hiding now.”
“Only because my poor, deceased seventy-two year old aunt made it her dying request. A woman who had more courage in her pinky finger than I have in my whole body.”
“Whatever gets us taking that first step isn’t the point. Taking the step is.”
“Was that how you felt when you took over the family business? Or did you always know that was your path?”
“I didn’t know much of anything when I was younger, except not to count on anything. Or anyone. I knew I was really good at fixing things. And so was my grandfather, so there was comfort in knowing I’d inherited that trait, but with it came the fear of what else I might have inherited.”
Her heart clutched a little. “Dylan—”
“At first, the business was more refuge than path. Maybe something like your carving and sculpting. Your barn was my family repair shop. And, later, my sailboat.” He kept his gaze straight on hers.
“You don’t have to tell me—”
“Yeah, sugar. I do. You need to know who it is you’re involved with.”
Her heart pounded a vibrating thrum. “Are we? Getting involved?”
She thought he’d tease her with that sexy grin, but he remained more serious, more straightforward. “I think we already are.”
“Dylan—”
“If I’m wrong about that, sugar, now’s the time to tell me. And don’t make it about the bookstore, or your car, or—”
It was her turn to get serious. “We may be involved, but we’re still getting to know each other, so I’m going to pretend you didn’t just insinuate that I’d ever get involved with you—or anyone—as payment for services rendered.”
“No, that wasn’t—” He broke off, swore under his breath. “I’m no good at this, Honey.”
“At what?”
“I’m good at fixing things, but figuring out relationships . . . they don’t come with a user’s manual.”
“No, they don’t. And I’m hardly an expert, given my history.” She paused, let them both gather their thoughts for a moment, then said, “Maybe we can just figure one of them out. This one. Together.”
She thought she saw a little tension ease out of his stance, and only then did she realize . . . he was nervous! He was worried . . . about her? That she’d what? Turn him down? Say no thank-you to him?
She grinned, which made him scowl, which made her grin wider. “I think we understand each other maybe too well. But, like you said, we just have to make sure we don’t get in our own way.”
“What do you mean?”
“We’re cave dwellers, you and me. You by nature and me more from necessity, but still, we don’t generally stick our heads out much. And here we are, sticking out a whole lot more than that. So, I think, if we want to be . . . involved, as you say . . . then maybe when we want to pull our heads in and hide we should realize that’s when we’re supposed to do the exact opposite. At least with each other. Talk through it, stumble through it, whatever. Just, make sure we say something, and say what we know is true, and not just what would make it easier.”
“Great advice, but I’m not sure I follow.”
“When you started to falter just now, you wanted to make sure I didn’t say I was interested in you because you’ve all but given me an entire building on loan or because you’re holding my only means of transportation hostage as a way of getting us to spend time together. If I go with what I know about you, I know you just wanted to give me room to feel I could be honest about what I wanted to happen with us. You didn’t want me to worry about any of that if my answer wasn’t the one you wanted to hear.”
“That’s exactly what I meant.”
“But it was easier for me to take offense and assume you were questioning my moral character, because that helps me keep my guard up. I’ve had a lot of practice keeping that guard up, so I’m more comfortable there. So, when I feel like tucking in and taking the worst possible slant on something . . . that’s when I need to take two seconds and remember who it is I’m talking to and who is talking to me. And remember that I can always talk to you. You’re the first person, really, I’ve felt comfortable enough to say anything to.”
For the first time, his lips twitched. “A point you’ve made abundantly clear.”
“Okay, maybe I have given you a hard time,” she said dryly, “but I can also talk to you about stuff that I’d only ever felt comfortable talking to Bea about, and that was because she understood. She was family. You . . . I just met you.”
“You can trust me, Honey.”
“I know.” She smiled. “I mean, I really do know that. Do you know that? That you can trust me, too?”
“I wanted to talk to you about my past, my family . . . maybe some part of it was like you said, shoving it out there as a way to gauge things, make you duck and run if that’s what you’re going to do, but sooner rather than later. I don’t generally need to tell anyone about that time. The past is just that, for me. It’s no longer relevant—which is why I know we’re involved. It might be relevant to you, so it matters to me that you know about it.”
“If you think I should know, then tell me. I do want to know you, Dylan, but not so I can cut and run. I want to know you because you matter. And your past is part of you.”
He smiled then, but it didn’t quite reach his beautifully wise eyes. “At least you’ll know who—what—you’re dealing with. If it changes things, then it changes things.”
She understood how hard it was for him to lower those walls. He wanted to, and that was big for her, but he was still hedging his bets. “The first time I had a vision here, it was a whopper. If anything was going to put you off, that would have done it. Instead, you shocked me by asking about it, talking about it almost casually. You were more worried if I was okay, than whether or not my head was going to keep spinning around. No one ever did that. Ever. No one looked past the spinning head to the person who was being spun. Until you.
“And then, this last time, when I spontaneously jumped into your arms that first day in the bookstore—my store,” she corrected, smiling briefly. “And it triggered another episode, your first instinct was to hold on tight, to be there, to encourage me, calm me. You didn’t let go. You knew what to do, or you followed your instincts, and that ended up being the same thing, because your instinct was to worry about me first, and what was happening to me second. That helped me. You have no idea how much.”
She closed the space between them, until their bodies brushed against each other. “That I can do this, walk right up to you like this, and feel pretty much fearless, knowing that even if it triggers a vision, I can trust that you won’t cut and run. That’s the man you are. To me. I want to know the rest of you, Dylan. Any of it, all of it, whatever you want to share with me.”
She reached up, brushed her fingertips across his cheek, watched his gaze darken, and felt her body respond to him as if he’d put out a siren call with nothing more than a look. “Because you’re right. I’m already involved.”
Chapter 15
She gutted him . . . effortlessly. Reached right in, wrapped her hand and all the rest of what made her so unique right around his heart, and she’d be damned if she’d let go. He’d never felt so vulnerable in front of anyone, which was saying more than he could comprehend, given how vulnerable he’d been most of his life. It wasn’t because of what she could see in her mind’s eye; it was what she saw every time she looked at him.
Was that what love was supposed to feel like?
While it didn’t make any sense—none of it had—he didn’t know what other emotion to name this . . . feeling he had. It was the only label big enough, broad enough, deep enough, to come close. Maybe that’s what scared him. Knowing this beautiful, powerful thing, was swimming between them, if they were brave enough to wade out into uncharted waters. Rough waters, ripping, roiling, powerful waters . . . deep waters.
Standing there, looking into those sea green eyes, so steady, so true, the past didn’t matter. Not like he thought it would. Yes, he wanted her to know, but it was because he wanted her to understand him, what drove him, what mattered to him . . . and what didn’t. And why. Not because he worried she’d consider him unworthy or too big a risk.
Hell, it was just like she said . . . it wasn’t about the stuff spinning in orbit around them; the only thing that mattered was what was at the core of it. His throat worked, and a sensation tightened the corners of his eyes, burning with the threat of emotions he’d sworn he’d never let come to the surface again.
“Come here, sugar,” he said roughly, finally feeling confident in putting his hands on her because he knew she trusted him. No matter what.
He pulled her into his arms, wrapped her up tight as he leaned back against the truck, and drew her face up to his. He looked into those eyes . . . and stepped right off into the deep water. “Come with me,” he murmured, the words sounding like rough sand against smooth glass.
And she did.
He took her mouth like a man starved, who’d just been offered the feast of the gods. No holding back, no worrying about what touched where. He felt primal, like he was claiming what was his . . . and yet, when she opened her mouth, took him inside, and held him there, so tightly, so wetly, so warmly . . . it was he who’d been claimed.
If it was terrifying, opening himself up and diving in deep, the utter thrill of it made every second of sheer terror exhilaratingly, stunningly worthwhile.
He hitched her up so she could wrap her legs around his waist, and she followed, without his having to say a word. He turned, pressing her against the side of the truck, moving between her legs, the feel of her sweet softness pressed against him wrenching a guttural groan from somewhere deep inside his chest.
He knew he should pause, make sure she was with him, but oh, she was with him. She gave when he demanded, then demanded her own in return.
“Why in sweet hell do we start these things where we can’t see them through to their most amazing, rightful conclusion?” he growled against the side of her neck. Rigidly hard, it was painful to breathe, much less move.
“Because fate has a sense of humor?” she panted, sounding every bit as put out as he was, and it made him laugh. Oddly, it was the thing that tipped him completely over and in.
He lifted his head, keeping her wrapped all around him, and smiled into eyes he wanted to smile into for a very long time. “I did actually plan a real dinner. Lolly is home right now, standing guard.”
“Dinner is at your place?”
“Well, sugar, I admit I’ve been something of a pain in the ass to deal with this week. Seems maybe I’ve been missing you. Some.”
“Some,” she repeated, and her smile was a shade smug and a shade thrilled. He loved both.
“So, I didn’t want to share you with the good folks of Sugarberry. This time. But I didn’t want you to think I was taking you home to show you my etchings, either.”
“You have etchings?” she teased.
“Oh, darlin’, you have no idea.”
She giggled at that, low and throaty. Her eyes were all but drenched with want. Want of him. It was enough to drive a man to his knees.
“I set up dinner aboard.”
Her face lit up. “The sailboat?”
He nodded, privately pleased beyond words with her instant reaction. “It’s not seaworthy, still a work in progress, but I thought maybe a picnic with a little candlelight—”
He was cut off by a very exuberant kiss, which had him chuckling when she finally broke off. “I take it you like candlelight?”
“I like that you thought of candlelight. Take me aboard, Cap’n.”
Just like that, his body jerked so hard he winced. “Careful how you word such things, sugar,” he said, his voice somewhat strained.
She batted her eyelashes and grinned. “I was.”
He didn’t know whether to be afraid or shout hallelujah. “I think I may have underestimated . . . oh hell”—he laughed—“pretty much everything.”
“I know the feeling.” Still smiling, she leaned in and kissed him again, taking his face in her hands.
It stilled something inside him, bringing peace and serenity to the center of the turmoil he didn’t even know he still had locked inside of him.
Her kiss was tender, almost unbearably sweet. He wouldn’t have thought himself worthy of such sweet regard, wouldn’t have enjoyed it from anyone else, ever before. “Honey,” he murmured, hearing the break in his voice. “You’re just undoing me here, sugar.”
“Shh,” she said against his lips. “Kiss me back.”
He’d never kissed sweetly before. Slow, easy, a comfortable slide into seduction, yes. But this wasn’t anything like that. Surprisingly, when he brushed his lips against hers, dropped his guard the rest of the way, and let himself express the tumble of emotions in the form of a single sweet kiss . . . the tenderness came quite naturally.
She moaned softly against his lips, and her hold on him tightened. He responded swiftly in kind, but it wasn’t that raging thing from before, though it felt a hundred times more primal. His body leaped, but he didn’t let it ramp up the connection they were making with their kiss.
“Dylan,” she murmured, her voice so soft he could barely hear it.
“Mmm,” he managed, kissing the corners of her mouth, then tracing a line slowly along her jawline.
She groaned and dropped her head back, allowing him access to the most tender spot just below her ear. “Take me home. Please.”
How a man could want to howl wildly at the moon while simultaneously suckling a woman’s earlobe, he had no earthly idea, but damn if he didn’t feel the urge. He finally made himself lift his head, trepidation filling him in that split second before their gazes met for the first time since they’d begun this journey. Not because he worried what he might see in her eyes, but because of what she might see in his.
But hers lit up immediately, smiling right into his own, sparking the way a woman does when she sees that thing she wants the most.
He grinned. It was that or howl. “Hold on,” he said, and scooped her up tight so he could carry her around to the passenger side of his truck. He tucked her inside, fighting the urge to follow her down until they were splayed across the front seat. He closed the door before he could change his mind and walked quite uncomfortably around to the other side of his truck, almost tripping over her satchel.
He snagged it up and put it in the flat bed of the truck, then carefully slid into the driver’s seat, trying not to unman himself in any way.
He pulled on his seatbelt, sucking in his breath as he worked the clutch and the brake. Damn, but he’d never been so hard in his life.
“You okay?” Her voice was deep and throaty and oh, he wanted to hear what it sounded like after she’d come apart under him.
“Yeah,” he managed. “Fine.”
“Liar,” she said, making the word a lazy drawl filled with smug knowing.
He slid his gaze toward hers as he backed up and pulled out of the alley. She was leaning back against the seat as if it was simply too demanding a task to remain sitting upright. She’d rolled her head to the left, and was watching him.
“What makes you say that?” h
e asked, but he was already grinning.
Her gaze dropped straight to his crotch, and he winced audibly when his body reacted.
“That does.” She sighed. “That, and the fact that I’m in much the same way. It’s a sad, sorry place to be, too.”
He didn’t know whether to laugh at the downright forlorn look on her face, or pout right along with her. So he did a little of both . . . and drove perhaps a tad recklessly back to his house.
Lolly trotted down the drive to greet them, and Dylan reached in the console for a biscuit for her, which he tossed a few feet away for her to fetch and munch on after he carefully slid out of the truck. Lolly’s hip was improving every day, and Doc Jensen told him he should see that she exercised it more and work on strengthening the muscles. That was all fine and good, but truth be told, he was just keeping the pup busy as he had other plans in mind that didn’t include playing fetch.
He went around the back of the truck to the passenger side, but Honey was already sliding out of the cab. He jogged the last few steps, willing to pay the price so he could get there in time to deftly scoop her into his arms before her feet hit the ground. She let out a short squeal, and he spun her around, making her laugh. He handed her one of the biscuits he’d stashed in his pocket when Lolly came trotting up, barking playfully at their antics. They tossed the biscuits into the front yard, then smiled at each other when she trotted off.
Honey looped her arms around Dylan’s neck. “Well, now that the children are busy . . . what about those etchings?”
“I thought we were having dinner?”
“Will it keep until later? Maybe as an après snack under the stars?”
“It will keep, but après what?”
She rolled her eyes, then undid the top button of his polo shirt. “Your turn.”
He grinned. “Ah, that kind of après.”
She batted her eyelashes. “Unless you’d rather dine first, for fortitude. I must say though, it didn’t appear that stamina was going to be an issue.”
Cupcake Club 04 - Honey Pie Page 23