Quentin offered to help carry her bags out to the car. She tried to decline, but he insisted that he was teaching his son to be a gentleman. How could she deny him when he winked at her that way?
The walk down the front steps and to the driveway was silent. Not having Joey for a buffer was dangerous—she could only think of Quentin’s arms and his shoulders and his sweetness. She didn’t need it. She didn’t want it. Why couldn’t she just believe her stinking lies?
And why couldn’t he walk in front of her so she could gawk at his well-shaped ass? Mrs. Reynolds was not wrong about that little detail…
She did get to sneak a peek as he loaded her bags and Rocco into the back seat. He caught her gaping when he turned. He leaned against the driver’s door, blocking her from escaping. Her heart pounded.
She couldn’t do this. Not now. Not ever.
But oh, how she wanted to.
“Don’t be a stranger, okay, Peaches?” He brushed the back of his hand against her cheek. She caught herself closing her eyes and sighing for the briefest second before she jumped back, burned by his touch.
“Quentin, you know I’m only here for a short time. I have the appointment next week, then I’m back to my regular life.” The look in his eyes couldn’t possibly be regret. Or sadness. “I’m sure I’ll see you around.”
“That’s not good enough.” He pulled her to him, their hips perfectly aligned as he slouched against the car. “I want to see you on purpose.”
Would his eyes always hold this hypnotic power over her? Ten years had passed. Ten freaking years. Their attraction did not feel like one that had been dormant for a decade. It felt as new as the dew she ran through in the morning. As new as the running shoes she bought last month. As new as the organic lettuce on Mondays at the local grocer.
The sound of little feet pounding down the steps and over the gravel interrupted the discussion, causing Quentin to release the hold he had on her hips and her to jump backward as if caught robbing a bank.
She turned to see Joey’s bright smile—so like his dad’s. He leaped forward, nearly knocking her into Quentin in the process.
She righted herself and tried to ignore the boy’s arms around her waist. With nowhere to put her hands, she rested them on the back of his shoulders. She’d love to give him the affection he was looking for, but all she could think of was Brandon’s cold, lifeless body lying on the beach. How she had hugged him, desperate to hear a heartbeat. Her screams landing in her own ears as she begged him to breathe, pleaded with him to be playing a sick prank. The horror of being dragged away by someone—she never knew who—as she kicked and screamed and scratched. How she had been held back as they loaded him into an ambulance, the sirens wailing along with her as they drove away.
The last time she had touched a child was when her brother had been pulled from the water, lifeless. On her watch.
“Will you? Will you? Will you? Will you? Will you?”
“Enough, Joey. Go in the house. I’ll be there in a minute.” Quentin pulled Joey off Savannah’s frozen body. Savannah tuned in, shaking her head to clear the fog of memories and pain and regret.
Joey had asked her something. What was it?
The young boy looked crushed. Did she do that to him? She hadn’t meant to hurt him. Then again, she never really meant to hurt people, yet it happened around her all the time.
She looked at Quentin quizzically. She couldn’t form words, so she hoped he could read her mind.
“Joey was asking you to join our ice cream/movie night. It’s very informal. He gets to stay up until eight and pick whatever flavor he wants. He doesn’t usually invite anyone to come, so I hope you feel special.” Quentin smiled in a way that made her feel like he was tiptoeing around her feelings. He was gentle, coaxing, soothing. Could he see her pain?
She coughed a little, trying to dislodge the lump in her throat.
“Pleasepleasepleasepleasepleaseplease—”
“Joey, enough.”
“Pleasepleaseplease—”
Savannah could see Quentin getting irritated, though he did a good job of holding back any harsh words. He had definitely perfected the “dad” look, though, as she could guess that his next words would be corrective and firm.
“I don’t know if I can make it, but thanks for inviting me.” That was the best she could do. Why couldn’t she think of some preexisting plans?
“Daddy, how many days until Friday?”
Quentin started singing the days-of-the-week song, stopping for Joey to finish it. Joey counted the days on his fingers as he sang along.
“Two days! Two days until ice cream. Woohoo!” Joey ran around like an airplane, arms extended wide. “Will you bring sprinkles?” Big brown eyes bore into her dead soul, and she couldn’t muster up the strength to tell the kid no.
“I’ll try.” Defeated by a—what?—six-year-old? “How old are you, anyway?”
“Six!” He ran up the stairs and slammed the front door closed behind him.
“Guess he’s done with us, huh?”
Quentin smiled, shaking his head. “We’re still working on manners.”
“Well with you for a teacher…” Savannah allowed her voice to trail off as she gestured toward her car door. “If you’ll excuse me, I think my poor dog has waited long enough.”
“I will excuse you, but proper manners dictate an appropriate expression of gratitude for providing a meal.”
“You made grilled cheese,” she deadpanned.
“Have you ever had a better grilled cheese?” His eyebrows shot up. Cocky bastard.
“As a matter of fact,” she really couldn’t lie, “No. That was a darned good sandwich.” Her stomach flipped again at the thought that neither of them were talking exclusively about the food.
He calmed her nerves. When she was with him, even like this, she could forget for minutes at a time the fear and sadness she carried with her. When she wasn’t with him, she remembered that he was complicit in what happened to her brother. She was the responsible party, but if she hadn’t been so distracted by his charm and appeal, her brother would still be here today.
She stiffened and shouldered her way past him. He moved, all traces of playfulness gone. When she started to close the door, desperate for a quick escape, he maneuvered his body to prevent the closure.
“So shall I set aside an extra bowl on Friday night?”
Savannah stared ahead, through the bug-streaked windshield to the copse of trees next to the house. She turned the key, waking the engine. “I’ll do my best.”
“I’ll let Joey know.”
He backed up, and she backed out, kicking up sand and gravel as she tore out of the driveway and out to the open road.
Chapter Six
Quentin didn’t bother to knock. She wouldn’t have heard him over the loud 80s rock she was blasting, anyway. He smiled sympathetically at Rocco. The poor beast curled up on the porch, distancing himself from the noise.
Fresh paint assailed his senses as he followed the sound of her singing. He knew she was likely to kill him for sneaking up on her, but he couldn’t resist the urge to watch her.
Clad as she was in only a striped button-down shirt (one of her mother’s smocks, he guessed), he was gifted with the perfect opportunity to admire her bare legs as she worked. Definitely the legs of a runner. As she reached up to paint the top of the door frame, the shirt rose dangerously high. His blood rushed at the glimpse of black lace panties. Her bare heel danced up and down to the beat of the music. She bent to dip her brush in the paint, and he had to stop himself from closing the distance between them. Her head began to thrash at the chorus of the song, and he smiled as her hair streaked across the newly painted frame. She didn’t seem to notice as she resumed her painting, her singing loud and carefree.
He considered sneaking back out, suddenly awash with guilt for intruding on this private moment. His legs refused to carry him away.
Lost in the sheer beauty of Savannah in this unguar
ded moment, Quentin didn’t register Rocco bolting into the room. Savannah bent toward the dog’s face, singing to him. Quentin smiled. The essence of who she was hadn’t been altered in spite of the walls she built around herself. In private, she was apparently still the teenage girl who liked to roll down the windows and blast the music and dangle her bare feet into the wind as he cruised down the highway.
Rocco stared at Quentin, and he became nervous that the dog was about to give him away. Sure enough, Savannah turned in his direction, screaming and jumping and knocking the giant CD player to the floor in her effort to turn off the music. Her paint brush flung from her hands, bounced off the dog, and landed on the hardwood floor.
Torn between amusement and the distinct realization that he was an ass, Quentin rushed forward to pick up the ancient boom box and the brush. She didn’t look pleased at his assistance.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” She brushed her hair away from her face, leaving a pale yellow streak across her forehead. “You don’t just sneak up on someone like that.” She muttered some expletives and paced the area, her hand on her heart.
“I knocked, but you didn’t hear me over the music,” he lied.
“Then you go away! You don’t just let yourself in.”
“And miss the performance?”
She didn’t find him amusing. She reached behind her to a vase full of paintbrushes and chose the largest one to fling at him. It missed him and crashed to the floor.
He smiled. “Missed me.”
She roared and fisted her hands. He raised an eyebrow and leaned back. Right against her freshly painted trim.
She burst into laughter.
“That, my dear, is karma.” She narrowed her eyes at him as he tried to wipe away the paint with a cloth he had retrieved from the floor. “Don’t sneak up on me like that again, you jerk.”
He shook his head at his stupidity. She distracted him in ways he wasn’t accustomed to.
“I think I’ve paid my penance.”
“I think not.” She crept toward him, a tiger stalking her prey. “Not yet.”
She closed in on him, and his body picked up where it had been while he was spying on her. He should have been embarrassed about how easily she affected him, but all he could concentrate on was the way her hips flirted with the fabric of the shirt as she walked. How the bottom, below the buttons, opened with every step, teasing him with a peek of her creamy thighs. She didn’t stop until her breasts were pressed firmly against his chest. She looked up at him with seductive eyes. His hands moved to her hips, including the hand that still held the paintbrush. Her heat burned him through the shirt. If this was his penance, he’d be a bad boy more often.
Savannah traced the collar of his t-shirt with one graceful index finger, while resting her other hand on his bicep. He swallowed as her finger traced a path over his chest, then back up to his shoulder. His mouth watered for a kiss, but he’d let her toy with him for a moment before taking control.
Her finger trailed down his arm, and she smiled when he inadvertently tensed his muscles. He lowered his head as her finger crept down his hand.
This time he wouldn’t tell her no. If he didn’t have her soon, he’d combust.
She raised her face to meet his. They were millimeters apart. He could smell the mint gum on her breath.
She removed the paint brush from his hand, allowing him to fully grasp her hips and pull her as close as they could be with clothes on. And then she broke the spell with vicious laughter as she painted the side of his face.
He had no words. He feigned annoyance at her betrayal, but his heart swelled at her playfulness.
“I see how it is.” He wiped his face with the back of his hand. “You should know, this isn’t my color.”
Her laugh became a snort. Boy, was she proud of herself. He smiled along with her, stifling the urge to laugh out loud as she wrapped her arms around her belly and bent forward, giving in completely to her laughing fit.
He had wondered if they’d ever play again.
He tossed the brush into the paint tray, then took the lead as predator. Her eyes widened as he twisted around so she was cornered. His hands found the warm place on her hips and he guided her away from the wet paint. Pushed against the wall, she arched her back, driving herself into him. His bulging zipper pressed against her warmth, begging for personal contact. She bent one knee and raised it up to the side of his hip while he helped her stay balanced. Her arms found their way around his neck. She licked her bottom lip before nibbling on it, and he growled as he finally claimed her mouth as his own.
Holy shit. There were no words to describe the pain he was in. The perfection she offered. The fucking pleasure of having her so close to him after all this time.
So much wasted time.
Her fervor matched his. He had felt drawn to women before, but never had he experienced the uncontrollable lust and irresistible attraction he had when around her. He had wondered over the years if his memory of her was a fluke. A dramatized history of teen passion.
She was living, breathing proof that it was all real.
His hand moved to her thigh, then upward, pushing the pesky shirt up to grant him access to what he wanted more than anything.
He toyed with the elastic band of her panties, drawing in a breath as her tongue did something wild to his. She pulled his head closer, deepening the kiss. He plunged a finger inside her, nearly exploding when she exclaimed her pleasure into his mouth. Their tongues matched the thrusting of his fingers, and he smiled against her lips as he felt her tense in pleasure.
She reached for his zipper, and though he desperately, painfully wanted her to touch him, he knew this day had to be all about her.
He lifted her into his arms. She weighed nothing, but hot damn, did her ass feel good as it bounced against him. He carried her to the bed. She didn’t protest.
Her eyes never left his as he slipped her panties down her legs, his kisses trailing behind them. He reached up under the shirt to access her gorgeous breasts. He toyed with her nipples while she writhed against him. Needing an unobstructed view, he slowly unbuttoned her shirt. Her gaze was intense, full of longing. He could smell her desire. He wanted to enjoy every second of this act he had spent the last decade dreaming about, yet he felt like an overeager sixteen-year-old, ready to explode if her fingers even grazed him.
Hell, he’d probably come if she so much as looked at his erection.
One whispered word from her and he nearly tossed aside all of his self-control.
“Please.”
He closed his eyes, willing himself to maintain control. He then proceeded to pleasure her with his mouth until she screamed out his name. At her screams, her damned dog jumped onto the bed, interrupting a perfectly wonderful orgasm.
He tried to push the dog away, but the animal growled, baring his teeth. He hadn’t seen this side of her beloved pooch yet. Savannah wiped sweat from her forehead and seemed like she was trying to say something. He smiled, happy with the delirious state she was in.
Rocco planted himself across her belly, blocking Quentin’s view of Savannah. She laughed and stroked Rocco’s head. Quentin sat up and mumbled to himself.
“Where are you going? We’re not done here.” Her voice was sultry, inviting.
He shuffled his way to the bathroom, unable to speak. His blood still raced; his thoughts out of control. He wanted to be inside her more than anything, but he had to wait until the timing was right. For now, cold water splashed on his face would have to suffice.
He spent longer in the bathroom than intended, but his raging boner took forever to go down. Every thought he tried to distract himself with led him back to Savannah. The weight of her breasts in his hands. Her smooth skin at his fingertips. Her soft…
He filled the sink with cold water and stuck his face in until he couldn’t hold his breath any longer.
Music lured him out of the bathroom, wiping his face with a ragged towel as he emerged
. The music was softer this time, not the raging heavy metal she had been painting to. He didn’t recognize the band, but the beat was calm, soothing. There was nothing soothing about the way her hips moved in time to the music as she resumed her painting, though.
After one more face dunk, he felt ready to be in the same room as her.
Rocco lifted his head and glared at him as he approached. Savannah ignored him. Her shirt was buttoned up again, but he didn’t miss the fact that her panties remained on the floor. He bit the inside of his cheek.
“So,” he cleared his throat, embarrassed at how deep and husky his voice came out. “Why are you painting?”
She looked over her shoulder and graced him with a serene smile.
“I’m not used to being idle. I asked Dad if he’d mind, and he thought it would be great. I guess he’s planning to sell this old place to get up some money for Mom’s care. Figured while I’m stuck here, I’d make myself useful.”
Quentin remained quiet. Sell the studio? He had known money was tight for the retired couple, and the mounting medical bills couldn’t be making things easy. He wondered if they’d take some help from him or if Rick would frown upon what he’d perceive to be a handout.
If he cashed out a few stocks…
He hated to see Karyn lose this studio. He never grew as close to her as he had to Rick, but he knew that painting on canvas was therapeutic to the woman. Before she became sick, she spent days at a time here, creating a storm of artwork. After Brandon’s death and Savannah’s disappearance, she hadn’t emerged from this place in over a month.
How could Rick even think of selling?
He shook his head and forced himself back to the moment.
“After the bone marrow transplant is done, you’re planning on going back?”
“Back home? Of course.” She bent to pick up the paint tray, then moved her operation to another door frame. “As soon as the blood testing is done, actually. I don’t know how the time frames work out for the donation and transplant or whatever, but I’m hoping I can just swing into town when they need me.”
Not Over You (Healing Springs, Book 1) Page 6