It was a hell of a combination. A woman he found he could actually talk to and she was smiling at him.
Which really only meant one thing: he was in over his head.
And he wasn’t hating it.
Chapter Seven
Claire was still grinning a few minutes later. Liam wanted to ask about what and grew increasingly paranoid that he’d said something ridiculous and she was laughing at him. So he changed the subject. To something really unfunny. “So what do you know about that Monk guy?” he asked. “The one who took my truck down the mountain.”
That reminder wiped the smile off her face. Check. Mate. His dig had clearly gone deeper than hers, only now he felt bad because he’d probably made her feel bad. He really sucked at small talk. Ridiculously so. He’d been shy as a kid, so when he finally did talk—or, say, raise his hand in class—everyone tended to stare. Which only made him more self-conscious and awkward. It had probably been more of a spectacle in his head than in reality, but telling himself that hadn’t helped.
Instead, he’d landed in a vicious cycle that usually began with people assuming he was as outgoing as his three brothers and hesitating or backing off when it became apparent he was different. Logical reactions, but nevertheless, ones that made him feel more conspicuous, which only worsened his discomfort. And that was for mundane things, like oral reports. He had a lot less trouble talking now than he used to, at least when it came to interacting with clients, but throw in a woman and the pressure—or a genuine desire—to be charming, and the blurting and tripping over his words intensified.
“I don’t know much about him,” she admitted. “But he’s the only garage in town. I imagine he loves tourists, being their only option.”
“You’d think a tourist would have driven a hybrid here before me,” he said, half under his breath.
“Not necessarily one who needed a repair.” She gave him a thoughtful look. “Do you come up here often? Upstate, I mean. I doubt you get much use for that snowboard in the city.”
“I steal a weekend here and there. Owning a business doesn’t allow for much down time. We try to rotate days so we each get a Friday and Saturday block off once a month, and Fusion is closed on Sundays except for emergencies, but it’s rare any of us misses one of my mom’s Sunday dinners.” But he would. Tomorrow was Sunday, and he had a feeling whatever that raccoon didn’t eat out of that nearly empty kitchen wouldn’t compare to his mom’s cooking, but he’d live.
“I worried about that if I re-opened this place. How I’d ever get away from it, I mean. It’s nice, but I’d go crazy sitting here day in and day out.”
Sitting? She had an entire mountain full of alternatives to that. “You ever ski?” he asked.
“I came here every Christmas,” she said. “You would think so, but every time I’ve ever strapped skis to my feet, I’ve ended up on my butt. I’m apparently not very coordinated.”
“Maybe you should try snowboarding,” he said. “I can teach you.”
She shook her head. “Let the guy whose truck I smashed strap a board to my feet and push me in a downhill direction? I don’t think so.”
He grinned. “I think you left out the part about how I saved you from the vicious raccoon.”
“What, so now I owe you twice? That isn’t exactly to my benefit.”
He let a little bit of time slip by before he responded to that. The storm had turned the sky prematurely dark, and Claire was stunning in firelight. Suddenly, all he could think about was stretching her out on that thick rug by that massive hearth and…getting a grip. Because all he really wanted to do was lay her down and peel off layers of her clothing until he saw those dancing shadows lick every inch of her body. He swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry. And she must have expected an answer, because she looked at him expectantly, but not like she expected him to say that. Even if she did owe him twice. He cleared his throat. “Sounds like you’ve got some serious making up to do.”
She studied him a moment. “How about I share the wine?”
He eyed what was left of his sandwich. “I’ve probably earned my share of the wine.”
“Probably,” she said with a playful grin. “Just as long as you appreciate the sacrifice involved in that offer.”
“I do,” he said solemnly.
She shivered. Probably the temperature, but he kind of hoped it had a little to do with the way he felt when he looked at her. Maybe she felt it, too. Not that he should feel anything. A random hookup in the woods might sound innocuous enough, but they’d already agreed that wasn’t happening. Besides, he could see the headlines already. Runaway Bride flees Hot HVAC Guy.
Yeah, that wasn’t going to happen.
“So what happened with your exes?” he asked.
She gave him a sharp look—more of a glare—but before he could apologize, she softened a bit. “It’s not really something I talk about,” she said. “Although I’m surprised you’re not already familiar, being from the city.”
“Believe it or not, I’ve never paid much attention. I can relate a little too easily.”
“You’ve been infamous, what, two months?”
“About five weeks.” He said it like he didn’t know to the day when his life had been turned upside down.
“I’ve got months on you. Why weren’t you paying attention before then?”
“I’m sorry…are you bothered by my lack of rubber-necking?”
She sighed. “No. Just surprised, I guess. It feels like the whole world is mocking me.”
“You know what I see?”
Warily, she asked, “Do I want to?”
He ignored her question, taking it instead as an invitation. “I see someone who wasn’t afraid to walk away when she knew something wasn’t right. Someone who respected herself and had a hell of a lot of courage.”
Her eyes widened in a flash of apparent surprise, then narrowed slightly. He hated that circumstances had so clearly jaded her, but he got it. Painfully so. “How can you say that when you don’t know why I left?” she asked.
He shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. You decided you didn’t want to go through with it, and you didn’t let a stigma or a stupid nickname or anyone else’s opinion stop you. Being in the public eye just makes you more impressive. You knew the media coverage would come, and you did it anyway. You’re strong.”
She snorted. “People who flee aren’t usually strong. I infamously have three exes—not one of whom has had to endure negative attention, even though they were each in the wrong—and now I’m hiding in a lodge. I’m pretty sure that’s the epitome of not strong.”
“For what it’s worth, you’ve impressed me.”
She was quiet for a moment before saying, “I paid attention to you.”
He stared into her sky-blue eyes and wondered why he didn’t feel the usual urge to divert his attention to his phone or the ground or anything but her. “You did?”
“Yeah,” she admitted. “Even after everything I went through, I stared. At your picture, I mean, but relentlessly. I feel guilty about that now.”
He wasn’t sure what to say to that. “I couldn’t tell you were looking.” Yeah, that was clever.
“You can tell now,” she said.
He blinked. “Yes, I can.” Either she was giving him an opening and he was too lame to see it, or the chance of anything happening between them was so remote that she felt she could tell him she was looking and not expect he’d take it as flirtation. Which it probably wasn’t.
Her gaze touched his, and he could have sworn he felt some kind of electric charge. He shook it off. Time for a change of subject. Again.
He glanced around, spotting the stack of linens they’d snagged sitting on a leather recliner covered with a blanket. He moved the pile long enough to grab the thickest one, which he dropped around her shoulders, then unfolded a quilt from the stack and bundled that on as well.
She looked at him in surprise. “Thank you. I guess I didn’t realize I was cold.”
“You shivered.” He kind of hoped she’d declare some kind of uncontrollable attraction to him had caused it, but no dice. Which made his life a lot easier.
“We’re going to have to let the fire die overnight,” she said. “For safety. I know I said it wouldn’t be that bad, but it’ll get chilly. This isn’t the Marriott.”
He didn’t really care about the accommodations—he’d slept on the ground while backpacking, so no biggie there—but the idea of her shivering alone at night didn’t sit well with him. It felt like the wrong kind of lonely. Not the kind of solace a person sought, but one that invaded and drove that sense of loneliness until it became fucking unbearable.
He finished his sandwich and found another blanket he wore like a cloak, then sat behind her and pulled her into his arms so she leaned against him. It was casual. Nothing a couple of friends wouldn’t do, and certainly nothing they hadn’t already done in the kitchen, but circumstances were a bit different then. Still, after a moment where he felt her body stiffen with tension, she relaxed against him.
Fucking hell, he hadn’t expected that to feel so not terrifyingly uncomfortable.
“This can’t possibly be a good idea,” she said, the words soft and at odds with their meaning.
“Freezing is better?” He asked lightly but wondered if she cringed over the idea of them together as much as he did. “I was just trying to share my body heat, but if you’re uncomfortable, I’ll move.”
“What kind of moves do you have in mind?” she asked, her voice tinged with suspicion.
He tensed. “Um, away moves.”
“I’m mostly convinced you’re harmless,” she said.
“I’m completely harmless.” Which was the least manly thing a guy could say, and not at all impressive or attractive, but he wasn’t going for that. Was he?
“I believe you.”
“That’s flattering.”
She laughed. “I trust you, for some reason, and for that you should be flattered. I think you can control yourself.”
“Well, let me make it clear that you’re smoking hot, and you have absolute permission to lose all control with me. Consider it an invitation.” Well. That one actually hadn’t been so bad. Go, Liam.
He couldn’t see her face clearly from that angle, but he caught the hint of a smile. “My last three break-ups didn’t walk away unscathed. Consider that a warning.”
“A warning, huh?” He buried a grin of his own. “Do scars come with that?”
“Only emotional,” she said under her breath, probably not intending him to catch it. But he did, and held her just a little closer, just in case she needed it. Louder, she said, “Scars can be arranged.”
She seemed so sweet on television that he couldn’t imagine her leaving behind collateral damage, unless she used the chainsaw, but his mind had gone straight for the sex-induced kind. The idea of her dragging her nails down his back had him as hard as any one of those stones that made up that massive, wall-sized fireplace.
“Some people like it rough,” he said, teasing her. And even though he’d known her less than 12 hours, it felt like real flirting, not like another mouth seizure.
“If I liked you at all,” she said with an adorable, mischievous grin, “rough could be arranged.”
“You like me,” he said without hesitation, feeling a bit hopeful, not that he’d tell her that.
“I might like you,” she admitted.
Well, that didn’t make him the least bit harder—something he hadn’t thought possible. For her to tease him left him wondering what else was there, just waiting to be uncovered. Beyond the literal, that was, because the stretchy pants she wore, without an inch of skin visible, showed off enough to convince him it was going to be a kickstand problem kind of night.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” he said, meaning every word.
There wasn’t a thing about that moment that wasn’t surreal, starting with how he’d gotten there and ending with the fact that they were drinking wine straight out of a shared bottle, but mostly centered around the fact Claire Stevens was no runaway bride. The rest of the world might see her that way, but she was the kind of woman—sexy with a smart mouth and a wicked sense of humor—he couldn’t hope to hold. Only, inexplicably, he was.
And she was letting him.
He didn’t drink enough of the wine to feel it, but he felt every inch of her, soft and warm. Especially a couple hours later, after the alcohol was gone and the fire was once again reduced to a pile of glowing embers. Eventually, amid the kind of small and not-so-small talk he didn’t think himself capable, they’d ended up stretched out on that rug, burrowed beneath blankets, talking about silly stuff like pizza toppings and overpriced designer bags and the time her second-grade boyfriend pulled her hair and she shoved him into a puddle. Her first breakup.
She didn’t mention the last.
Wanting her was as natural as breathing, but lying there with her felt nice, too, in a different, far more dangerous kind of way. Because for the first time in way too long, he was just Liam Chase, room-temperature HVAC guy.
And she, Claire Stevens, runaway bride, wasn’t running.
Chapter Eight
Claire hadn’t felt so blissfully warm in a long time, but it wasn’t just warmth. It was contentment. She’d felt off kilter since she caught her first fiancé in the supply closet, and she hadn’t really gotten back on an even keel since. She hadn’t realized it at the time, but her guard had been up with every guy she’d dated since, including her second fiancé and certainly making no exception of the blogger, despite the way he’d weaseled around that wariness. Not trusting sucked. Not trusting anyone and feeling the need to keep her guard up and her head down, lest anyone recognize her as the Runaway Bride, sucked even more.
But right then, nothing sucked.
Except for the fact that when morning came, heralded by rays of sunlight creeping through the dusty windows, she woke to find she’d ended up tangled with Liam, her head on his shoulder, and everything about that should have sucked, starting with the fact that she’d enjoyed it. She wanted to blame the wine, but in conjunction with that huge sandwich, there’s no way she felt it enough to lose touch with her inhibitions. And if she’d really lost touch with those, she’d have taken him up on that request to leave a mark.
She could so leave a mark on that man.
At least, she could here. In the woods, isolated from real life. She’d been hurt enough in the real world that there, she’d cross to the other side of the street before she’d be caught breathing the same air as Hot HVAC Guy. Not because he didn’t live up to his billing—he totally did—but because she couldn’t bear to be thrown back in the spotlight. He probably felt the same way. And it was nice to be a woman, and not that woman. Easy enough, on top of a mountain.
But she wasn’t sure he’d be that easy to leave there, at least in the emotional sense. He was such an utterly decent guy. One who hadn’t come close to being as mad as he had a right to be after she’d smashed his truck.
The shadow of her old self could very easily see a fling with a guy like Liam. In the city, she tended to be uptight, fast-paced, and high-strung. It was part of the job, always being ready to smile for the camera and tackle the next story. She’d gotten so used to the station telling her how to feel so as to set the right mood for a given piece that she’d lost sight of what she felt. A week in the mountains, with no need to fake anything for anyone, had begun to peel away those layers.
She was starting to recognize who she’d been before, when things were simpler. But she didn’t have much in common with that girl, who’d had two parents and hope in her eyes for the future.
Now, she only knew how to run.
And maybe, for that moment, when to stop.
When Liam pulled her closer, his palm flattening on her belly, she didn’t resist. She didn’t even think he was awake. But he was warm and solid and probably the only man in her life who hadn’t betrayed, mocked, or laughed at her, and a
s far as she was concerned, that was enough.
They’d agreed to no sex, but this being held thing was something else. Probably something a lot more dangerous. Flings were supposed to be about physical gratification, and here he was, touching on the emotional stuff. Following the rules and breaking them all at once.
She lightly traced his fingers, almost absently, and almost jumped when they captured hers. “You’re killing me,” he said, his voice soft.
“You feel pretty alive to me,” she said, her voice horribly shaky, the suggestiveness of her words unnoticed until after she’d put them out there.
He released her hand and again flattened his, now near her waistband, this time deliberately, this time sliding ever so slightly under her shirt. Two inches, she figured. Two entire inches of contact had her breath quickening and her pulse racing and desire barreling through her like an avalanche. And then, moving higher, making her nipples tighten painfully in some kind of misplaced hope for the sweet, warm relief of his mouth closing on them. Just when she thought she’d drown in all that anticipation, he retreated, fingertips catching the waistband of her yoga pants. The ease at which he could fit that hand beneath the fabric was criminal, seconded only by the fact that he didn’t even try. But the ever-so-slightly tangled grip he had on her was ridiculously erotic. Her breath hitched in her throat at the thought of him easing lower, silently demanding access that she’d be only too glad to give him.
“I bet you’re wicked in bed,” he murmured, startling her for the second time in as many minutes. It was ridiculous. It wasn’t at all like she wasn’t painfully, blissfully aware of how close he was, lying on his side now, the entire length of his body making some kind of contact with the entire length of hers. And he definitely wanted her. There was no mistaking that.
“No,” she managed to say. “I’ve never had a reason to be.” God, this casual conversation about sex. She was so not wicked. She was so…missionary. And he wasn’t awkwardly stumbling over words. Maybe when he was half asleep, he didn’t overthink things or second-guess himself.
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