Patrick placed the seagull on the table between the calculator and the roll of toilet paper. “What else?” He arched his neck, trying to see inside the cavernous bag.
Gini bunched up the material, protecting her treasures. “One more and that’s it for tonight.”
Would there be other nights after tonight? Patrick wanted to think so even if he was fooling himself.
The last item Gini produced was a Super Soaker water gun, compact model. Patrick barked out laugh when she pumped the small gun and aimed it at his chest. It couldn’t be loaded. Who carried a loaded water gun in her purse?
The stream that sprayed out made a slapping noise as it soaked his T-shirt. Patrick put his hands out in front of him, but Gini kept on shooting. She aimed higher and hit his neck. Water droplets dribbled down his skin and into the collar of his shirt.
Patrick lurched out his hand and cupped his palm over the barrel of the water gun. Gini kept the trigger depressed, and water rolled down Patrick’s wrist to his elbow. Finally, the gun was empty.
“Out of ammo,” Gini said.
“Out of your mind,” Patrick added.
Gini’s shoulders did a quick bob up and down. “No doubt, but imagine walking down a deserted street and some thug tries to jump you. You whip this out and two things will happen. One, if it’s dark enough, he’ll think you have a gun and bolt. Two, if you shoot him with it, he’ll be so stunned and confused, you’ll have plenty of time to run for your life.”
“Make many trips down deserted streets?” Patrick grabbed the dishtowel from the sink and wiped himself off. He hung the towel over his shoulder.
“This is Vermont, Patrick. All the streets are deserted after five o’clock.” Gini gathered her revealed junk and tossed it back into her bag.
“Would you like me to reload that for you?” Patrick motioned to the water gun. “My street is a deserted street.”
Gini nodded and held out the gun. Too easy. Patrick grabbed it and filled it at the sink. He turned around quickly and smiled when he saw Gini was still organizing inside the purse.
“Gini,” he said.
“What?” She looked up as water arrowed at her head. The spray rained over her right ear and down her cheek. “Patrick!”
She got up from the chair and ran for the door, but Patrick was right behind her. He chased her through the master bedroom into the great room and to the floor-to-ceiling fireplace. Gini hugged the stones, her back to Patrick as water trickled down her neck into her tank top.
“Patrick!” she squealed again, although this time, laughter mixed with the yell of his name.
The gun finally emptied, and Gini turned around. Water had slid along her shoulders, dampening the ends of her hair. Some of the curls tightened their form, golden coils resting on her glistening skin. She held out her hand.
“Relinquish your weapon, sir,” she said.
“Let me refill it.” Patrick turned but didn’t get far. Gini’s hands gripped his arm, and he allowed her to spin him around to face her.
“I’ll take my chances out there with it unloaded,” she said. “Hand it over.”
Patrick pouted but slid the water gun into her hand. Her fingers closed around it, and she ran her other hand through her wet hair. Patrick stepped closer and pulled the towel from his shoulder. Without thinking, he turned her around and wiped the back of her neck, her shoulders, her curls. The towel absorbed the droplets, leaving smooth, flawless skin behind. Skin so perfect it didn’t seem real. Gini was a painting, a masterpiece, all skilled brushstrokes and vibrant colors.
Gini slowly swiveled around. She was only inches away from him. Close enough to reach out and taste. One step and he could have his mouth on hers again. Feel the silken press of her lips. Savor the kind of touch he never allowed himself to have. One step, and he could slip into Heaven.
But then he’d have to leave Heaven. Better not to cross that gate. Better to stay on this side of the line he’d drawn such a long time ago.
“I’d say thanks,” Gini motioned to the towel, “but I wouldn’t have gotten wet if it weren’t for you.”
Patrick took a handful of his shirt—careful not to lift it too far from his body—and squeezed the water out of it. A small puddle collected between his boots then he tucked his shirt back into his jeans. “You started it.”
“You wanted to see what was in my purse, big shot.” Gini took the towel from Patrick and wiped the puddle on the floor.
“I’m afraid of what else is hiding in there.” Patrick studied the streaks of light blonde that started at the part in Gini’s hair and disappeared into the browner blonde of her curls. His fingers itched to touch that softness.
“I think the water gun is the most dangerous item I’ve got.” She stood and tucked the Super Soaker into the waistband of her shorts. Shaking out the towel, she closed the distance between them and pressed the towel to Patrick’s chest. “It wasn’t fair of me to shoot an unarmed man.” She draped the towel over Patrick’s shoulder.
“Next time, I’ll keep my safety glasses on.” What else could he use for protection against what he was feeling right now?
“If I promise not to shoot, can we have those muffins we were going to have?” Gini looked up at him. She was so right there, her face a tad lower than his, her lips reachable if he’d only bend down slightly. “Patrick?”
“Yes.” He blinked several times. “Muffins. Yes.” He led the way back to the kitchen and focused on the tea bags. “Regular or green?”
“Green.” Gini sat at the table and waited for Patrick to microwave the tea. He placed the Rhode Island mug in front of her and took the black one for himself.
Gini picked up the mug and studied the lighthouse. “I think my seagull would like this.” She blew on the hot tea and took a tiny sip. “Jonah looked tired today, didn’t he?”
Patrick nodded. “He probably didn’t sleep well. He’s got to be uncomfortable.”
“You ever break anything on the job?” Gini asked.
“No.”
“Off the job?”
“Yes.” He held up his hand. “Fingertip to wrist working on my grandparents’ roof.”
“Ouch.”
Not half as bad as being burned, Patrick thought. His hand had healed perfectly. His skin, not so much.
Gini accepted the blueberry muffin Patrick held out to her. “I hope you like these.”
“They look and smell amazing.” Patrick examined the one he’d selected for himself. “Is this a crumb topping?”
“Uh-huh. Brown sugar, maple sugar, and cinnamon.”
Patrick took a bite and his taste buds—his entire mouth—rejoiced. He finished a whole muffin before he could speak. “I’ve never had a muffin quite like that.”
“Mama is an artiste when it comes to baking. You’ll have to visit the bakery and try one of everything.”
“Maybe two of everything.” Patrick threw back a shot of his tea and eyed another muffin in the basket.
“Go for it,” Gini said.
“You too. Help yourself.” Patrick started on his second muffin.
Gini shook her head. “I don’t need another muffin.” She patted her stomach. “Being the daughter of a baker is not an easy life. Temptation is all around.”
“You don’t look like you give in to temptation often.” You look like a goddess sent to tempt me.
“Thanks.” Gini cast her gaze down, bashful-like, and Patrick nearly choked on muffin bits. He reached for his tea and washed down crumb topping. He wished it were iced tea, because suddenly the kitchen felt as if he had all his firefighting gear on. Layers of gear weighing him down and heating him up.
“You don’t make a habit of eating desserts either.” Gini’s blue eyes rested on his face, and his temperature rose higher.
Patrick shook his head. “I don’t have a sweet tooth. Blueberry muffins are the exception.”
“And I’ve often classified them as fruit considering Mama makes sure there are berries in every bite
.”
“Yeah,” Patrick said slowly, “I was trying to figure out what made these muffins the best blueberry muffins I’ve ever tasted in my life. Berries in every bite. That’s it.”
“She’s got you under her spell now. You won’t be able to eat another blueberry muffin without wishing it was one of Mama’s.”
Patrick couldn’t argue with that. He would definitely be satisfying all his muffin needs at Liz’s bakery. What other needs could a Claremont satisfy?
“What did you do today?” Patrick asked as a way of getting his mind off Gini naked.
“Haddy and I worked on the calendar.” Gini’s voice was quiet, careful. “It’s going to be awesome when it’s finished.” Patrick made a pile of the crumbs in front of him. “Patrick?”
He looked up, palms on the table, ready to fight about picture taking.
“You can relax.” Gini traced the outline of one of his hands with her index finger. The sensation made Patrick everything but relaxed. “I won’t say I’m not disappointed you won’t be a part of the calendar,” she said. “I’m pretty sure the women of Burnam would pay large sums of money to see their newest fighter on display.” She paused in her tracing and brushed her fingers instead over the back of his hand. If this simple touch could make his heart thud wildly in his chest, what would more than touching do?
“Or they might want their money back,” Patrick said.
“Why would you say that?” Gini rested her full hand over his now.
God, he wanted to tell her. Show her and have her say it didn’t matter his body was ruined. That she wanted him anyway.
“Just being humble, I guess,” he said.
“You have no reason to be humble, Patrick.” Gini leaned forward. “You’re an attractive man. That’s just a fact.”
Patrick had trouble swallowing. Attractive was not the word to describe him. Maybe it could have been had things gone differently when he was sixteen. Maybe that boy could have grown into something beautiful. But that boy didn’t get the chance. Instead, that boy had become this man, an elephant man.
She should go home now. She should get up, grab that ridiculous purse, and head on home.
His mind was ready to suggest that very thing, but his body made him get up from his seat, pull Gini from hers, and lean forward instead. Lean forward until Gini’s lips were right there, moistened and waiting. Patrick wasn’t sure who crossed the last inches first, but wanted to thank whoever had.
Gini’s supple lips teased his, gentle strokes that became firmer, more urgent as their mouths melded. His hand automatically found its way back into that mass of soft curls as her hand caressed the whiskers on his jaw. Patrick slid his hands down to rest on Gini’s hips, pulling her against his body. Her hands hooked on his shoulders as she angled her head up, her lips parting to meet his tongue with her own. Hot and wet, the sensation of having something of hers inside of him brought Patrick to the breaking point. A moan from her throat made fireworks explode in his body.
Gini pulled back slightly to blaze a trail of kisses down his neck. She tugged on the right side of his T-shirt’s collar and nipped at his bared shoulder. Patrick closed his eyes and burrowed his hands into the opening where Gini’s shorts didn’t quite hug her waist at the small of her back. His hands glided over the porcelain skin there. The curve of her body, the swell of her firm butt delighted his calloused fingers.
Patrick was vaguely aware of movement around the waistband of his jeans, but he concentrated on sliding his hands deeper to cup Gini’s behind in his palms. She let out a staccato breath and ground her hips against his. Their bodies fit together perfectly, gears meant to interlock and spin endlessly.
Gini turned her attention back to his mouth, and Patrick drank in every ounce of her. That wildflower smell wafted up from her hair, and he wanted to swim in it for an eternity.
His shirt slid from the security of his jeans, and he ripped his mouth free of Gini’s before she could lift the shirt. He stared at her startled face, her hand still gripping the untucked T-shirt. Patrick backed up a step and searched his mind for something, anything, to say that would erase that shocked look from her sapphire eyes.
Patrick’s cell phone echoed into the frozen stillness, and he yanked it out of his pocket.
“Hello?” He jammed his loose shirt back into his jeans and tried to listen to the voice on the other end of the line.
“Barre, Chief Warner. We got another blaze. I’m short with Claremont out. Can you pinch hit for him?”
“Of course, Chief.”
“Good. I’ve got boys on the scene trying to contain it. It’s the bookstore next to Gini Claremont’s studio. You know where that is?”
Patrick cast a quick glance to Gini, and a look of concern had replaced the startled one. “I can get there, sir.”
Patrick slid the phone back into his pocket and rubbed his face with his hand.
“What is it, Patrick?” Gini reached out, but let her hand drop before she actually touched him.
“Another fire. At the bookstore next to—”
“My studio!” Gini rushed to her purse and dug for her keys.
Patrick grabbed her arm as she whisked by him. “You’re upset. Let me drive,” he said. “Tell me where to go.”
Gini followed Patrick to the front door. Midas circled the foyer, ready to answer the call for help. Gini opened the door and jogged to Patrick’s truck behind Midas. Within seconds, they were all in and on their way.
Patrick hoped it wouldn’t be too late.
Chapter Eighteen
Gini stood on the sidewalk under a streetlight with Midas by her side. Patrick had suited up and was currently manning one of the hoses dousing the bookstore blaze. She could see from across the street that the wall abutting her studio was in shambles. If the fighters didn’t get the fire under control soon, her sacred workspace was going to be toast along with all the projects she was in the middle of—the calendar, two weddings, and a christening to be exact. Thankfully, she backed up all her digital photos to an external hard drive and had the negatives for the traditional ones at home. No precious moments would be lost for her customers, but it would mean extra work to redevelop the pictures.
“Gini!” Haddy ran over. The two women hugged each other for a long, silent moment. “Mason was at Jonah’s when he got called in on this. I came as soon as I heard.”
“It’s still mostly in the bookstore,” Gini said. “It won’t take long to break through that wall though.”
Haddy squeezed Gini’s hand and held on. “Do Sally and Phil know?”
Sally and Phil Wedson owned Pages Bookstore. They had actually owned the space next door where Gini’s studio was now. She’d bought it from them about six years back and couldn’t think of a better set of work neighbors. They were neat, quiet, and great at recommending Gini to everyone that came into their store. Gini had done the same for them. Sally and Phil did not deserve what was happening. Not at all.
“I called them on the drive here,” Gini said, “but they’re on vacation in Alaska this month, remember?”
Haddy smacked her forehead with her hand. “That’s right. Well, there’s nothing they could do if they were here anyway. Only the fighters can help now.” Haddy turned her attention back to the flames shooting out two shattered windows of the bookstore. A third burst and the nearest fighters shrank back with the hose.
“Patrick,” Gini whispered.
“He’s here?” Haddy asked. “Where?”
Gini pointed a shaky finger at the fighter holding the nozzle of the hose aimed at the center of the store. She didn’t like watching him creep close to danger. It reminded her of why she avoided firefighters. One freak thing, and Patrick could be injured like Jonah or worse, dead. She looked away as a shudder wracked her frame. Haddy slid her arm around Gini’s shoulders.
“It’ll be okay. They’ll stop the fire in time,” Haddy said. “Look, Patrick is already gaining on it.”
Gini peeked up and saw Patrick
guiding his team closer to the building. Her chest tightened, and the studio wasn’t the first thing on her mind anymore. Patrick was. She wanted him to drop the hose and come stand with her. Stand where it was safe. Where the fire couldn’t reach him. Couldn’t take him from her before they’d had a chance to finish what they’d started in his kitchen.
His kitchen. Why had he become so afraid when she slipped his shirt from his jeans? He had his hands down the back of her shorts for crying out loud, and she certainly hadn’t minded. His palms were rough, but warm, and Gini wanted to feel them over her entire body as she touched him everywhere.
Patrick had said he was camera shy, but was he all-around bashful? She’d thought Mason had been bad, getting all locked up around women, but Patrick had been downright terrified as she’d loosened his T-shirt. She’d wanted to run her palms over his chest, feel his flesh against her fingers. Was that so wrong?
Another thunderous blast made everyone scramble back and take cover. Black smoke billowed out of a hole in the roof of the bookstore and for a moment, the fire was sucked inward. It gushed through the roof opening, and the fighters took their opportunity to slay the inferno. Three teams with hoses rushed in and converged on the epicenter of the fire, and soon what remained of the bookstore hissed in a gray after-cloud. It would have to be totally rebuilt. Nothing like books to fuel a fire.
Gini gazed at her studio, still intact, but showing signs of abuse where it met the bookstore. One wall repair and it should be fine. All her photos would be okay, but it had been a close one. To think she’d almost lost her business to the very thing she had to control daily in herself. The universe loved irony. One bad day at work for her and the studio could have been destroyed long ago by fire.
Patrick crossed the street, his helmet under his arm. Gini wanted to throw her arms around him, but knew he wasn’t hers. She didn’t have the right to hold him or have him hold her. She clasped her hands tightly in front of her instead, and Haddy’s arm slipped from her shoulders. Midas got to his feet and wagged his tail at Patrick.
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