Tempting the One (Meadowview Heat 4; The Meadowview 4)

by Rochelle French

  God, he wished he could erase those images.

  Wished he could go back in time and stop the shit-assed teenager from her wanton destruction of all Chessie held in her heart.

  Chessie was trying to hold back tears, unable to speak, her choked sobs muffled against the smooth cotton of his dress shirt. He couldn’t bear to have her feel this way—he had to make things right again.

  “I’ll make a few calls to my assistant, tell her what happened,” he said, emotion choking his voice. God, how he hated to see Chessie cry. “She can order replacement lavender plants and hire a landscaper to come replace the ones that were torn out. She’ll also find a contractor who can repair the damage to your potting shed, and a handyman who can clean out the mess in there.

  “No,” Chessie sobbed, her shoulders growing even tighter underneath his hands.

  “Why not? Don’t push me away, not now.”

  “Because,” she sobbed, “throwing money at my problem won’t make it go away.”

  “But I can afford it.” He had the money and the ability to make this all go away. He was trying to help. He wanted to help.

  “I can afford it, Theo. I can. I’m not poor. I don’t need your charity.”

  “I know you can afford it. This isn’t charity. It’s helping. There’s a big difference.”

  “No, it’s throwing money around.” She pushed him away, folded her arms across her chest. “You don’t get it. You never will. You rich people think everything’s replaceable—everything’s assigned a monetary value. Something breaks? Go buy a replacement. Girlfriend’s got a big nose? Toss a few dollars at a plastic surgeon. Fat ass? Liposuction.”

  Her answer and rejection brought rage to the surface. He didn’t deserve this treatment. Maybe he’d fucked up when he proposed all those weeks ago, but that didn’t give her the right to say such nasty comments to him. Comments that were patently untrue.

  “‘You rich people’? Who the hell are you talking about? This is me, Chessie, me. That’s a load of crap, talking about plastic surgery, for god’s sake.” The words came out in a heated rush. Her eyes had widened when she heard him curse. Good. He needed her paying attention to him, not wallowing in self-pity and misplaced accusations.

  He took a deep breath, then spoke with slow and deliberate precision, emphasizing each word. “I’m asking you if I can buy you replacement plants, hire a gardener. I’m trying to help you.”

  Chessie at least had the decency to drop her gaze and look guilty.

  His voice lowered, softened. “Sweetheart, I’m not trying to assign a monetary value to your great-grandmother’s plants. I know what Louisa meant to you. I know what the plants meant to you—Bridy, Gabby, Matilda.”

  She looked up when he said the plants’ names. Closing her eyes, she leaned in toward him, as if wanting comfort but unwilling to take it.

  “I’m only trying to help. I don’t know what else to do. Please, Chessie, let me replace them.”

  She ignored him. At least, he thought she ignored him, because she continued staring at the ground and holding her arms folded stiffly in front of her like some barrier between them.

  When she finally spoke, her voice was cold and stiff. “These plants”—she swept her arm in front of her, indicating the entirety of her front yard—“these dead and destroyed things you see in front of you, they can’t be replaced.”

  “Why not?” he asked. At her chilling glare, he continued. “I’m not trying to argue with you, that was a legitimate question. I want to know the reason these plants can’t be replaced. I’m trying to understand, here, Chessie. Is it because you named them?”

  She still looked at him from under hooded eyes, but answered him. “No. I’m used to them dying—lavender plants don’t live forever. It’s because these were the last plants of this particular variety. When Louisa’s family farm was tilled under, the variety died out. Louisa saved some seeds, and would harvest the seeds from every planting. These were the last of the plants. There are no more in existence, either here or in England.”

  “Did you harvest the seeds like Louisa did? Can’t you replant those?” he asked. It didn’t seem like Chessie not to have harvested the seeds, especially if the plants meant that much to her.

  “Do you think I’m stupid? Yes, of course I saved the seeds. I always harvested the seeds. But they were in a container in the potting shed, and you know what those jerks did there.” She dropped her head to her chest, as if overwhelmed by what had happened in her potting shed.

  He knew. His hands closed into fists, remembering. He’d seen the willful destruction—the sacks of potting soil torn open, the scattered packages of seeds, the supplies for Chessie’s business dumped on the ground and stomped upon—there wasn’t much left in the potting shed to save.

  Urination and beer had soaked the walls and floor. Utter destruction. Utter disrespect. Madison had been telling Chessie that no manner of lavender bouquets or blackberry pies would ever make them friends.

  “I don’t think you’re stupid, Chessie. You’re one of the brightest people I know. And I’ve watched you take care of your plants long enough to know that saving the seeds was something you’d do. That’s why I asked. Maybe I should have framed the question differently.” He reached forward, caught her chin in the cup of his hand. Gently, he pulled her head upward, seeking her eyes with his.

  He traced the line of her jaw with his thumb. God, it felt good to have his entire hand on her, to feel her with more than only his fingertips. He wanted to run his hands through her thick hair, watch as the auburn strands fell from between his fingers. He felt his pulse increase and knew he needed to pull back.

  “What can I do?”

  She closed her eyes, and for a moment he thought she was about to sink herself into him, lay her head upon his chest, and let him wrap her up in his arms. She looked as if she were about to kiss him. He parted his lips, ready to slant his mouth against hers, and ran the pad of his thumb over her trembling lower lip. She sighed, a soft and breathy sound.

  He waited, holding his breath, but instead of coming to him, Chessie flashed her eyes open. She jerked her head upward, breaking contact.

  “Nothing,” she answered dully. “There’s nothing you can do here. Please go.”

  “Wait.” He took a step forward.

  She took a step back. “Go home, Theo. Just go home.” Her eyes filled with tears once more. Almost as if she were embarrassed to be seen crying, Chessie shot her jaw high in the air, wheeled about, and strode away.

  Leaving Theo standing alone. Again.

  But this time, he knew what he needed to do. No phone call or credit card order was going to help Chessie. But he had an idea of what might. Now he had to hope against hope that his suspicions were correct. That something of Louisa was still in existence. Because Chessie was right—she didn’t need someone to throw money at the problem. She needed someone to give her what she wanted most in the world—a connection to the past and to the one woman who’d given Chessie her spirit and willingness to love and to see the good in people.

  Chessie needed Matilda. And Gertie. And Gabby.

  She needed what mattered.

  Chessie woke to the sound of a rooster crowing. Ugh. Not again. “Idiot bird,” she grumbled, and pulled a pillow over her head. It was too early. She didn’t want to face the day. She’d spent the last day and half cleaning up after the vandals and yet there was still so much left to do. She simply didn’t want to face it again. She wanted to go back to sleep and pretend as if none of it had happened.

  The rooster crowed again, only this time, even more loudly. And again. Chessie flung the pillow across the room and stared out the window. There, in the old birch tree, right outside her window, sat a brilliantly colored black-and-red checked rooster, complete with blood-red wattle and comb, and multi-hued tail feathers that drooped gracefully over his butt. He was gorgeous, for a chicken.

  Gorgeous, but one heck of an annoying bird.

  “And a good mo
rning to you, too, Sir Crowsalot. You’d better be careful, coming over to the neighbors to wake them up. Someone else might not be as nice as me and serve you for dinner with dumplings.” She fumbled for her alarm clock, staring at the blinking time of five thirty with bleary eyes. Fine, she’d get up.

  Conversation with the rooster over, she crawled out of bed and hunted for her bunny slippers, which once again had apparently hopped away sometime during the night. She never could find the darned things. Probably because she hated wearing anything on her feet unless it was cold outside. She gave up the hunt for her wayward bunnies and set off to the bathroom, where she turned the shower spray to hot.

  She yawned, stretched. Maybe it was a good thing the rooster woke her up early. She had more tasks to complete today than she had hours. At least her first national order had gone out a few days before Madison had vandalized her property.

  Theo and Remy had been right—she should have made an official police report. Because if she had, then maybe Madison wouldn’t have destroyed all Chessie held in her heart. And maybe Madison wouldn’t be in juvie right now.

  Because Remy had found evidence of Madison’s involvement in the destruction of Chessie’s property and had taken the girl into custody.

  And Chessie couldn’t help it—she’d brought chocolate chip cookies over to Juvenile Hall late yesterday evening and left them for Madison. What the girl did next would be up to her, of course, but Chessie wouldn’t stop trying.

  She stepped into the shower, luxuriating in the warmth flowing over her. She reached for her container of shampoo, only to realize she’d used the last of it the day before and had forgotten to refill the container. She reached into the shower basket and grabbed another bottle of shampoo.

  As soon as she began lathering, she realized what she’d done. The shampoo she was using was the scent she’d created for especially for Theo. Woody, spicy, earthy.

  Her stomach clenched. Tears pricked at her eyes, threatening to spill over.

  Not again, she willed her heart and body. She didn’t want to cry again. It had been three weeks; she should be moving beyond this by now. She’d made her decision, and her stupid heart and body needed to fall into line. Her time with Theo, as incredible as it had been, was over. Over for good.

  She tried to focus on the day ahead as a means of pushing thoughts of Theo out of her head. She would finish scrubbing out the potting shed in the morning, stop for lunch, then spend the afternoon digging under the back half acre. Rain had been coming off and on over the last few weeks and the ground was soft and ready to be turned under. In the evening, she could finish painting the inside of the potting shed. Lia and Liz had worked together to hose it out the day before. That meant that by tonight, it should be dry enough to paint.

  And when all that was done, she’d bury Louisa’s lavender plants in the compost pile.

  At the thought of the dead lavender plants, she burst out crying. God, she was becoming such a sap. Who cried over plants? It wasn’t as if the world had come to an end. Sure, the lavenders had been her last tangible connection to the woman who had meant so much to her, but was this really something to cry over? People were going to think she was batty to have taken a little vandalism so seriously.

  Her brother Jack had known, however, how deeply the vandalism had affected her. Lia, too, who had rallied the community to help clean dried egg goo and spray paint off Chessie’s potting shed and repaint the white picket fence. And Theo—

  Chessie stepped out of the shower. She grabbed a towel and wrapped it around her before she allowed herself to finish that thought.

  Theo had shown up within minutes after Lia had called him. He’d tried, in his own way, to help.

  She felt a ripple of guilt. Theo had more than tried to help—he’d actually listened, had asked questions. He’d been there for her.

  Yet she’d pushed him away.

  She hadn’t wanted to. In fact, it had been quite the opposite. She had wanted to sink herself into his arms, be held and kissed and caressed by him. But her fear of being hurt had caused panic, and she’d ordered him to leave. Guilt nudged at her again. She knew she needed to talk to him about it, but she wasn’t ready, she was still too raw.

  Tomorrow. She’d think about it tomorrow, like Scarlett O’Hara. “Yeah, and how’d that work out for her?” she muttered aloud.

  Just get through the day, she reminded herself.

  She stepped into her closet to pull out clothes. Since she’d be in the garden most of the day, she chose a long, flowing skirt with a red cherry print and a long-sleeved T-shirt with a drawing of a woman’s tongue with a knotted cherry stem perched in the middle of her tongue and the words, “I can do it” printed below. Sometimes she found the most amazing clothes at the vintage shop in town, she thought as she tugged the tee over her bare breasts.

  Within fifteen minutes she’d combed the tangles from her wet hair, brushed her teeth, slapped a hat on her head, and grabbed a bucket of soapy water. Coffee and breakfast could wait. She had a mess to clean up.

  Too bad it would take more than a bucket of soap and water to clean up the mess in her heart.

  * * *

  The afternoon sun peered out from between gathering clouds to glare in Chessie’s eyes, the hat on her head doing little to block the rays. She pressed her fists into the small of her back and curled back, seeking to relieve the muscle strain. Her community had fixed her picket fence, but more work needed to be done to repair the potting shed. She’d been scrubbing its exterior walls for hours. Her back was screaming for a break.

  She listened to her body and stood, stretched.

  A sudden tap on her shoulder caused her to shriek and drop the scrub brush that she’d been holding, which landed on her bare foot, banging her big toe. The big toe that had finally healed after she’d stubbed it the last night Theo had stayed at her house.

  She hopped on one foot, cradling the other in her hands. She squinted. With the sun in her eyes, she was unable to make out who it was standing before her.

  “Chessie—oh, hell—did I hurt you?”

  Theo’s voice. It was Theo who had scared the living daylights out of her. Theo, who was now kneeling before her, cupping her bare foot in his large hands.

  “I’m fine,” she said, steadying herself by placing a hand firmly on the potting shed. Or maybe she was grounding herself. Her chest clenched and suddenly it was hard to breathe. She wanted to pull her foot out of his hands but they felt so warm, so soothing.

  “Why are you here?”

  Theo ignored her question. He let go of her foot, apparently satisfied she hadn’t broken any toes, and stood, and then blatantly stared at her chest. “So, can you?” he asked.

  “Can I what?”

  “Do it.”

  What was he talking about? The conversation seemed on the path to insanity. Maybe she was dreaming. “Do what?”

  He motioned toward her breasts. When she peered down and saw that he was referring to the slogan on her shirt, she let out a strained laugh. “Oh, yeah, I can.”

  “Seriously? You can tie a cherry stem in a knot with your tongue?”

  “Seriously, I can. You of all people should know what my mouth can do.” Whoops, that had slipped out without her permission.

  Theo reached his hand out to trace the picture covering her breasts with a fingertip. Careful, she thought. She was treading on dangerous ground, accidentally flirting with him like that. Better to bring things to an even keel before she said or did something she’d regret.

  Theo continued to run his finger down her top, slowing when he reached her breast. She edged back.

  “You always do that,” he murmured.

  “Do what?”

  “Pull away from me. Just when I reach out, you pull back.”

  Yes, she did. She pulled away. How else was she supposed to protect her heart from catastrophic destruction? She didn’t know why Theo was here, but she knew she wanted him gone. Gone before her body and heart overrod
e her mind and she did something stupid. Like kiss him.

  “Theo, answer me. Why are you here?”

  “I want to give you something.”

  The knot in her chest grew. “I’m not sure that’s such a good idea. We both know what happened the last time you tried to give me something.”

  “Yeah, but this gift I think you’ll like. I’ve been on a long trip to find it—” Theo stopped speaking.

  The sun shifted, changing the light. She could see him more clearly now. She peered closely at his face—good god, he looked awful.

  “How long of a trip? Like, to hell and back? You look wretched.”

  He gave a rueful laugh and ran a hand through his hair. It spiked up in different directions. “Not hell. At least, I’m pretty sure the British wouldn’t think so.” He nodded toward the park bench that sat underneath the weeping willow tree. “Think we could sit down?”

  She nodded. Side by side, they walked to the bench.

  “I went to England,” he said as they settled down next to one another. Automatically, he slung an arm over her shoulders. Automatically, she snuggled close.

  “Why?” she asked. “And when? I mean, I just saw you two mornings ago.”

  “That day of the vandalism, I caught a flight to London. I got in to Heathrow the next morning, spent the day in England, and caught a flight home. My flight landed an hour ago and I drove straight here.”

  She tilted her head to stare at him. His face was taut with an emotion she couldn’t identify. “You look absolutely jet-lagged. Why’d you do it? Something to do with the Courant Foundation?”

  He shook his head. “There was something in England I needed. So I went.”

  “What money can buy,” she muttered, regretting the words the second they crossed her lips. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that. I was harsh with you the other day and I regret it.”

  “It’s all right. Money bought me a plane ticket. It got me to England. But it sure as hell didn’t get what I went over there for. Here,” he said. “Open this.” From the inside of his jacket Theo pulled out a robin’s-egg blue box.