"I heard that tone," she called from the kitchen. "I promise it will be good."
Eyes still closed, his mouth curved in a smile. How did she do that? "I don't know what you're talking about."
"There's chicken in there, too," she said through the screen as she nudged it open. "Admit it, you were a little worried for a minute."
"A beautiful woman serving me dinner on the deck? I think I'm good." Her addictive scent arriving before her, Shannon set a round of dishes on the table before heading back inside for more. A strange sensation washed over him. One of well-being. It wasn't the first time he'd felt it. Despite all the obstacles that lay ahead. Despite the pain, he was . . . content. With brief surges of something that could almost be described as happiness. Hope. That his life might finally be turning a corner. With this latest surgery under his belt, he was released of one more burden.
When she returned, he sat up straighter. Seated across from her, it was impossible not to savor each tiny detail. Like the dimple that winked in her right cheek when she smiled. The wisps of golden brown hair catching the breeze and the last rays of sunlight. A fascinating array of freckles that seemed to drift into her hairline.
"Okay . . . so this is a warm pasta salad." Handing him a big spoon, she smiled. "It has lots of chicken, because I figured you'd panic without a little protein."
Shannon was one of those women who smiled with their eyes. As the guy on the receiving end, it was like a double whammy to his groin. "I think 'panic' is a little harsh." He grinned. "A healthy concern, perhaps."
"It also has red peppers and grape tomatoes," she ticked off. "Cucumbers. Olives and feta cheese, which is getting nice and melty as we speak."
"So . . . basically, it's like a grown up version of mac and cheese."
She paused, fork halfway to her mouth and then burst out laughing. "I guess you're right. Here I was, thinking I was being all fancy . . ."
Feeling a twinge of guilt over his comment, he took a big bite. And was pleasantly surprised. Hell, it was delicious. "I was wrong, Shan. This is amazing. Way better than mac and cheese."
Leaning across the table, she clinked his water glass with hers. "It is pretty good," she acknowledged. Her gaze turned thoughtful. "Grilled shrimp would be great, too. Maybe for summer."
"Now, you're speaking my language." He nodded to the covered grill that didn't receive workouts nearly as often as it should. Fourteen hour days lent themselves better to takeout than grilling out, but maybe he should rethink that.
"A man and his grill." Her expressive eyes appraised him. "You have a great backyard. Do you barbecue a lot?"
"I was just realizing it's not as often as I'd like." Helping himself to another heaping spoonful of pasta, he smiled. "This is seriously good, Shan. You have my word I'll never doubt your menu again."
Her surprised chuckle washed over him like frothy champagne bubbles. Her cheeks stained pink, still visible in the deepening shadows. "Never? That's pretty powerful." She raised an eyebrow in contemplation. "What if I served you my man-hater menu?"
Surprise made him choke on his water. "I'll admit to being intrigued, but I'm also a little afraid to ask. . . What's a man-hater menu?"
Her eyes sparking with amusement, she ticked off what seemed to have been an already contemplated list. "Quinoa . . . kale salad, hummus. Tofu-" Her eyes widened. "You could grill it for me-"
"I'm sorry, but that . . . substance will never touch my grill." Curt shook his head. "How did you even think up something like that?"
"The usual—a night of drinking too much wine with my sister . . . and imagining funny ways to torture guys."
Her honesty made him smile. "Like the emergency tampon run?"
Startled, she shot him a look. "You know about that?"
"We're not as dumb as we look." He stabbed another piece of chicken. "Was this a recipe or something you just whipped up?"
Raising her gaze to the rapidly darkening sky, she appeared to think about her answer. He liked that about her. She didn't nervously blurt out responses. Having dated several impulse talkers over the past decade, it had proven exhausting. Bright, brittle chatter substituted for conversation, filling any perceived void. Quantity over quality. As though brief periods of silence somehow reflected poorly on their ability to charm. Shan didn't seem to require constant talk.
Prison had taught him several things about silence. There was never enough of it and it had been the thing he'd most craved. Shouts from other cells would keep him awake most nights—but not in a way he could utilize for reflection or meditation. Instead of reviewing his life under a microscope, Curt had spent the time, jaw clenched; startled countless times each night out of restless sleep. Constant distraction had become a way of life. Slamming cell doors, arguing, fights. Re-entry to the real world had been a relief in more ways than one. But, the desperation for order and quiet had been near the top of his list.
"I'm more of a wing-it type cook," she admitted, dispelling his wandering thoughts. Setting her fork down, she leaned back in her deck chair. "I like experimenting, but I haven't been able to do much since I moved back."
"Why not?"
Her gaze drifted to a bird fluttering in the tree near the deck. "It's hard when you're not in your own kitchen. I don't like messing up Kerry's space." With a sigh of contentment, she shifted to face him. "Now that I've found my own place, I'll be able to start cooking again."
Curt shook off a sudden sense of gloom that threatened to mar what was turning out to be a pretty damned perfect evening. Being around Shannon felt sort of . . . overpowering. She was friendly. Kind. Helpful. It was unnatural to be so . . . content. What would it be like to be around that glowing energy all the time? "You . . . uh, found an apartment?"
Her eyes lit up. "Uh-huh—Watertown. A perfect, tiny one bedroom. I can't wait to move in."
"That's fantastic, Shan." He'd have to remember that raise he'd discussed with Travis. She completely deserved it. And now, she would have more expenses.
"I know," she enthused. "I can't wait to start collecting furniture again."
Curt caught her gaze. Damn, it was her eyes. They were so expressive. So full of . . . life. They made him feel exposed. Like she could somehow see . . . him. Or maybe, through him. "What do you mean 'collecting'?"
"I like to refinish furniture. I find old, broken stuff that nobody wants and I fix it up."
"Like re-upholstering?" Intrigued by this new facet of her personality, he acknowledged the tug of wanting to know more.
"More than that. It's like each piece sort of . . . speaks to me." Blushing furiously, she glanced away. "I know that sounds stupid. But, it's just something that happens."
His first impulse would have been to joke about it, but he sensed this subject—unlike cooking—was somehow really important to her. "Explain it to me. What happens?"
Slowly, Shannon came out of her shell, revealing how each piece of furniture suggested how it could best be refurbished, her tone shy at first, growing more animated as he questioned her. Curt was infinitely grateful he hadn't joked about it. Because, until this very moment, he hadn't realized she had a shell. Shannon always seemed so open and honest and funny with him. Telling him what to do, bullying and encouraging during the long, painful nights. But—about personal stuff—she was cautious. Private. It left him wondering why.
"I had to leave most of my treasures back in Denver," she admitted.
The change to her voice was subtle, but he picked up on it. Something had happened to her in Denver. The reason she'd returned home. "If you loved them, why'd you leave them behind?"
Now that he'd been the recipient of a hundred Shannon smiles, Curt recognized the artificial one she offered. "I couldn't fit the rocker on the bus."
Bus? Why would anyone take a bus across country? Unless . . . she'd had to. Unless she'd been so broke- "What was so special about the rocker?"
Bolting from her chair as though she'd been stung by a bee, she began gathering plates. "It's ge
tting dark. I should clear all this-"
"Shan, wait." Without thinking, he reached for her hand, surprised when he actually caught it. Cool fingers fluttered nervously against his. "Tell me," he suggested, his words and his grasp on her hand gentle. She knew just about everything about him. Well—not everything. Shit—hardly anything, really, now that he thought about it. His awful back story. When she eased back into her chair, he held his breath. "What happened?"
Her gaze studiously avoiding his, she hesitated. "It was my grandmother's. She . . . left it to me." Her voice—suddenly thick with unshed tears, had his courage wavering. But, he'd started this by pushing her. He'd have to man up until she finished her story.
"She died . . . when I was a teenager. She left me the rocker . . . among other things." Releasing a breath, she continued. "But, it was the thing I cherished the most. Because I always remember her sitting there."
"Why'd you have to leave it?"
"I didn't have enough money to get home." Her confession was flat. Deliberate. "So, I sold it to a friend. At least I know where it is, if I ever wanted to-" Her voice trailed off. "The guy I was seeing—he emptied my bank account before he took off . . ." Sitting back in her chair, she finally met his gaze. "I had to sell everything . . . just to make the bus fare."
The bleak expression in her eyes suggested she was still punishing herself for the mistake. Though Curt had his fair share of experience in self-loathing, it bothered him to know Shannon felt that way when all she'd done was trust the wrong guy. One who was clearly not worth her effort. "God, what an asshat."
Her fingers startled in his before she started laughing. And then, she couldn't seem to stop. Relieved, Curt waited for her to catch her breath, pleased he'd been able to cheer her up. "You're right. He totally was an asshat. I caught him cheating with one of the waitresses in the restaurant where we worked."
He wondered at the rest of the story, suspecting it was probably worse. How much money had the bastard stolen from her?
"I should get all this stuff back into the kitchen before it gets too dark." Rising from her chair, Shannon impulsively grabbed his hand. "Thanks for making me laugh about it. I hate that he still has the power to make me feel stupid."
"He doesn't sound worth remembering." Suddenly more aware of her than he'd been since they met, Curt was grateful for the growing dusk. His throat strangely tight, he reached for his water. "Thank you for the incredible dinner. And thanks for this." He waved an arm toward the backyard. "I really needed it."
"Being outside?" She smiled, a genuine one this time, as she gathered up dishes. "I was hoping you'd enjoy it. A change of scenery can do wonders. If you'd like, we can try it every night."
Every night. A sharp pang of regret washed over him as she headed for the door. Not every night. Just the next five or six. After that, she'd leave. And his house would feel empty. He frowned. Not empty. Just different. Different in a sucky way. Hell—what was happening to him?
Flopping back in his seat, his brief sense of contentment dissolved, to be replaced by annoyance. What was it about Shannon that was so different? For days, he'd puzzled over his fascination with her. It wasn't just physical beauty, because, although she was gorgeous, he'd had pretty women before. Hell—they were all pretty enough when you wanted to get laid.
Okay, so maybe 'pretty' wasn't really adequate to describe Shannon McCarty. Maybe it was the nurse thing. She was physically caring for him. Helping him—when he was helpless. That was attractive. And probably a little desperate on his part. Since he temporarily needed her—it made sense that he temporarily wanted her. Shaking his head over the stupid logic, Curt gave up, his sigh exasperated. He may as well face it. Until Shannon left his house for good—until he could air out her scent—until he could just stop fantasizing about her, he would simply have to accept being perpetually aroused when she was around. Hell, anyone could last six days.
WEARINESS CRASHING over her, Shannon set the plates on the counter, planning to rinse them later. Despite her fatigue, she was happy to see Curt up and around, willing to take chances with movement. It was a strong sign he was well on his way to recovery. Checking her watch, she calculated his next meds. The sky outside the kitchen window was deepening to purple. Soon, she would have to start the process of getting him back inside. And if this trip went anything like the last one, she'd be in need of a cold shower by the time he was safely back on the couch. He was so attractive.
Helping him—was slowly unraveling her. Having to touch him. Usually one of the more clinical aspects of patient care—by professional necessity—was touching and moving patients. But, her rational mind didn't seem to be functioning properly when it came to Curtis. Every touch seemed charged with electricity. At least on her part. If she didn't get it under control soon, he would be left with no doubt about her desire to jump him. Fleetingly, she wondered over the fascination. Since Brad, she hadn't felt even a whisper of interest in sleeping with anyone. But, since meeting Curtis, she couldn't stop thinking about it.
He was wrong for her in every possible way. He was her boss. They had to work together. Closely. If it blew up in her face, she'd be out of a job. Curtis was a loner who liked it that way. He was emotionally damaged. She was emotionally damaged—from the very same event in their lives. Not that he knew anything about that fact yet. Imagine his reaction . . . if she fell for him. If she slept with him—and he discovered who she really was.
Increasingly, she'd debated telling him, but how did one casually bring up the only subject he never discussed? The foolish optimist in her had hoped it would occur naturally, as the result of him confiding in her—about the crash that had changed everything for him. For them. But, Curtis didn't appear to be on the verge of any breakthroughs when it came to sharing secrets.
Reminding herself all the reasons why she shouldn't want him didn't stack up against the heady rush she experienced every time she was near him. The feel of solid, warm muscle when she had an arm around him as he stepped down on the deck. The scent of soap and perspiration and that elusive Curt smell that made her heart beat a little faster when she leaned in to adjust his crutch. The sexy five o'clock stubble that seemed to grace his gorgeous cheekbones by noon each day. Usually, it was his eyes that were mesmerizing. Stormy blue, his thoughts safely hidden behind the beauty of them. But tonight, Shannon had been too afraid to glance at him to confirm whether he'd noticed her crazy, unprofessional reaction to his nearness. Dear Lord, she hoped not. It would make the last few nights with him seem like a lifetime.
Releasing a breath, she shook off her nerves as she retraced her steps to the screen door. "Are you ready for the trip back inside?"
"We may as well start." Curt waited for her to lift his propped foot and remove the side table he'd been resting on. "Who knows how long the return trip will take?"
Still kneeling before him, she set his foot on the deck before raising her gaze. "Okay, let's plan this out. Do you want to go back to the couch? Or settle in your bedroom?"
He frowned. "Hell, not bed yet. I want to sit up for a while."
Sliding the footstool out of his path, she rose to her feet. "If you'd like to stay up late, you could even sleep on the couch." She retrieved his crutches from their spot near the door. "I'm not sure how comfortable that would be for you, but you're the boss."
Her comment drew a smile. "It doesn't feel as though I'm the boss of anything right now." Accepting the crutches, he hoisted himself up, making sure he was balanced before he took a step.
"I know it stinks to lose your freedom," she admitted, watching him edge toward the door, his movement slightly more confident than it had been on the trip out.
Curtis shrugged. "It's not so bad. I've experienced far worse."
Awareness flared as she suddenly remembered exactly how much freedom he'd actually lost. His prison sentence. He'd spent nearly two years in jail for the crash. But, you're not supposed to know that. "It's good to maintain a positive attitude. I'm one of those people
who believe it helps in the recovery process."
Amusement shimmered in his eyes. Clearly, he disagreed with her Pollyanna outlook. "It's not as though I have a choice, right?"
"Okay, this is the big one." Shannon pushed the door open behind her. "You're gonna step up with the good foot. Then pull your crutches inside. Then swing your bad leg up, without touching the ground."
"Is that all?" His smirk revealed sarcasm. "Piece of cake."
Knowing his comment stemmed from the underlying fear he could reinjure the knee, she offered a smile of encouragement. Without thinking, she leaned in to murmur in his ear. "No cake, but there's still pudding in the fridge."
The intense expression on his face dissolved as he cracked up, breaking the tension. "You think I can be bribed with pudding?"
"Well, it is chocolate." Losing the battle for a solemn expression, she smiled. "I'd do just about anything for that."
One brow lifted. "I'll have to keep that in mind." He waved a crutch at her. "Get out of the way. I'm making my move."
She took a step back into the kitchen, holding her breath as he slowly made it up the step. Seconds later, he was safely inside. "You did it!"
Releasing a breath, he shuffled another step toward the living room. "Chocolate pudding, here I come. Since you're so nice, I might share it."
Excited for him, she squeezed his arm as he passed, then slipped behind him to lock the French doors. When she turned back, he hadn't moved, a curious expression on his face. Suddenly fenced in by his crutches, she glanced up. "Curtis? Are you okay?"
Before he could answer, instinct had her moving. No way would he fall on her watch. Slipping her arms around him, her intention was to steady him. He stiffened in response. "Don't-"
"Just rest a minute," she urged, careful not to reveal the thread of panic. Arms tightening around him, her heart was nearly thumping out of her chest. She felt the strength in him, radiating from his core and was momentarily puzzled. He seemed steady. "Are you dizzy?"
"Don't . . . Shan-" A shudder tore through him.
Out of the Ashes Page 12