Silence. Then a hint of a smile flicked across Ian’s lips. “But you hated it.”
“No! I didn’t say that at all. The loft was perfect. Really. Every single inch of it.”
His smile widened. “Every single goddamned perfect inch of it.”
Chloe had to bite her lip to keep from smiling back. She crossed her arms over her chest and leaned against the trunk of a sturdy birch tree. “I didn’t say that,” she repeatedly stubbornly. “The loft was perfect.”
“If you say so.” He gave a loose shrug. “I guess it all depends on what your goal was.”
“What do you mean?”
“Was the goal to get a photo spread of the loft in some pretentious magazine, or to build a home together?”
Her thoughts staggered to an abrupt stop. How strange that it had never occurred to her to look at it that way. But wasn’t that exactly what had bothered her so much at the time? The loft had never felt like home—or at least not like her home.
She remembered how Jeff had deposited copies of the magazine everywhere he went. The hospital, his office, the local deli, their coffee table—they’d had a horrible fight about it and she called him the Johnny Appleseed of City Scene magazine. Then there was the maddening way he’d act so casual and contrived whenever someone mentioned they saw the feature on their loft. Oh, that? No big deal, really, but Chloe was pretty excited about it.
She took a minute to mull the matter over. Odd. Ever other time she’d spoken of her break-up with Jeff, she’d been overwhelmed by a crushing sense of failure. Loss. Inadequacy. If she’d just tried harder… Now the only emotion that filled her was relief at her narrow escape.
“Anyway,” Ian said, “I would never ask why you didn’t get married.”
“Right.” She gave an approving nod. “Too personal.”
“No. Just that the answer’s too obvious.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah.” He braced one hand on the birch trunk, palm open. One tanned, muscular forearm skimmed past her cheek. His gaze locked on hers. “The guy’s an idiot.”
The air seemed to rush out of her lungs, leaving her unable to speak. If she’d had the mental wherewithal to form words, that is, which she absolutely did not. Her heart lurched as the world seemed to tilt precariously beneath her feet. The woods, the dog, the creek, the sky—all of it abruptly faded away, like some cinematic trick. The lens readjusted, and Chloe was conscious of nothing except the man standing before her.
Ian was tall and broad, big in a powerfully masculine way it made her feel lavishly feminine. Now he stood so close that she could breathe in the intoxicating scent of his skin. She could read every dazzling spark of color in his eyes, from amber to gold to green. Vivid eyes that seemed to reflect the woods around them. His stunning autumn eyes. Her gaze moved across the dark stubble that shadowed his jaw, and then locked on his lips. Lips that curved in a smile that was part teasing dare, part naked desire.
Giddy anticipation flooded through her.
All week she’d tried to convince herself that she didn’t want this, that she couldn’t have it even if she did. But now, faced with an opportunity to cross a boundary she knew she shouldn’t—the ways she could be hurt, both emotionally and professionally, were staggering—Chloe felt suddenly breathless, almost unbearably lightheaded.
And reckless. Oh God, did she feel reckless.
Two thoughts assaulted her simultaneously: This is happening too fast and What took you so long?
Don’t think, Chloe admonished herself. This wasn’t a time for thinking. This was a time for doing.
She shot a glance toward the creek. Preston hadn’t moved. He remained deeply engrossed in the tiny, silvery fish that darted through the water. But he wouldn’t remain occupied for long. If they were going to kiss, it had to happen now.
In the end, it came down to this: she would regret it far more if she didn’t kiss Ian Dowling. She would always wonder what she’d missed. Better to get it over with and get this out of her system so they could both laugh it off. This foolish flirtation, this avoidable attraction. Get it over with so they could both get on with the work they needed to do. And so she tilted her face upward, raised herself up on tiptoe, and wrapped her arms around his neck. She brushed her lips against his.
Just do it.
Just one quick little kiss.
Just one brief, meaningless—Oh, God.
How had she lived twenty-eight years and never known what a real kiss was supposed to feel like?
Chapter Ten
How could a simple kiss be so wickedly, beautifully, soul-shatteringly right?
Ian’s lips descended on hers, barely touching, teasing her mouth with his own. He wrapped one hand around the nape of her neck, stroking it sensually, while his pebbled jaw coaxed her lips apart. A tremor of shock coursed through her as their tongues met and danced.
She melted against him, meeting his tongue with her own, at once languid and aroused. Her limbs turned to liquid. Desire built and built, twirling and twisting like spirals of smoke, obscuring everything but the sensations flooding through her. His strong arms locked around her, crushing her body against his. Emboldened, she rocked against him, matched the rhythm of his kiss. Deepened it.
He held her firmly against his chest, her bottom snuggled up against his long, masculine thighs. Chloe wrapped her arms around his neck and returned his kiss with reckless abandon, losing herself in the lusty rhythm. She arched her back and flattened her breasts against his chest. Tugged her hands through his hair. Locked her thighs against his.
He brushed his hands hungrily down her back, caressing and exploring as though memorizing her every curve. Following his lead, she explored his body, stroking his shoulders, his back, his chest; all while locked in their deep, sensual kiss.
He tightened his arm around her waist and lifted her against him, literally swept her off her feet. His mouth moved against hers with such rabid urgency and primal need that Chloe nearly groaned out loud. A wave of raw, pulsating desire swept over her. Heat pooled in her belly and spread lower.
She was suddenly furious at all those fake, imitation kisses she’d subsided on for so long. Like someone had fed her a lifetime’s worth of carob and glibly assured she was devouring hot fudge. Nothing she’d ever experienced was like this. This was erotic hunger. This was passionate longing. This was how a woman should always be kissed.
Her senses reeling, she absorbed the press of his lips, the taste of his mouth, the stroke of his tongue against her own. Pleasure curled her toes and spiraled up her spine. She melted into him, lost in a dizzying vortex of heat and desire.
If only it didn’t have to end.
A sudden splash in the creek—Prince had tried to snag a darting fish with his paw—and they broke apart, their expressions as guilty as children caught with their hands in a candy jar. Chloe pivoted away and drew in a deep, steadying breath.
“Hey.” Preston stood and studied them with a frown. The vaguely worried look a child gives when he knows the adults have gotten away with something they shouldn’t, but doesn’t know what it is.
“Hey, yourself,” replied Ian. He tucked his hands inside his pockets. “How’s the fishing, buddy?”
“Fine.” Preston’s gaze moved past his uncle to Chloe, intently scrutinizing her. “Are we still going to Chloe’s house?”
She arranged her expression into something she hoped resembled a normal smile. Her lips felt bruised and swollen, her face felt flushed. And her hair—God knew what her hair looked like. “If you want to make meatballs, I guess we better.”
“Well, I know I want meatballs,” said Ian. He smiled and brushed his hand lightly along the back of her neck.
The gesture was as shattering as his kiss had been. It was a touch that spoke of casual affection. Quiet confidence. A touch that clearly said, Relax. It was just a kiss.
Right. Just a kiss. And the Titanic was just a boat. No big deal.
“Meatballs!” Preston shouted.
Prince slapped his paws and gave an excited bark.
“No meatballs for you, pal,” she returned, pulling herself together and giving the dog a stern look. “All right then. Let’s go. We’re almost there.”
They walked on, but this time Preston hung back and stayed with them, as though determined not to miss whatever he had missed earlier. Whoever said kids weren’t bright didn’t know kids.
After a few minutes they left the path and stepped into a clearing that faced a group of five cabins. From the outside the quarters looked identical to the cabins that housed the camps’ guests. But the interiors were radically different. The guest cabins had been renovated to meet all applicable ADA standards and guidelines. Kitchens and baths were updated and sparkling new. But the money simply hadn’t been there to upgrade the staff quarters. Or if the money had been there, it was spent acquiring and training additional dogs, paying veterinary bills, or expanding the kennels, a decision Chloe whole-heartedly approved.
“Which one’s yours?” Preston shouted, once again racing excitedly ahead.
“The one with the yellow mums by the door.”
She and Ian caught up with him. Chloe threw open the door and ushered them all inside. “This won’t take long,” she promised, moving toward the kitchen.
Ian paused in the living room, silently surveying the space. “Nice place.”
“Think so?” She propped a reusable shopping bag on the counter and began to fill it. She took a mental inventory of her ingredients as she did, glad to have something to focus on besides Ian. If only she could focus. He kissed me, ground beef, he kissed me, garlic, you kissed him back, herbs, eggs, onion, and half a loaf of stale sourdough.
Enough already.
“You obviously haven’t seen the Pepto Bismol pink toilet,” she said.
“A pink toilet?” Preston gave a delighted giggle and raced away to check out the bathroom, Prince loping along at his side.
Ian moved into the kitchen. “I’m serious, though. I like it.” A brief pause, then, “It suits you.”
Surprised, Chloe considered that. She was comfortable here, and she liked the pieces she’d picked up over time at consignment shops, flea markets, tag sales and the like. But she hadn’t really looked at her cabin as a reflection of herself until now.
She paused and gazed around her living room, trying to see it as Ian might. It certainly wasn’t high style. Nevertheless, it looked… homey. Comfortable. Inviting. Walls painted a soft green and hung with a variety of scenic photographs of the Hudson Valley. Overstuffed sofa, chair, and ottoman, all done in shades of ivory and cream. A vintage quilt tossed over the back of the sofa and a kitschy chrome deer head mounted over the fireplace. Rustic washed pine coffee table mixed with sleek copper and glass end tables. Bookcases—the top shelves packed with the novels she loved to lose herself in (like her furniture, her taste here was eclectic too: everything from New York Times bestsellers, to murder mysteries and light romance, to classic literature), the bottom shelves were packed with the books, games, and DVD’s she liked to share with her young patients.
“Your cabin is identical to the one we’re in,” he said, studying her approvingly. “But it feels totally different. You’ve made an actual home out of it, haven’t you?”
Chloe found herself wanting to bask in his praise, to soak it up like a sponge. If she were a bird, she’d be positively preening right now.
Watch it, girl. Feet firmly planted on the ground, if you please. It was just one kiss. A moment of weakness that didn’t signify anything. And yet she knew with annoying certainty that every future kiss she ever experienced would be compared to that electrifying moment in the woods: Oh, yes, thank you. That was very nice, but it wasn’t quite an Ian Dowling kiss, now was it?
“I’ve been here over a year,” she replied. “It isn’t as though—”
A sharp, high-pitched bark cut her off. That bark was followed by another, and then another. With a sudden stab of panic, she realized Preston hadn’t returned to the living room. Ian instantly made the same connection. He pivoted right and sprinted toward her bedroom. Chloe grabbed her trauma bag and raced after him.
Preston lay on the floor of her bathroom, his tiny body racked with convulsions. His eyes were open but vacant, his limbs rigid, and his jaw clenched. A thin stream of saliva issued from his mouth and a bluish tinge appeared around his lips. Tiny beads of sweat formed on his temple.
Prince barked again, anxiously pacing in place, his toenails clicking against the room’s pink tile floor. Chloe called him to her and put him in a Down in the hallway. Her bathroom was tiny. Barely large enough for her and Ian to squeeze inside together. A nearly impossible fit if Prince was underfoot.
“Good boy,” she praised the dog. “Good Alert.” She tossed a handful of treats as she swept past and kneeled beside Preston, dropping the trauma kit beside her. She checked her watch, mentally marking the minute and second hands, and then grabbed a towel from the rack and folded it hurriedly, placing it under the boy’s head as a temporary pillow. “All right,” she said to Ian. “Let’s roll him onto his side, facing me. Gentle now.”
They eased him onto his side. “It’s all right, buddy,” she heard Ian say. “It’s all right. We’ve got you. We’re right here.”
Preston’s breathing became shallow. His skinny arms and legs jerked quickly and rhythmically. His pupils contracted, dilated. All responses regrettably normal for his condition, Chloe thought, marking the telltale signs as his seizure moved from the tonic phase to the clonic phase. Finally, with agonizing slowness, his tremors eased and his small body stilled. She checked her watch again: approximately three minutes, thirty-eight seconds from the time the seizure commenced to the time it ended.
Preston blinked twice. Focus entered his gaze at the same moment his bladder released. Urine stained the crotch of his pants and pooled beneath him.
“Uncle Ian?” his voice was high and tremulous, excruciatingly frail.
“Right here,” Ian replied. “I’m right here.” He knelt on the floor, his large body squeezed between the toilet and the pedestal sink, and helped his nephew into a sitting position. “You’re okay now. It’s all over. You did just fine.” Urgency laced his voice. He sounded desperate to move past the episode, to shake it off like a nightmare that wasn’t real. There were no more monsters chasing them, the bedside light was on, everyone was safe and sound.
“No,” Preston choked out, tears of misery streaming down his cheeks as he looked down at himself. “No, I didn’t do fine. I peed my pants again, didn’t I?”
“It’s not your fault—”
“Everyone would laugh at me. Everyone would call me a baby.”
“Shhh,” Chloe soothed. She reached for Preston’s wrist. “Sit still for a minute, okay, Preston? I want to check your pulse, listen to your heart, make sure everything’s okay.” Once she’d ascertained he suffered no lingering effects from the seizure, she gently probed his skull, checking for bumps and bruises. “Do you hurt anywhere?”
Preston gave a heavy blink, and then slowly shook his head.
She sent him a reassuring smile. “You check out just fine, Preston, but you look a little sleepy. Do you want to rest for a bit before we start dinner?”
He was out before she finished speaking, deeply and soundly asleep, his chin bobbing on his chest. Not unusual. Nearly every patient she’d worked with immediately fell into a period of restorative sleep following a seizure. Some remembered the episode that preceded their nap, others didn’t.
She glanced up at Ian. “Let’s get him off the floor and onto my bed, all right?”
If he heard her, he gave no indication of it. His gaze was fixed on Preston, his normally brilliant eyes darkened to a stormy gold. A muscle in the side of his jaw ticked furiously.
“Hey. Ian. You with me?”
With what appeared to be immense effort, Ian pulled himself together. He stared at his hands as though he didn’t recognize them, as though those an
gry fists belonged to someone else. He nodded wordlessly and gathered Preston in his arms, then stood and carried him into her bedroom. He hesitated, studying the assortment of vintage embroidered pillows stacked against her headboard, the coordinated linens that covered her bed. “He’s wet.”
“It doesn’t matter. It’s all washable. Wait—here we go.”
Chloe grabbed two thick cotton towels from her linen closet and rested them on top of each other on her bed. She watched as Ian gently settled Preston atop them. He removed the boy’s sneakers, his sodden pants and socks, and then hesitated, shooting her an uncertain glance. She passed him a plastic laundry hamper. “All of it,” she ordered, her tone brisk and businesslike. Head nurse. “T-shirt and underpants, too. I’ll toss everything in the wash right away.” She thought for a minute, assessing Preston’s needs now that the seizure was over. “There’s soap, washcloths, and extra towels in the bathroom. He’ll rest more comfortably if he’s clean and dry.” She tilted her chin toward a plush lavender blanket draped across the corner of her bed. “That ought to keep him warm while you go grab him some fresh clothes.”
Giving them some privacy, she turned and left the room, calling Prince with her as she went. Ian emerged a few minutes later, laundry basket in hand. He passed it to her. “You sure you don’t mind?”
“Not a bit.” She glanced over his shoulder. Preston was sound asleep on her bed, tucked beneath the blanket. A rosy pink tint had returned to his cheeks. “He’s all settled?”
“Until I can get him dressed, yeah. He normally sleeps twenty to thirty minutes after a seizure. I’ll be back as fast as I can. If there’s another seizure right after the first one—”
Courting Chloe (Hudson Valley Heroes Book 1) Page 10