Melting Into You

by Laura Trentham

  “Do you”—his voice was all sexy-gravel—“have any pizza left over?”

  “Yes.” The word hissed out of her mouth before his question registered. Not, can I kiss you? Not, can I take you to bed? He wanted pizza, not her.

  “In the fridge. Help yourself.” She cleared her throat, rounded her shoulders, and fingered the hair at her nape, her arm disguising her breasts.

  After patting the heat from her cheeks, she joined him in the kitchen, rising on her tiptoes to reach a can of cat food in her pantry. Feeling like he was stripping her naked with his gaze—or maybe that was just her hope—she bobbled the can. It hit the floor and rolled into his foot. He popped the last piece of crust into his mouth and picked up the can.

  With him in work boots and her barefoot, he’d gained another inch on her, impossibly tall and broad. She was acutely, uncomfortably aware of all of her curves. He was not here to date her or hook up with her or fulfill any of her erotic-laced dreams. She made sure not to touch him when she retrieved the can.

  “What are you going to do about your little family in the attic?” he asked.

  “Talked with Dr. Martin this morning. He said to slip Ghost food so she’ll be strong enough to nurse. The kittens can wean in about a month, and I’ll find homes for them. Or keep them.”

  “What about Ghost?”

  “He wants me to trap her so he can fix her. Told me not to waste my time trying to tame a mostly feral cat.” She bit the inside of her mouth and stared at the logo on his shirt. The thought of abandoning the cat was unbearable.

  “You’ll still try though, won’t you?”

  The warm humor in his voice drew her gaze up. The scratches along his face were fading, and the stubble of a beard had broken over his jaw. The swirl of colors in his eyes was like a kaleidoscope, different every time she looked.

  “I can’t give up on her. Not yet.”

  “I have the feeling you’ll never give up on her.”

  She half-smiled. “Like you won’t give up on Hunter?”

  He propped his hands on the counter at his hips and looked toward the ceiling. “I have no idea if I’m doing the best thing for him. I wanted to insist he stay here tonight, but I’m afraid I’ll alienate him if I push too hard.”

  “He seems like a great kid, but Mill Town has been a problem since I can remember. Tell me what you know.”

  “Word is that his brother had moved from dealing pot to dealing meth. And weapons. Some middle-aged druggie named Bone-man is living with them. Maybe their mother’s boyfriend. I can’t figure it. Logan has feelers out. As far as I can tell, she’s the only one who has a regular job, and it’s a night shift.”

  “Have you talked to her? Does she know what’s going on?”

  Alec blew out a long breath. “How can she not? I could smell the pot coming from their house from the sidewalk.”

  “Smoking pot is different than selling hard drugs.”

  He rolled his eyes but his voice resembled that of a disciplining coach. “It’s still illegal in Alabama and could ruin Hunter’s prospects with recruiters.”

  “Why don’t you talk to Hunter’s mother, and I’ll talk to Hunter Saturday morning when he comes around to work. Then, we can pool information and decide the next step together.”

  His sigh relaxed the tight lines around his mouth. “I shouldn’t have pulled you into this mess, but I appreciate the help. I’m feeling a bit lost, to be honest.”

  “Most people are fumbling through life hoping they don’t accidently fall off a cliff.”

  “Like lemmings?” He flashed a brief smile, but a crinkle appeared between his eyes. “I’m worried Hunter will follow Will anywhere. You saw what happened tonight. Will texts and Hunter goes running.”

  Lilliana let her eyes flutter closed as her mind sifted through memories of reading book after book during her summers with Aunt Esmeralda. “The way I need you is a loneliness I cannot bear.”

  “Excuse me?”

  Her eyes shot open. Alec’s entire body had gone stiff, his expression somewhere between disbelief and panic.

  “The Heart Is a Lonely Hunter?” Her lilted question didn’t seem to relax him. “It’s a quote from a book. Carson McCullers?” Her entire body bloomed with heat. “When you mentioned separating them … they’re twins, aren’t they? Special bond. That wasn’t me, telling you … Ohmigod.”

  His grip on her marble countertop loosened, and he ran a hand through his hair, the beginning of a smile hovering around his lips. “You had me worried there for a minute. Here, I’ll take the food to the attic. I’m still dusty.”

  He took the can out of her hand, his fingers brushing over hers in a near caress. The embarrassment at her verbal slip gave way to anger-tinged confusion. If his motivation for helping her with the bathroom was only guilt over a possible pregnancy, then why had he brought her dinner—twice—installed the surge protector, asked her to help with Hunter, and seemed to want to hang out with her beyond any of that.

  And while he’d been gone when she awoke that morning, she was sure she hadn’t imagined his hard, warm body pressed into hers during the night. Then, one accidental mention of feelings made him act like she’d ordered his execution.

  The conflicting undercurrents and his lack of transparency were frustrating. She missed the simple days of passing a note asking “Do you like me?” with a simple “check yes or no.”

  She trailed him up the steps. He disappeared into the attic. His curse punctuated a growling hiss. He descended the ladder sucking the side of his thumb. “She scratched me.”

  “I should have taken her the food. Ghost and I have a certain level of trust you haven’t earned yet. Let me see.”

  He held out his hand, and she took it in both of hers, examining it much like he’d done her hand that fateful afternoon. His hand was huge and tanned compared to hers. She ran her thumbs down his palm in a massaging motion. His fingers twitched before tightening around hers.

  “Barely broke the skin. You’ll be fine.” She tamped down the urge to kiss his boo-boo. Dropping his hand, she turned away. “You know, it’s almost too bad Beatrice isn’t really haunting Hancock House. A ghost would have been great for marketing.”

  “You can still use poor Beatrice as a selling point. People tend to believe what they want to believe, whether it makes any sense or not.” His frown darkened everything about him. He took a step toward her makeshift studio and pointed. “I don’t suppose I could see more of your work?”

  Inviting him in to see her work was like peeling off all her clothes and standing under a spotlight. If she said no, he would walk away, clean up the broken tile, and leave. He wouldn’t try to bulldoze her.

  With a shot of surprise, she realized she wanted to show him her work. “Be my guest.”

  She flipped the overhead light on. The harsh yellow light wasn’t as welcoming as the sunlight that streamed in the east-facing windows in the morning, or the special lamp she used for fine brushwork. Edwin dominated the center of the room.

  Alec studied the portrait from afar, but then moved within inches. “It’s amazing. When I walked in, I thought it was a blown-up photo—but close up, I can see all your brushwork. I suppose this is the infamous Edwin?”

  She was surprised he remembered. “Yep, that’s my buddy.”

  “You’ve made him seem thoughtful, almost as if he’s staring somewhere past me.”

  “I call it a puff-up piece.” At the quizzical expression he tossed over a shoulder, she added. “Men like him commission a portrait to hang in their corporate office, maybe at their house. Every time he sees it, his chest will puff. That’s my goal whether he’s the biggest d-bag in the northern hemisphere or up for sainthood.”

  “You enjoy this type of stuff?” He waggled a finger in the man’s face.

  “I enjoy the technical aspects of portraits. They pay well, but the work is sporadic at best. Not many people can afford to be so self-centered these days.” She walked to a smaller easel and
hesitated before pulling the dust covering off, revealing a flower-filled landscape. It was like losing another piece of clothing, but somewhere along the way, Alec had gained a portion of her trust.

  “I’ve been experimenting with watercolors too. Like the one in the guest room. They tend to sell better at art shows. And God help me, I’ve also been toying with sports scenes. The best ones go into prints. I could make serious money off Alabama’s football fanatics.” She pulled another cover off.

  A chaotic Alabama football stadium was captured mid-cheer. He leaned in close to study the players on the field. A wave of heat went through her. Maybe it had been subconscious, but she’d painted a scene from Alec’s Alabama heyday—the Iron Bowl against Auburn. He stood on the thirty-yard line, the ball spiraling from his fingertips, his body twisted, an opposing linebacker leaping for a tackle, but in her painting, he was unaware.

  “Is that me?” His finger brushed over the small number seven on the jersey.

  “I suppose it is. The last Alabama game I attended was the fall of my freshman year. I was in New York by spring. You were a junior, I think.” Her tone was nonchalant, but the base of her neck throbbed from the tight set of her shoulders. She’d known everything about him back then.

  His face swiveled slowly to hers. His eyes seemed to cut away the years. Dear Lord, he remembered her.

  “You were at Alabama. Did our paths cross?” His voice probed gently like assessing a wound.

  How many times had she imagined throwing his callus treatment of her in his face? Hundreds? Thousands? She’d dreamed of making him hurt like she’d hurt that night, wanted him to pay for treating her like every other girl who fell into his bed. Even a month ago, the painful memories from so many years ago festered.

  But, everything had changed. His wounds were deeper and more painful than hers had ever been. He was simultaneously trying to atone for his past mistakes and protect himself from being betrayed again. If she told him he’d taken her virginity in college, and he’d blown her off afterward, she could only imagine his self-flagellation. Seeing the self-disgust on his face wouldn’t give her any satisfaction, only shame.

  She wanted to shield him from the truth, yet didn’t want to lie. “We might have been at a couple of the same frat parties.”

  “And I didn’t notice you?” Sarcasm weighed his question.

  She fingered the ends of her hair. “I was a freshman. You had gorgeous cheerleaders hanging all over you.” Again, not a lie.

  He didn’t deny it, only shrugged and said, “But you’re my type.”

  She tried to swallow down the lump in her throat, but her voice came out hoarse anyway. “Short, dumpy girls are your type?”

  His eyes flashed with an emotion she couldn’t interpret. “You’re not tall, I’ll give you that, but dumpy? Woman, you need to get naked in front of a mirror.”

  She patted her hair like some bun-wearing church matron. “Naked? I can’t imagine.”

  “I will never understand women.” He chuffed and shook his head, staring at her with a serious expression on face, but a spark in his eyes. “Will you let me show you something?”

  Her gaze dropped to his pants. Was this a game of I’ll show you mine if you show me yours? Without moving her numb lips, she whispered, “All right.”

  He took her hand and led her into her bedroom, letting her go to turn on the bedside light. She scrunched her toes in the fringe of the floor rug and looked to the door.

  “Come here.” He’d moved in front of her old-fashioned oval floor mirror on pivots.

  “No way am I getting naked in front of God, you, and that damn mirror.”

  “You don’t have to get naked.” He crooked his finger in a “come-on” gesture. “Although, I wouldn’t complain.”

  She took a step toward him, unable to resist the tease in his voice. He seldom let his guard down enough to be playful. “Not naked?”

  “Only as naked as you want to be.”

  Her breathing hitched and her heart sped up like a horse given the spurs. This demonstration could turn dangerous. Her self-control around him had been tested once and found to be severely lacking. Yet, she took another step and another, each one leading her into the unknown. What were they doing? Surely this had nothing to do with his guilt. Her questions turned to ash when he wrapped his hands around her upper arms and guided her back into his chest.

  He dwarfed her, his shoulders set well above hers and much wider, his hands engulfing her arms. Moving his hands to her shoulders, he massaged, his thumbs rubbing up her neck. She tilted her head back, a whimpering moan escaping as her eyes fluttered closed.

  Around distant, cold Alec, she could control her spiraling desire, but around sweet, playful Alec, she had no defenses in place and wasn’t sure she wanted to build any. His hands moved to her back and pulled at her shirt.

  “Look.” His breath was warm in her ear.

  Goose bumps broke over her arms. Opening her eyes, she looked at the woman in the mirror. He’d pulled her T-shirt from behind until the fabric hugged her breasts and emphasized the curves of her waist and hips. Her nipples had tightened, pressing against the lace of her bra and the thin cotton of her shirt.

  “Can you see what I see? Jesus Christ, your body is every man’s wet dream.”

  He let go of her shirt, the fabric loose once more. Yet, he wasn’t finished with her. His hands slipped under her shirt, lifting the fabric to under her breasts. “May I?”

  She hesitated, but he didn’t force her decision, holding the fabric still. It was a question of trust. Had he earned enough trust over the last week? Maybe she was naive. Maybe she was reckless. Maybe she was just plain dumb. “O-Okay.”

  The shirt blinded her for a heartbeat, and her hair came cascading over her shoulders, brushing the top curves of her breasts. He tossed her shirt aside, a strip of bright color on the dark wooden floor. She blinked at her reflection.

  Her bra was nearly transparent, her nipples visible through the white lace. The cups pushed her breasts up and together. The lamp suffused the room in dim light, softening her edges and muting everything she was self-conscious about.

  Or maybe Alec muted those disparaging little voices in her head. His eyes in the mirror were heavy-lidded and admiring, his mouth slack. His chest moved against her back as if he too were breathing harder. “You are fucking perfect.”

  He caressed under her breasts with his fingertips, the sensitive skin sending signals to her nipples. She wanted more, but words froze from her brain to her mouth. Her body spoke for her, her back arching, her bottom pressing into his thighs, her head notching into his neck.

  He claimed to not understand women, but he answered her unspoken plea. He cupped her breasts and squeezed.

  He nipped at her neck, soothing the love bite with his tongue. She circled her hand around him and clamped the back of his thigh, holding him to her. She closed her eyes and tried to turn in his arms in search for his lips.

  His hands left her breasts for her shoulders, pressing her back into him. “No. This is about you, not me. Look in the mirror.”

  His hands trekked down her chest, brushing her hair back as he went. With one smooth motion, he hooked his thumbs in the top of her bra cups and pulled the lace to ride under her breasts. Her exposure was so sudden and unexpected, she didn’t have a chance to protest.

  The woman in the mirror was a stranger, her hair flowing around her shoulders, her eyes half closed and sensuous, her hips undulating. Her pale bare breasts filled his large, tanned hands. Dark and light; feminine curves in juxtaposition to muscular strength.

  “Can you see what I see? If you’d given me the least amount of encouragement, I would have been knocking down your door years ago. You’re the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen and that includes a bunch of cling-on Barbie doll cheerleaders.”

  Her chest tightened, tears coming into her eyes. No one had ever talked to her like he did, made her feel like he did. Why had she let one stupid, drunken incident when
they were young and immature color her entire opinion of him?

  His hand skated down her stomach, his fingers tucking inside of her yoga pants. She grabbed his wrist, screwing up her courage to push his hand farther south.

  “When can you take a test?” His question was like a slow, excruciating dunk in cold water.

  She pulled his hand away, and adjusted her bra so at least she was covered if not concealed. The sudden switch from erotic play to reality was jarring. Two tests waited under her bathroom sink. “Soon.”

  She grabbed her T-shirt off the floor and yanked it over her head, trying to gather herself. Out of his arms, doubts speared through the confusion. What would happen after she took the tests? Until she knew one way or another, any sort of real connection with him hung in limbo.

  They might be forced to deal with their mistake—together. But, if she wasn’t pregnant, could they build a real relationship on top of the shaky emotional foundation of their past?

  “Lilliana…” He finger-combed his hair and shifted on his feet. His mouth opened, but then he clamped it shut, considering her. Finally, he said, “Tell me one way or another as soon as you know. Okay?”

  “Of course. Do you think I would keep you dangling with a fake pregnancy?” She huffed. His gaze dropped to her feet, his answer clear. “Oh. My. God. That’s exactly what you think. It’s time for you to leave.”

  He walked past her and out the door but turned back. His history was etched into the grooves framing his mouth, the crinkles around his eyes, the ink under his arm. “I’m sorry.”

  But, history by definition was in the past, and she’d been willing to let go of her preconceptions to move forward. Obviously, he wasn’t so willing … or able. “Don’t apologize. I get that you don’t trust me. Or anyone for that matter. But, you’re not exactly an open book. What was tonight about? If you’re using me because you’re lonely or horny or guilty, then you can go to hell, Alec Grayson.”