by Opal Carew
Todd walked in from the pool, mid egg-poaching, all dripping wet again, and she stared. She couldn’t help it because now she knew exactly how that chest felt against her breasts, the strength in those nicely defined biceps and exactly how she fit against the whole set of gloriousness.
“Where’s the cat?” he asked.
Not exactly the greeting from her dream, but whatever floated his boat. “In my room. Apparently ice cream acts like a sleeping pill. He snored all night long.”
“Good.”
She had about two seconds to register the “good” before Todd swooped in and planted one on her. Really planted. That kiss grew roots which wound around her heart then branched into all four limbs.
She did some winding of her own. Her arms went around his neck and, yeah, his muscles were rock solid and his stomach twitched whenever her breasts made contact. Tongues renewed their acquaintance and, if it weren’t for the humming of the blood through her body, she’d swear she’d died and gone to Heaven.
He slid his hands from her waist to cup her face and he pulled back just inches, his mossy green eyes full of warmth and maybe, just maybe, something more. “Good morning,” he said, nudging her nose with his.
“Is it? I think I might still be dreaming.”
“If this is a dream, I don’t want to wake up.”
He kissed her again, a soft one this time. He tickled her lips and she felt that tickle in her tummy, all fluttery and jittery. Then her knees went to mush again.
“Wow,” she said once she could breathe again.
“Wow works.” Yeah, that was arrogance in his smile, but who cared? The man was entitled to it.
And since it was her kiss that put the smile there, she was entitled to some of her own.
“I’ve forgotten how nice it is to get a greeting like that in the morning.” He linked his hands behind her waist.
“It is?”
“Honestly, Jolie, is that all I had to do to render you speechless? Kiss you? You should have told me that at the beginning and it would have been quieter around here a lot faster.”
“Are you saying I talk too much?”
He kissed her nose. “No. I’m saying you talk a lot. There’s a difference. And—”he resettled his lower body against hers and she took a trip into outer space for a moment because there wasn’t much left to her imagination with wet swim trunks plastered against her nether regions—”even though I like the kissing part, I’m missing the chatter. So I think I’m going to have to curb some of the kissing.”
“Oh no you don’t.” She yanked his hair to bring their faces within smooching distance. “I’ll talk your ear off all you want, but you don’t get to quit the kissing thing until all parties involved agree.”
“Oh, so we’re involved, are we?”
Good question—and not one she was going to be the first to answer. “Well, if you’re not involved, then who the heck am I kissing? I could swear it’s you.”
“It most definitely is.” Which he again proved quite nicely.
Until the Canadian bacon started to smell funny. Great. He really was going to sexy himself into starvation.
“Oh, no!” Jolie pulled out of his arms to turn off the flame and catch the hollandaise right before it scorched. Didn’t matter though. Lightly scorched or burned, once hollandaise went bad there was no redeeming it.
So now she had rubbery poached eggs, burned bacon, and hellacious hollandaise. What a day this was shaping up to be. Oven mitts, clanking pans, banging oven door, their quiet interlude was shattered. And then the smoke detector kicked in.
“It’s never a dull moment with you, is it, Jolie?” Todd laughed as he grabbed a dishtowel and swatted the smoky bacon air away from the detector. “Don’t tell me. Excitement Jolie?”
“Ha ha, very funny. I wanted breakfast to be perfect.”
The alarm went silent and Todd flung the towel over one shoulder. He took the pan out of her hand, removing the mitts with it, then tilted her chin up. “It is.”
The heck with scorched hollandaise. Her skin was on fire, her bones were melting all over again and pretty quickly they were in another lip lock that could’ve gone on forever, if not for the little pitter-patter of petite paws. Well, actually, claws on limestone tiles. And said claws pouncing on her sandal-clad foot and Todd’s naked one. (The man did like naked in the kitchen.)
“Boots!” they yelled in unison as they jumped apart.
Boots, the little meddler, catapulted into the air, executing a perfect full-twisting inward somersault, and landed on all four of his black, claw-bearing paws as if nothing had happened.
“I think that cat’s got it in for me,” Todd mumbled, rubbing the naked foot.
“Or perhaps he thinks our time would be better spent with you at the easel and me on the… sofa?”
“Fine, you can have the sofa. But you’ve got to promise not to fall asleep. It’s a pretty comfortable sofa.”
“Cross my heart, witches’ honor, Girl Scout promise, take your pick.” She made the accompanying hand motions and got him laughing again.
“I pick getting changed out of these wet clothes. I’ll be right down.”
She wasn’t going to think about him stripping off his clothes. Nope. Not her. “I’ll whip up some French toast in the interim.”
“Really, Jolie, Whe—”
“I know, Wheaties would be fine. But sorry, buck-o, you’re stuck with a hot breakfast.”
A moment—or maybe an eternity—of silence before his wicked, wicked grin reappeared. “A hot breakfast. Ah, how well you know me.” And on that note, he sauntered out the doorway.
Did she know him well? She knew he kissed like nobody’s business—and that she’d like to keep it nobody’s business but her own. She knew he was a decent guy who had a bad thing happen to him. She knew he had reached a turning point in his life and she admired that he wasn’t afraid to move forward.
And… she knew that she’d fallen in love with him.
***
Todd took the stairs two at a time. He hadn’t had this much energy for as long as he could remember. Well, in the last two years, anyhow.
He stripped off his bathing suit in the shower, marveling that he hadn’t made a conscious decision to not leave it in a wet heap on the floor as he usually did, but had just done it. Jasmine had nagged him all last summer, but back then, he couldn’t seem to remember even the simplest of things.
But now, with Jolie here, it was like he’d gotten a new lease on life.
He grabbed the shampoo and worked it into a lather. Oh, he knew it was his attraction to her that had woken him from two years of just existing. He wasn’t going to kid himself that it was something he’d done, some decision on his part. There was just something about her. She was so wide-eyed in spite of how shitty the world had treated her, so hopeful, so ready to believe, that his psyche couldn’t help but tap into those emotions.
Today, for the first time in too long, he’d woken with a smile on his face. It’d been all he could do not to open her door and wish her a good morning, but they weren’t at that point yet.
He ran the soap down his body and had to re-think that. A certain part of him was there, but that was just a physical response—although, he wasn’t going to knock it. Jolie had brought on the first physical response he’d had since the funeral. Another thing to thank her for.
He had a lot to thank her for, though it wasn’t the reason he’d kissed her. No, he’d kissed her because he’d had to. Because he’d wanted to—nothing more, or less, than that. Which said a lot.
But, hell, he didn’t want to blow this. She wasn’t a light affair kind of woman and he wasn’t in any emotional shape to examine forever; he’d been up front with her about not knowing where this “thing” between them was heading.
But did anyone ever really know where it was heading? With Trista, he’d been pleasantly surprised that a woman of her background would go out with him; he’d asked her mainly to give himself ince
ntive to “show her” when he made it big—someone from the other side of the tracks.
But then she’d been real to him. She’d been her own person and had given him a chance.
The same kind he wanted to give Jolie.
Todd leaned his shoulder against the tiled wall and let the water sluice over him, cleaning the chlorine residue from his skin.
That it also felt like a cleansing of his soul wasn’t something he could ignore. He’d carried the pain with him for so long, had wrapped it around himself to keep out the world. Yet somehow, with her smart phrases and her soft admissions, and that incredibly upbeat outlook of hers, Jolie had found a tiny gap in the pain and wormed her way in.
He wasn’t going to let her get away.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Staring at the man she’d suddenly discovered she was in love with put a whole new spin on posing for him. There she was, staring at him while he concentrated so intently on the canvas and not on her, and all she could think about was what she was going to do about her new-found feeling.
First and foremost, she couldn’t tell him. It was one thing to risk her heart in the privacy of her own body and soul, but to put it out there for public trampling, well, she wasn’t that brave. No matter the reward.
For all she—and he—knew, she could be Rebound Girl: the girl a guy went out with right after the love of his life broke up with him and he had to prove to himself he still had “it,” whatever “it” was, and that Old Girlfriend didn’t know what she was missing and he’d show her. That would be Rebound Girl and Jolie so did not want to be her. Since all the parameters were right for rebounding, she’d just stay mum on the whole subject and see where it led.
Especially since he was willing to let it lead where it may. She couldn’t expect any more positivity out of him at this stage in his recovery. She could always hope, of course, but Jolie, she was a realist. A newly optimistic realist, but a realist just the same.
So there she was, lounging on the sofa, once again posing for more long hours, staring at the cute lock of hair that fell in his eyes (when she was supposed to be staring at the window), doing the eye-averting scenario whenever he looked like he was going to glance up from the canvas.
“Jolie, can you please stop moving your eyes? It changes the lines under them.”
She had lines? She huffed. She did not have lines.
“And don’t huff. It puffs out your lips. Angelina Jolie is over-rated anyway. Hey, Angelina Jolie, you Jolie... “
Laugh it up, yuck-ball. She was still hung up on those lines.
“What’s with the frown?” He sighed and put the charcoal down. “Something bothering you?”
“I have lines. Under my eyes.”
“Oh, that.” He shook his head, as if to say “women.” “Light filtering in through the window creates streaks of shadow and light on your skin. Like lines. I want to capture them before the sun changes.”
“Oh.”
He left his easel and sat on the sofa next to her. The not-very-wide sofa.
“Don’t you remember me telling you that your skin is flawless?”
She nodded.
“It is. Peaches and cream.” His voice got deeper. “Honey smooth.” Honey smooth all right. “I’m hungry again.”
He leaned in and voila! another clinch. She couldn’t help herself, and, apparently, neither could he.
What a difference to the kiss when the man she was kissing was the one she could do it with for the rest of her life. She savored every nuance of his mouth, the play of muscles beneath her fingertips, the scent of his shampoo as his hair brushed her cheek. Her body strained toward him and, God, the relief when he leaned over her, pressing her into the softness of the sofa. He shifted, almost on top of her and, oh, it felt so right. So different from any guy before.
This man was The One.
He angled his head, his tongue stroking hers, and she groaned. Then his hand caressed her breast and she almost exploded with relief. She hadn’t even realized she’d wanted him to touch her there.
Of course, if she’d thought about it she probably would have realized she did, but thinking was not happening at the moment. Feeling was. Majorly.
She leaned into his caress, her nipple front and center in the middle of his palm, just begging for attention and, sweet man that he was, he obliged. His other hand combed through her hair, twirling the strands around his fist and holding her head in just the right place for maximum effect.
Her hands slid under his shirt, brushing the fine hair there and stroking his sides. He groaned, his stomach muscles clenching as she feathered her fingers near his navel. Then she was sliding them up his chest to do some of her own obliging—
Todd ripped himself off of her with a howl.
“What the hell?” He turned and there clung a white Boots on Todd’s red t-shirt. Ouch. That had to hurt.
“Get the damn thing off me, Jolie!” He reached over his shoulder, spinning, but it was futile. Boots had picked the exact spot where Todd couldn’t reach him.
“Hold on.” Jolie pulled herself off the sofa and the moment her hands touched Boots, the little hell-cat let go and plopped into her palm.
Todd glared at the cat who was now purring contentedly in her arms. “We need to get some Found posters out. I want that menace out of here.”
Boots snorted.
Todd glared at him. “I’m the only person I know with an attack cat. How ridiculous is that?”
She reached out to rub his back just as the studio door opened and in walked Mrs. Gray.
Jolie shot Boots a glance. The cat just smiled at her.
Wait. He smiled at her?
“Good morning, all. I thought I’d bring some brownies up today.”
Brownies. Of course. Todd loved brownies. Jolie knew that.
And so, apparently, did Mrs. Gray.
Jolie would’ve thought—and actually did—that after their little gabfest, Mrs. Gray would want Jolie to be the one to butter the guy up—or brownie him up as the case may be. ‘Course Mrs. Gray couldn’t have known Jolie was doing just that before she thought to arrive with said brownies, but still, wasn’t the way to a man’s heart through his stomach?
Which just put a whole other spin on her reasons for becoming a chef.
She’d let Mrs. Gray do the brownies today.
“I’m just so thrilled you’re painting again, Todd,” Mrs. Gray waved those brownies like a red flag at a bull, all the while working her way oh-so-nonchalantly toward the easel. “I thought we should celebrate.”
The woman was good, Jolie had to give her that. She might actually succeed in seeing what Todd was working on because his eyes were glued to that plate of chocolate.
“Take one more step, Jasmine, and those brownies won’t taste very good when we scoop them off the floor.”
Or so Jolie had thought. Nice try.
Mrs. Gray conceded gracefully. “Well, you can’t blame me for trying. I have been with you almost since the beginning, you know.”
He took a brownie. “I know and you didn’t get to see them until they were finished then either. Nothing’s changed.”
“Oh, but I think it has, dear.” She offered Jolie the tray with a very pointed look.
What’d I do? Jolie was, after all, following the woman’s implied orders.
Maybe she’d misunderstood.
Not wanting to face that possibility, Jolie located her sandals and slid them on. “It’s almost lunch time. I better head into the kitchen to get started.”
“Oh but I wouldn’t mind, dear—”
“I know, Mrs. Gray, but after four hours of sitting here, it’s past time for my muscles to earn their keep.” Scooping up Boots, Jolie made a beeline for the door.
She’d let Todd explain to Mrs. Gray exactly why it was her hair looked like a tornado had blown through the studio, and why his shirt was hiked in the back.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Bright and early—too early—Monday mor
ning, Jolie was in her usual pose staring at the window trim, a repeat of the weekend. Seemed that the Grays liked to spend a bit of every day with Todd. It could be because their son lived farther away than an easy driving distance and they were lonely, but Jolie was betting Mrs. Gray was working on keeping the new chef out of the kitchen and in Todd’s line of vision as much as possible.
Sadly, while she might be in his line of vision, it was with a canvas between them. At least the tedium of modeling allowed her to plot out the rest of her manuscript. If only she could bring her notebook and pencils, but he’d get suspicious. As if anyone had cookbook ideas burning in their mind with such intensity that they had to get them on paper before the ideas crumbled.
Unfortunately, she couldn’t explain a burning desire to write without blowing her cover. But when they were finished for the day, she was fully intending to put Annie, her heroine, and Tom in some pretty interesting conflicts, maybe even—
“Jolie, can you push your shirt off your shoulder?”
Remove clothing? Now there was a new twist.
“Um, why?” Not that she was opposed to the idea, but just to get all the information upfront before she made a complete boob of herself. Or showed a complete boob.
“I’ve got your neckline curving just right, but I want to include your collarbone and I need the perspective as it relates to your shoulder.”
So clinical, yet she was melting again. Him, her, body parts, disrobing… This would be so good in her manuscript—if her brain cells didn’t fry before she got to the notebook.
She pulled the little cap sleeve down her shoulder, but the neckline started choking her.
“Perfect,” said Todd.
Not if she wanted to breathe it wasn’t.
“Todd,” she gasped, “it’s choking me.”
Really, the man could look more concerned as she gasped her last breath on this earth.
“Can you hold it for just a minute or two please? I’ve almost got it.”