She got the eggs ready to scramble, set the table and watched him cook the sausage and set it on a plate. Then he moved on to the gravy. He whipped a tablespoon or two of flour into some milk and then slowly poured it into the skillet with sausage drippings. It smelled delicious.
“Here.” He handed her the wooden spoon. “Stir this while I grab the salt and pepper.”
She ran the spoon around the thickening gravy.
“No, like this.” He came up behind her, close, very close, held her wrist and slowly moved it in circles. “You don’t want lumps in it. Keep it moving.”
His body behind her moved in the same direction that he stirred. Her body tingled.
His cheek pressed the side of her face. “That’s good.” His words were a mere whisper, a deep, approving drawl.
He must have shaved. She could feel the smoothness of his cheek. She could smell the coffee on his breath. She could feel his chest expand when he took in air. Something she couldn’t seem to do with him standing this close.
Butterflies hit her stomach. Her knees got weak. Then he pulled back and added a couple of dashes of salt and pepper.
He grabbed a pot holder and pulled the skillet of gravy off the stove. “All we need is the scrambled eggs, and the biscuits to finish baking.”
He poured the gravy into a bowl, then swiped the edge of the dish to catch a drop. Smiling, he held out his finger to her lips.
She hesitated, but his finger remained in taste-ready position. Feeling silly, she opened her mouth, and he gently pushed his finger between her lips.
“Good?” he asked, his finger still lingering in her mouth. His gaze, filled with heat, stayed on her.
She nodded the lie. In truth, she’d swallowed without tasting.
“Really good.” He pulled his finger away and curled his lips around his fingertip. “Or is that you I’m tasting.”
She stood there feeling tingles in places that didn’t usually wake up until around noon. What was this? Cooking foreplay? Or was she misreading him?
He rinsed the pan and held it out to her.
“What?” she asked taking the skillet but in some kind of turned-on and tuned-out state of mind.
“To cook the eggs.” He smiled and winked at her.
Was he doing this on purpose? She preferred the grumpy, mostly silent Clay. He wasn’t nearly as hard to resist. She put the skillet on the stove and went to the fridge for some butter.
“Here it is.” He’d followed her. Reaching over her shoulder, placing one hand on her waist, he pulled the butter off a shelf.
She swung around. Behind her was the cold fridge, in front of her was hot Clay, a smiling and happy Clay. The you-just-sucked-on-my-finger Clay. He stood so close, she had to lift her chin to see his face.
His warm green eyes met hers. He lifted his hand and touched her chin.
“I thought we said it was a mistake and wouldn’t happen again,” she blurted out, and at the same time wishing she’d kept her mouth shut.
“What?” he asked, sounding completely innocent.
“What are you doing?” she asked and put her hand on his chest.
Bad move because he felt so good. Hard and real and masculine and . . . yup, it was official. She was tingling all over.
He pulled back an inch.
“Me? I was . . . you just had some gravy on your mouth.” He wiped the finger under her bottom lip, took a step back, then dropped the butter in her hand.
Leaning down, he peered into the oven at the biscuits, then stood up. “You are pretty this morning. Did you sleep well?”
All she could do was nod.
“What are you doing?” she repeated.
He pointed to the stove. “You’d better cook those eggs. The biscuits will be done in two minutes.”
• • •
What are you doing?
Jennifer’s question bounced around in Clay’s head as they ate breakfast.
Truth be told, he didn’t have a freaking clue what he was doing.
He just knew he didn’t like to be discounted. Especially because of some stupid divorce-rate list. Admittedly, he didn’t look so good on that list. She probably considered the “collection of resalable merchandize entrepreneur” as a junkyard owner. Then there was his stint as roofer that looked bad, and equally incriminating was his short-lived bartending job. But that was a bunch of crap.
Hell, he’d been married for seven years, hadn’t cheated once, and he hadn’t been the one to file for divorce.
Frankly, he wasn’t signing up to be a contender for her catch-a-husband campaign. He just wanted . . .
He wanted to go back to how it felt when he’d taken off her ring, when they’d had a water fight and kissed in the yard. He wanted to feel young. To feel alive. To feel like a man who liked a woman and was going for it.
Not that he’d push. He wasn’t even going to make a pass. Not overtly. So what if he tempted her a little? Let her see the best side of him. The side without the damage the last few years had brought on. The side of him that being around her brought out more and more.
Yup, he used to be fun. He used to laugh all the time. He used to tease and flirt. His ex had said he had seduction down to a fine art.
And he was ready to re-hone those skills.
He’d bet after first being in the hospital and then here, she was getting cabin fever. Maybe he should plan an outing.
• • •
Bundy had lain low yesterday and last night—tried to clear his head to make sure he didn’t make another mistake. But he never liked down time. He felt anxious. His gut said he needed to get things done and get the hell out of town.
So, first thing Sunday morning he drove the car back to the rental agency and gave the place hell for giving him a vehicle with a broken taillight. They’d given him another car.
He drove into Dolly. Hungry, but not wanting to be in public, ordered himself a burger and fries at a drive-thru. He pulled over in the parking lot to eat.
He’d almost finished the burger when a black Chevy truck pulled into the restaurant parking lot. He set his burger down and crouched down in the seat. The truck parked across from him.
Bundy focused on the license plate. His stomach clenched, churning the food he’d just swallowed. Friggin’ hell. That was it. That was the plate that was in front of the house that he’d broken into.
He stared at the back windshield, unsure if there were one or two people in the truck. Something moved in the driver’s side. A big something, a big someone. It was him. How lucky could he get!
But then the car door opened, and the driver got out. A guy, a big guy, with dark, auburn-colored hair. He walked with the same confident swagger. Like he owned the world and dared anyone to get between him and what he wanted. But that wasn’t him. That wasn’t the naked ball-buster at the junkyard.
He studied the license plate again. It was for sure the truck that had been at the house he’d turned over, but it wasn’t the junkyard man who kneed him. What did that mean? Had he broken into the wrong house?
He sat there and watched the guy stalk his way into the restaurant. Bundy accepted he’d screwed up.
The man walked through the door, stopped, and stood there for several long seconds, then glanced back over his shoulder as if he sensed Bundy watching him.
Right before the cowpoke’s gaze zeroed in on his car, Bundy glanced down and started messing with the radio dials.
After several seconds, he looked and the guy was gone.
Okay, so he’d screwed up, but he could fix this. All he had to do was go back to looking for another Chevy truck. He’d find it, damn it.
As he pulled out, he spotted the man inside, staring out at him.
“Don’t worry,” Bundy muttered. “My beef’s not with you. Just someone who drives a truck like yours.”
• • •
“I think this is a mistake,” Jennifer said staring at Bingo.
“Don’t you trust me?” Clay asked.
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br /> “Not even a little bit.” She stood there looking at the horse looking at her. “Why don’t you go on the picnic, and I’ll stay here and start working on my plans for your house. I really need—”
“No. Look around you. How many summer Sunday mornings do you get eighty-five degrees, breezy, and low humidity? Put your foot right here in the stirrup and pull up.”
She eyed the height of the stirrup. Then glanced down at her short legs. “I can’t lift my leg up that high.”
He grinned, and she pointed a finger at him. “Save yourself and don’t go with a short joke. I cold-cocked David Dixon in fourth grade for doing that.”
“I’ll bet he loved it,” Clay said.
“Not. He had to explain to everyone that a girl gave him a black eye.”
He tilted his cowboy hat up. This was the first time he’d worn it since she’d been here, and he looked downright devilish in it. “Yeah, but he had a blast lying about why you hit him.”
She frowned. “How did you know he did that?”
“It’s a boy thing,” he said, laughing. “Here, let me help you.”
Before she knew his intention, it was done. His hands came around her waist, and he lifted her up. She grabbed hold of what she could on the saddle and slipped her foot into the stirrup. Then his firm hands cupped her backside and gave a push.
She let out a little squeal. When settled on the horse, she looked down at his smiling face. “I cold-cocked a guy in ninth grade for doing that.”
He laughed, and God help her she couldn’t help smiling.
With ease and a lot of sex appeal, he got on his horse. Then he inched closer to her and explained a few easy commands.
“First order of business is to relax. Bingo can read your nerves.”
She took a deep breath and willed the tension in her body to ease.
They started moving, and she instantly took to it. Her body swayed, and it felt as if she was being rocked.
They rode for the next ten minutes in silence. It was almost like a meditation.
“You’re quiet,” he said.
“I’m enjoying.” She looked at him. “I’ve heard that riding is considered therapy for young kids. I can totally see it. This is amazing. Can we go faster?” She heard a childlike excitement in her voice, but didn’t care. She felt like a child. Having fun, enjoying every second. And maybe it wasn’t just the ride. Maybe it was Clay.
“Not too fast, but yeah, we can pick it up some.” He gave her a few more instructions.
At first, she felt jarred, but she learned to let her body move with the horse and not against it. Then it became even more amazing. It became invigorating. The repetition of movements, the breeze in her hair, the sense of freedom.
She felt him studying her. “I love it,” she told him.
After ten minutes, he stopped her. “You doing okay?”
“Perfect,” she said, still feeling a high.
A smile pulled at his lips. “There’s a lake up the way. I thought we could stop there and picnic. It’s not my property, but it’s not fenced in. You willing to trespass with me?”
“Sure.” She started moving again, eager to get back to riding.
In a few minutes, they arrived at the lake, off the beaten path and sort of surrounded by trees. He slowed down and came to a stop next to a big oak.
“Let me help you down.” He got off his horse.
“We could ride more if you want,” she said.
“I think you should rest. Believe it or not, you’re going to have a sore rump tomorrow.”
Right now all she felt was wonderful. “It’ll be worth it.”
He caught her by the waist and helped her down. She practically slid down his body, and she started tingling all over again.
Had he done that on purpose?
He let go of her slowly as if he’d love to hang on. Her knees gave, her weight shifted against him, and he caught her again.
“See,” he said. “You okay now?”
She nodded. “Yeah.”
His warm hands left her waist again. While he got the blanket and lunch she’d packed, she stood in awe of the natural beauty. “It’s gorgeous here. But this isn’t yours?”
“No. All the land you were on before this is mine.”
She heard the pride in his voice. “It’s all gorgeous.” Still impressed, she turned in small circles to take it all in.
“Yeah it is,” he said, and she felt him looking at her. “You hungry, or do you want to swim first?”
She turned back to him, and he was removing his shirt.
“Swim?”
He started unsnapping his jeans. “Yeah,” he said.
“Wait.” The word feel out of her. “Do you have a bathing suit under those jeans?”
He grinned. “It’s not as if you haven’t seen it.”
“Yeah, but it doesn’t mean I should see it again.”
He laughed. “I’ll keep on my boxers.”
“The kind with buttons, I hope.”
He laughed. His dimple winked at her. He dropped his jeans. And damn but he looked good in light-blue boxers. They were the fitted kind that hugged every bulge.
After taking a few steps, he looked back at her and caught her gaping at his butt. “You coming?”
“No. I’m short of a swimsuit.”
“Don’t worry, I’m not nearly as picky as you are.”
She scowled at him.
He laughed.
“Hey, you’ve got on underwear, right?” he said, wiggling his brows. “It probably covers up more than a bikini.” He continued to the edge of the lake. She watched him jump in. It made a splash. That noise, just a small noise, but it didn’t seem small. It seemed playfully loud. It beckoned her. Dared her. Back to being a kid, she wanted to play.
She looked under her shirt and realized she’d worn the dark-tan exercise bra that her friends had loaned her. It really was less revealing than a swimsuit.
So, she did it. She kicked off her shoes then stripped down to her underwear and jumped in.
“I knew you had spunk.” He ran a hand through his wet hair.
The water came up to his waist and almost to her shoulders.
The next thirty minutes, they splashed, chased, raced, and laughed. It was without a doubt the most fun she’d had in a long time. When he admitted to being hungry, they started up the bank. Right before he walked out, he turned around and caught her by her waist. It was the first time he’d touched her in the water.
He dipped his head down just a bit and rested his forehead on hers. “Thank you for coming in.”
She glanced up. His eyes were heavy-lidded. She was certain he was going to kiss her and just as certain she was going to let him. “Sometimes you have to gamble on things.” Wasn’t that what Savanna had said. To take a risk. A leap of faith.
But he didn’t kiss her. His hands slipped off her waist. He took a slow step back.
Left wanting, flustered, and confused, she followed him out. They sat on the blanket and ate sandwiches and drank bottles of water she’d packed. The sun, steaming from the east, webbing through the tree limbs, was warm on her skin, but not hot.
“I like your undies,” he said teasing her.
She tossed the last bite of sandwich at him. He actually caught it and popped it into his mouth.
Then they both laid back and let the big bowl of blue sky pull them in.
Chapter Twelve
It took every bit of Clay’s willpower not to touch her, to roll over and pull her into his arms. His gut said she wouldn’t fight it, but he needed more. He wanted her to be the one to initiate it. He didn’t have a freaking clue why it was so important, but he felt it was.
She shifted. “You ever look up at the clouds and see angels and elephants?”
He chuckled. “No, but I saw demons, cars, and guns.”
“Boy-girl thing,” she said.
“Yeah.” That was what this was. A boy-girl thing. A boy-who-really-likes-a-girl thing.
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He still didn’t look at her. “Where did you grow up?”
“San Antonio.” He felt her look at him.
“You go back much?” He continued to gaze up at the sky.
“Once a year,” she said.
“Still have family there?”
“Yeah.”
He remembered. “Your sister?”
“No.” He heard that thing in her voice. A little pain. He glanced over. His willpower crashed, and he shifted his arm until the back of his hand touched hers.
“My sister died with my mom,” she answered.
His gut clenched. “Sorry.”
She nodded. “My dad and his new family still live there.”
“He remarried?”
“Yeah.” She hesitated. “The first year after my mama died, he went into a deep depression. Drank too much. Slept too much. He really loved my mom.”
She got quiet. He knew there was more to the story, but he didn’t push.
“The second year he started dating. I think he used women to get over losing her. It was a different woman every few months.” She swallowed. “If he wasn’t working, he was out dating. I was seventeen, I think he just felt I didn’t need him anymore.”
“But you did,” he said, feeling anger at a man he didn’t even know.
“Yeah, kind of.”
“When did he marry?”
“I was eighteen. He got a girl knocked up. Or rather she tricked him into it. She’d told him she was on the pill. She was only seven years older than me.”
The sounds of summer surrounded them. A bird chirping, a fish slashing, the soft breeze rustling through the leaves. “Do you get along now?”
“No, she works real hard to keep me out of her and the twins’ lives. I’m not sure it’s all her fault. I was really rude to her in the beginning. I was still pretty messed up over my mom’s death.”
“It had to be a rough time.”
“Rougher than you think,” she muttered, more to herself than aloud.
“Why’s that?” Shifting, he slipped his hand into hers.
She didn’t answer. He squeezed her hand. “I know now it’s not . . . I mean, the drunk driver was the one who killed them, but when the cops came to our house that day, Dad lost it and kept yelling , asking why the hell she was on that freeway.”
The Junkyard Cowboy (Tall, Hot & Texan Book 3) Page 12