by Lia Riley
The hall veered in a sharp corner, widening into an antechamber. The walls were peppered by holes. Oooooh, perfect for spying! She peeked through one. Two women leaned on the other side.
“ . . . surprised she got an invite.”
“I’m more surprised she turned up presentable, no tie-dye in sight.”
“The question is should she sell Five Diamonds? Look around. With all these newcomers, maybe we’d be better off sticking with the kooky Carsons.”
“True, good point. Better the devil we know.”
She gripped her champagne flute tighter. These women were talking about her.
Jesus God, why did she bother going anywhere in this town? The band started up the Charleston and trumpets drowned the mean-girling. Annie drained the rest of her champagne, set the glass against the wall, and swayed to the beat. She threw up one hand and flipped the bird to the wall before spinning around and narrowly avoiding a big male body.
“Ack,” she squeaked. Sawyer? How’d he manage to sneak stealthily behind her? And what was he doing in here?
The air changed, infused with coffee and cinnamon. She wanted to breathe deeper, but being a creeper who went around sniffing local law enforcement wasn’t going to improve the situation.
“I frightened you.” His husky voice snapped her back into the moment. He removed his ever-present tan Stetson. Dormant nerves started firing. Stupid, as Sawyer was just a friend. They’d shaken on it after he’d chased her through the meadow.
But who stared at a good buddy like that? Did the flare in his eyes mean he . . . that he . . . oh God, more neck kissing seemed imminent. She searched for words to string together a semblance of a sentence, but they were all in hiding.
He idly stroked the scruff shadowing his chin with a big, broad hand. He did work with those hands. She had an impulse to touch one, or let it touch her in soft places, regions that could use a little roughening up.
She cleared her throat, resisting the urge to face-fan. Sawyer regarded her gravely.
“How did you find your way in here?” she asked.
“I have my ways.”
Maybe it was the champagne, the dancing, or the fact she hadn’t been touched in far too long, but a giddy restlessness took hold, as if the bubbles she’d consumed migrated into her bloodstream.
He stared at her as if she was something he’d never seen.
“You here alone?” She made a show of looking around. “No half-naked women throwing themselves at you?”
His mouth crooked in one corner. “Not unless you’re planning to drop that dress and make my night.”
“Excuse me?”
“Relax, Annie.” The skin around his eyes crinkled. “I’m yanking your chain. Got to say, you make it easy.”
Was he flirting? He really sounded like he was flirting. “I’m not easy.” Unless you start in with those neck kisses.
“I know that. You take effort, like that toy you have to twist around to make all the colors line up, I forget the name, had one as a kid.”
“A Rubik’s Cube?” she asked with a laugh, unsure whether to be offended or flattered.
“Yeah, that.” He regarded her steadily. “Those things take patience, but I’m a patient man.”
“Really, because Ruby doesn’t seem like the kind of woman who’d keep a man waiting.” Ugh. Listen to herself. “I’m sorry. That was out of line. Women are entitled to live their lives any way they choose.”
“They are indeed. But so are men. And me and Ruby, well that’s the thing, see, there is no me and Ruby. I got lucky with her—lucky I got out before I made the worst mistake of my life. I mistook fool’s gold for the real thing, and it’s an error I don’t plan on making twice.”
She nodded slowly. Gregor gave her Atticus, but that was the only reason she didn’t regret their marriage. “Yeah, I know what you mean.”
His face softened. “I’m sorry you’ve had a hard time. I know I’ve said it before, but smiling is a good look on you.”
“Do you dance?” she blurted. His “smiling is a good look” line churned her brains better than her trusty KitchenAid mixer.
“No,” he answered, too quickly.
“Spoilsport.” The champagne must have loosened her inhibitions. “I bet I’ll get you to dance with me someday.” What was she thinking talking about the future? She’d be out of Brightwater soon.
His eyes widened before a chuckle broke free from deep within his ribs. He leaned against the opposite wall, crossing his arms. His shirtsleeves rode up, revealing a line of lean muscle. Someone won the genetic lottery.
Why did he stare at her like that? Did she have tiramisu on her face?
“Why are you so quiet?” She casually brushed her cheeks. No crumbs seemed evident.
“I say something if it requires saying.” His eyes dropped a fraction, checking her out. Either that or she’d spilled cake pop crumbs down her front.
“Maybe I could show you a move or two,” she said, because this moment didn’t count. A chance encounter in a secret passage wasn’t real. It was a hall pass.
Those big hands. How often had she fantasized about them the past few weeks? Her ability to perform long multiplication in her head didn’t go that high. She took one hand into her own. It was rough, with calluses etched across the palm, and she fought a sudden urge to suck his index finger into her mouth. His breath came a little more uneven, as if he could read her thoughts.
“I told you”—his words were a rumble—“I don’t dance.”
“Who said anything about dancing?” Her fingers looked absurdly small next to his. “I’m going to tell your fortune.”
“You are?”
You are? Her subconscious added a silent, “You know I know what you’re doing.”
But she needed this, she craved a few stolen moments of fun. The Fourth of July had made her remember how it used to be with them, and she wanted more. More everything.
“You seek something.” She traced her nail down the centerline in his palm. This one fanged like a fork in a river and she chose the path that ran deep toward his inner wrist. “And this tells me you have a strong sense of passion.”
“Does it?” He sounded amused.
“Hands never lie.” She was talking straight out her ass. She didn’t have the first clue how to distinguish a life line from a love line. Nothing was going on here but pure, awkward wish fulfillment. If it didn’t work, it didn’t matter. She’d leave and fake a sudden case of amnesia.
“Interesting.” She circled the pad beneath his thumb. “It says here that you want to kiss me,” she whispered, raising her gaze, but not quite daring to meet those guarded green eyes.
He leaned in, fingers tangling in her hair. As he tilted her head back, his whisper brushed hot against her skin. “I do, more than anything.”
GOD HELP HIM, Sawyer wanted his mouth on Annie’s since he’d woken her up that first morning on the farm. He knew what would happen if he did this. He’d burn. And a long-forgotten part of him hurled toward the blaze like it wanted nothing more than to feel the sweet hurt.
She settled her red lips at the join between his fingers, and when the warmth of her tongue licked his skin, the last grasp on his self-control snapped.
He grabbed her hips. Her ass was curvier than expected. The low-waist dress hid interesting dips and swells. Such a crime. When she nestled against him, the fit was perfect, like she’d always belonged there. He hadn’t messed around for a good long while. But he’d never been so goddamn hard, because this was Annie in his arms, the culmination of his boyhood dreams.
Cool it. She’d feel his need.
She rubbed against him, her belly teasing against his thick cock.
Yeah, she felt it.
He crushed his mouth against hers and tasted a champagne tartness followed by a deeper richness, close to h
azelnut, and another flavor lingering behind, alluring and elusive, like the woman herself. He devoured her whimper as his hands connected at the back of her dress, tugging up the fabric and grazing—what the hell? Sweet Jesus—garter belts.
Another moan followed, and this time it came from him. He flipped her around and pinned her with his own body against the rough wooden wall. She arched when his lips fastened to her throat, tracing her pulse with the flat of his tongue. Strong. Vital. Her fingers fumbled behind her, searching out his buckle, while his slid to the satin of her panties. His thumb skimmed along the elastic hugging her inner thigh, catching a hint of warm, wet arousal.
“And supposedly they kept the moonshine stored in these alcoves.” A nasally voice echoed from around a corner ahead. His quicksilver melted from his grasp. Annie stared, her chest heaving in ragged breaths.
“I—”
“We have to get out of here.” She grabbed his hand and tugged him away from the direction of the voices.
What else could he say? No. I want more.
“Here, this way.” She yanked a door knob and hurtled them through the exit. They stood, blinking, in a busy industrial-sized bright kitchen.
“Sawyer!” He turned instinctively at Archer’s shout.
He glanced back to help Annie navigate through the activity but all he saw was her dress glint as she ducked through a swinging door into the party.
His brother held up a beer across the kitchen, questioning. Want another?
He shook his head and pushed into the hall. Annie wanted him, he could taste it in her kiss, but their connection ran deeper than pure physical desire. She could run away all she wanted, but when his mouth was on hers, damn if she couldn’t get closer.
At last he’d found the one bet he’d be willing to make. He’d gamble his heart on Annie. Time to find out if there’d be a payout.
Chapter Thirteen
SAWYER DIDN’T SLEEP a wink after the party. Eventually, he threw on a pair of grey sweats, brewed some coffee, and stood in his front doorway, watching the stars disappear from the sky one by one as dawn returned to the world. His mind worked slow, turned things over at its own steady speed. All he knew for certain was that he wanted Annie, and everything that entailed, including her son. The idea should scare the shit out of him, but there wasn’t uncertainty inside him, only a growing confidence.
He could do this. He could figure out a way to convince her to stay.
He went on rural patrol to have time to think, and Kit was happy enough to hold down the office fort. As Sawyer left Main Street, he got the unshakeable feeling he was being followed, but didn’t know for sure until he passed the city limits. A car gained speed and closed in, kicking dust high in the air. Sawyer tracked its progress in his review mirror, the color jolting him like a third coffee. Purple. Annie’s car. He frowned. Where was she going at twice the speed limit? She flashed her lights and beeped the horn.
Hopefully nothing was wrong. He flipped the siren and pulled over at the turn out, flushing a rafter of wild turkeys from the underbrush. They broke into frantic gobbles as he leapt out and tore to her car. He leaned in the driver’s side window and . . . not Annie.
The older sister. Claire.
“Can I help you, ma’am?” He switched to all business, willing his heart rate to slow.
She winked a blue eye the same color as her sister’s, except if Annie was sweetness, this one was spice. He preferred the former.
“My sister’s the one who needs help.”
“Not sure I’m following,” he deadpanned.
“I heard about all the kisses.” She dropped her voice to a theatrically seductive tone. “You’re quite the Don Juan, Sheriff.”
He stepped away and scratched the back of his neck. “Ms. Carson—”
“Please, call me Claire. We’re neighbors. Besides, you’ve got the hots for my baby sister.”
Jesus Christ, he wasn’t going to stand here addressing his love life with this woman. “Look, I’m on the clock.”
“And this is a bona fide emergency, Sheriff. Tick tock. Tick tock.”
He arched a skeptical brow, doubt darting through him. “Is Annie in some sort of trouble?”
“Yep. Big trouble.”
He frowned, the doubt turning into a piranha, gnawing his gut. “What the hell happened?”
“Her morale got steamrolled by her douchebag ex-husband.” Claire jabbed a finger against her steering wheel. “If that’s not an emergency, then you tell me what is.”
Relief and annoyance duked it out. “Listen, I need to—”
“No, you listen. My sister is the best, sweetest person in the whole world. I left her behind, stuck in Brightwater High School, where kids couldn’t handle anyone marching to the beat of a different drummer. Except you. I heard all about it one night when I went to visit her in Portland, at Lewis and Clark, freshman year. She downed one too many Jell-O shots and talked all about you, and what happened at that stupid graduation party.”
The memory of Annie’s broken, tear-streaked face that awful, fucking night still haunted him. “I didn’t have anything to do with—”
“Maybe not, but what bonehead brings her on a first date to the lion’s den? She’s strong, Sawyer, stronger than she knows, but she’s sensitive. She hates admitting it, but she needs back-up. Everybody does.”
He couldn’t argue there. “What would you have me do?”
“Turn up at Five Diamonds tonight. When are you off work?”
“Six o’ clock.”
“Perfect. Wear a nice shirt. Bring a bottle of wine. Red is her favorite. You’re a handsome guy, got that whole brawny mountain man thing going in your favor. She needs a hero, Sawyer, and there’s something about you that makes me believe you’re hero material.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”
She ignored his sarcasm. “I’m taking the kid camping tonight. I’ve got a spot near Juniper Lake reserved. Atticus and I will swim, fish, and eat too many toasted marshmallows. You? You’re going to figure out how to woo my sister.”
“Are you always this bossy?” She reminded him of his older brother. Who’d win in a cage match between Claire and Wilder?
“I haven’t even warmed up,” she quipped.
“You should be a general.”
She shoved the key into the ignition. “I make toast, Sheriff, not war. Six o’clock. Don’t be late.” And with that Claire drove off. He had no idea what she was talking about, but buried in all the nonsense was common sense.
As he walked back to the car, he thought of seeing Annie for dinner and whistled Hank Williams “Hey, Good Lookin’ .”
ANNIE GAVE A final pound to the “Happy Hen Eggs $3.50 a dozen” sign and stepped back to admire her handiwork. She’d whitewashed old barn wood and stenciled the lettering in cheerful turquoise acrylic rummaged from her old art supplies. One could find only so many creative uses for all the eggs. She’d be sick if she so much as looked at another quiche, and her butt didn’t need baked goods for breakfast, second breakfast, lunch, and dinner.
A cloud of dust kicked rose up the road. She wiped her brow and straightened, prepared to offer a friendly wave to the passing driver. Her heart kicked up a gear as a beat-up orange Ford truck came into view. Sawyer’s truck.
No need to overreact. Last night was a kiss, nothing but two mouths touching, and a little tongue. Okay, a lot of tongue. Still, no big deal. Shake it off. It wasn’t as if either of them had never kissed before. An earth-shatteringly delicious kiss she still could taste. She’d come close to finding her missing black box when he skimmed her panties last night. She’d come close to seeing God himself. Okay, maybe brushing off her dress and fluffing her hair would be sensible. Maybe even squeezing her cheeks a la Scarlett O’Hara. Besides, a flirty little wave was preferable to dive-bombing in the front hedge, especially when he
slowed down.
She raised a hand in greeting as he put the truck in park and swung open the door. Worn denim hugged his long, muscular legs. Made it kind of hard to notice the stunning vista behind him.
He nodded at the sign. “Happy hens, huh?”
“As long as your grandma isn’t issuing them a one-way ticket to the coop in the sky.”
He snorted. “The, uh, the lettering looks good. Real good.”
“Thanks.” She took irrational joy in his small talk. “How was work?”
“The usual. Spent the afternoon in the office taking care of business.”
Oh, I have some business you can take care of, Sheriff, in a very official capacity.
Stop. Just stop. Otherwise her ovaries would explode.
“What are you cooking?” he asked.
She coughed. “Excuse me?” Were these dirty thoughts stamped on her face?
“For dinner?”
“Nothing special.” Her brows knit. What was he hinting at? First it seemed like flirting, but now—no idea. “Probably leftovers.” Or standing up and eating yogurt from the carton in front of the fridge. “Claire took Atticus camping for the night.”
A puzzled expression skimmed his features, vanishing in an instant. Still, she didn’t miss it. “What’s going on?”
“Oh.” He cleared his throat. “Nothing.”
She’d been so distracted by his jeans that she’d missed the bottle of red wine clutched in his hand.
They both stared at it.
“Your sister . . . ”
“My sister . . . ”
In retrospect, Claire had given a particularly evil giggle as she drove away.
Annie envisioned an evening spent soaking in the bath, or maybe slaking her frustrated lust with an uber-naughty romance novel, but apparently her sister arranged for actual romance to be on the menu.