“Seems like you might be a little too much into the caveman thing, Rushford.”
“Just because I’m big and strong and can practically lift you with one hand?” He looked at her. A mistake. Her lovely eyes contained iridescent shades of hazel and gold, and a lighter green he’d never noticed before. If he kept staring like this he was going to fumble over his own feet and pitch them both face-first into the grass. He prayed he could keep it together until he could drop her off in their room.
It was difficult not to smile, when on second glance he saw a giant blob of mud still stuck in her hair, and a streak of mud running down her cheek. She was a mess.
An adorable, cute mess that was making his pants tight.
He carried her through the lodge doors, up the elevator, and into their room, where he left her in the doorway before going into the bathroom and cranking on the shower.
“Let me check your back.” He steered her in front of the bathroom sink.
“Um, not a good idea.” She bit her lower lip with worry. “It’s sort of not my back. It’s my butt.”
“Then I’m more than happy to check that out for you,” he said, choking back a laugh.
She gave him a no-way stare in the mirror.
“Through your clothes. Nothing sexual.”
Which was a lie. Everything about her stirred him, from the smart-assed go-to-hell look in her eye, to her mud-streaked legs, to her wet T-shirt that outlined her taut, perky nipples.
She didn’t fight him when he palpated her back, one vertebrae at a time, while she leaned over, gripping the granite counter with her hands. Because she was cold and wet and covered with goose bumps, his mind kept roaming to ways he could warm both of them up quick. He trailed his fingers down the graceful arc of her spine all the way down to her tailbone, pleased when she shivered under his hands. He was doing so well, keeping his libido in harsh rein, until he reached the inviting curve of her perfectly rounded ass. What he wouldn’t do to get his hands on that fine backside, squeeze it gently as she wrapped her legs around him and he thrust into her against the steamy shower stall.
“So what have I got?” she asked.
An amazing body and I’ve got one huge hard-on.
“Probably just a bruise,” he said out loud, but his heart was banging against his rib cage like he was in the throes of a heart attack and he could no longer produce a single useful thought. He’d reached his limit. To hell with all the reasons he knew he should stay away from her. He couldn’t remember them anyway, because his entire body was overcome with need for her.
He turned her toward him in one swift motion and covered her mouth with his. And kissed her with slow, languid, all-consuming strokes, taking full advantage of her surprise. He capitalized by plunging his tongue into her mouth and pulling her flush against his body. No more fooling around. No more guilt. Just the heady pleasure of her sweet, yielding body.
She whimpered, a sound that satisfied him immensely.
To his everlasting relief, her tongue met his, sliding against it and meeting his stroke for stroke, wanting him as much as he wanted her. She pushed her wet body up against his until they were touching everywhere. He couldn’t hide the arousal that pressed thick and hard between them.
She gave a moan and cupped his ass and he nearly died from the pleasure of it all. A low, guttural sound pushed out of his throat. Before he could think, he opened the shower curtain and pulled her with him into the steamy shower.
She winced a little from the movement. He was an ass, doing this without regard for her injury, but she made him feel better when she pulled off her shirt and tossed it onto the bathtub ledge, and tugged on his so he could do the same. Water and steam cascaded everywhere, washing off the leftover mud, warming his muscles, and enveloping them in their own little world.
His heart ached at the raw pull of her beauty. With her hair pushed back from her face, her green eyes looked huge and vulnerable. Her dark hair lay wet against her pale shoulders. Rivulets of water traced over them and around the soft curves of her breasts, hidden beneath the lace of her bra, though he could see her nipples were taut with desire.
He had to have more of her. Running his hands under the waistband of her shorts, he traced the satiny softness of her wet skin. He curled his index fingers around the belt loops and tugged her close. Then he smoothed a wet strand of hair back from her flushed face and forced himself to look at her. “Meg, I—”
I what? I can’t, I shouldn’t? He couldn’t bring himself to say the words. Because he didn’t believe them, couldn’t feel them.
He feared what he would find in her eyes, but all he saw was a surprising assuredness. A flicker of fun. Could it be possible that she’d wanted him as much as he wanted her right now? His disbelief made him hesitate for one second, until she smiled and cupped his cheek with her hand. That one simple movement made his chest crack open, and for the first time in—hell, he couldn’t remember how long—he felt free. Like shackles around his feet had burst open. Like his heart had erupted. It was just the two of them in this steamy little haven and nothing else could enter—no doubt, no pain, no heartache.
She motioned to her back. “My bra—will you get it?”
She turned around, bracing her hands against the tile wall. His fingers itched to soap her up and run his hands along her sleek curves. He didn’t hesitate going straight for the hook, which he felt confident he could undo blindfolded and with one hand tied behind his back. It was then that he saw it. The tattoo that had peeked out from over her waistband was in full view without her shirt to obscure it.
It was a four-leaf clover. With a “P” in the middle.
A memorial to her brother.
Ben’s hand froze on the clasp. A shiver ripped through him, even though the water was pleasantly warm.
For a few moments, he’d forgotten. But fate, that fickle bitch, had reminded him at the most inopportune of times.
“What is it?” She turned around too quickly and winced in pain. “Ben, what’s wrong?”
He shook his head.
There it was in his face, taunting him, the one shame he couldn’t forget. How had he ever thought he could have her, this sweet, beautiful woman who made his limping soul sing? He’d deceived himself. Let his passions rule his sense.
“I—forgot.”
“Forgot what?” she asked.
“I-I’ve got to report to the clinic.”
“You—you’re on call again tonight?”
“Y-yes. Tonight. Now.”
For just a second, puzzlement and hurt flickered in her eyes. He would have done anything to kiss those feelings away, tell her how sorry he was, but how could he? Hell, he didn’t have the words.
Suddenly it was all too much. The sound of the shower beating down like rain. The steamy air growing clammy and fogging the mirrors and making him sweat. And the pleading look in her eyes that said Stay. Talk to me. What’s wrong?
“You—you can shower first. When you’re done, I’ll get in.” He couldn’t meet her eyes. He left her there, wrapped a towel around himself, and let himself out the door.
Meg stared at the foggy mirror. She dragged the backside of her fist over it in circles until a small area cleared and stared at her reflection. Saw her pale, makeup-less face, her straight wet hair, her too-innocent eyes that looked shocked and hurt.
She wasn’t like those other women that he preferred. She didn’t wear a ton of makeup, or have a hairstyle that required a gallon of hairspray and an hour in front of the mirror every morning. The only reason she wasn’t wearing cut-off shorts and T-shirts or her usual flowery skirts and flats was because Alex had insisted on dressing her. She wasn’t naturally confident or sophisticated. And she had real curves and ate more than leaves and twigs for lunch.
Hold up a minute. She was always so quick to berate herself. My fault, my fault, those damn voices taunted. But this time, she pushed them out of her head. Because he’d preferred her just fine up until the time she turned
around. On instinct, her hand flew to the spot over her hip that held her tattoo. It seemed to burn in incrimination. Then she snatched a towel from the shelf, wrapped it around herself, and ran out of the bathroom.
Ben had already dressed in a T-shirt and clean shorts and was headed to the door, his hair still damp. She threw herself in front of it, clutching the towel to her chest.
“Meg, I have to go,” he said, not looking at her. “Please don’t do this.”
She didn’t budge. His dark brows were turned up in an anguished curve, and his mouth drew into a thin line of worry. She saw his pain, and her impulse to comfort him was strong. But she knew he would never let her.
She reached out a hand and touched him on the arm until he looked at her. Pure agony simmered in his eyes.
“I know it’s something about my brother. If we could just talk—”
He opened his mouth to talk but no words came. He shook his head in frustration and released a sigh. “It reminded me of him, of your brother. Of Patrick.”
Hearing her brother’s name spoken out loud sounded as startling as an unexpected clap. Her eyes instantly filled with tears as they always did at any mention of him, which was always so rare and tentative, like whoever spoke his name was walking on eggs and praying they wouldn’t crack.
“It’s like he didn’t exist. Like there’s shame associated with his death and we can’t ever share any memories of him, can’t acknowledge how much we loved him.”
“I did love him,” Ben said in a hoarse whisper. “You’ll never know how sorry I am that he died.”
“It was a horrible accident. I can’t imagine how you ever coped with it, being so young and all by yourself.”
“I don’t deserve your pity,” he said staunchly. “I’m still alive.”
She clasped him by the arms then. Tried to meet his gaze, but he refused to look at her. Tears were falling down her face and rolling onto his arms. His eyes were wet, too. “You didn’t abandon him. No matter how terrifying it was, you kept searching for him until you found him. You were a true friend to the end.”
Ben snorted. He pinched his nose to stop the tears. He put his hands on hers and pried them off his arms. “I need to go. I can’t be late.”
She’d never seen him like this, looking like a caged and caught animal, desperate for escape. Common sense told her she needed to back off. But she pushed ahead blindly in a last attempt to break through.
“No one in my family ever mentions his name, or remembers the good times, or his sense of humor, or the pranks he pulled. I want us to talk about him, Ben. I don’t want there to be anything between us. I want us to have a real relationship.”
It was true. She knew it now. There was no use pretending otherwise.
His stance became rigid. The lines of his face hardened, and he did look at her then, but his eyes were impermeable as granite. “I don’t do relationships. I never have, and I never can. Not with you, not with anybody. I’m sorry, Meg. It’s the way I am. Anything between us is—impossible.”
His chilly words took her breath away. She tried to suck air in, but her lungs suddenly forgot how. She opened her mouth to speak but it was too late. He was already headed toward the door.
Impossible. He couldn’t have spelled it out for her with any more certainty. Couldn’t have pushed her away any more vehemently. A full-out, no-holds-barred rejection.
His hand was on the doorknob, but she stopped him from leaving with her words. “Okay, Ben, if that’s the way you want it. But I can’t wait for you anymore. For years I’ve mooned over you like a lost puppy begging for attention, and I can’t do it anymore. I need more, and you know what? I deserve more.”
He stood still, his knuckles white against the knob. Please turn around. Please say something, she silently begged.
But he opened the door. For a moment, the darkness of his shadow loomed against the stark white of the door. Then he was gone.
Pain ripped through her like tiny pieces of shrapnel pricking and burning everywhere. What more could she do or say to make him stay? To save him from his inner ghosts?
Because one thing had become crystal clear. There was another casualty of that accident besides her brother.
CHAPTER 13
Meg was ironing her second wedding gown of the day when Samantha walked into the bridal shop early Monday morning. “How was your weekend?” she asked Meg in a cheery tone, setting down her laptop and a can of bright green paint. Meg pressed the steam button, but the big, satisfying whoosh did nothing to soothe her tattered nerves. Gloria, who sat nearby at an old Queen Anne desk, was immersed in something on the computer that was almost certainly not work-related, and looked up at the sound.
“Great,” Meg lied, plastering her best smile on her face. Maybe Sam and her grandmother would be too busy to notice that anything was off. She was counting on it, because she Did. Not. Want. To. Talk.
About anything, but especially not about the weekend.
She’d been here since 6:00 a.m., unable to sleep. She’d had to forego her daily run because it still hurt to walk, so she’d come into the shop early, drunk three cups of coffee, two of which she’d shed tears into, ironed two new dresses, and steamed two veils that had just come in. She’d organized callbacks for later, when the rest of the world was actually awake, done e-mail follow-ups about potential dress sales, and checked the books. Then she’d kicked off her heels and was ironing barefoot, an activity that was more physical than mental, but none of her activities failed to distract her from thinking about him.
Cole Hanson had called her last night to thank her for helping Becca at camp and he’d asked her out. And she was thinking about saying yes.
Why not? He was handsome and nice and she adored his little girl. It was time to realize that sometimes you just couldn’t change people. Especially when they tell you flat out they aren’t interested in a relationship. Ouch.
Another vigorous puff of steam wasn’t enough to push away that hurt.
“You sound about as enthusiastic as my brother,” Sam said. Meg must have looked puzzled because Sam continued, “He’s been in a mood. Barely ate any dinner last night, then went off huffing and puffing back to Hartford. You two must have had a great time at camp.”
Somehow Meg had survived the rest of the godawful weekend. Thank heaven the last day was crammed full of kid activities, leaving no time for her to be alone with Ben. When they did speak it was through a thin veneer of politeness stretched so tight it practically cracked. She’d managed to get a ride home with the Donaldsons while Ben stayed behind to help pack up clinic supplies.
Meg took the opportunity to gloat a little that Ben might be suffering, too. “Camp was fun, except my butt still hurts like hell from falling into the mud pit. I hope your weekend was better?”
“Harris came up and picnicked with us. Tom and Brad love him. And he bought me this new dress.”
“He bought you a dress?” Gloria wretched her eyes from Candy Crunch Saga to take a gander through her beaded bifocals.
“It’s Lily Pulitzer,” Sam said. “What do you think? Of course, I may need to work out a little more for it to look really nice. Harris says that to get in really great shape, you need to break a good sweat at least five days a week. He wants me to take up running.”
“Why, dear, you have a lovely shape just as you are,” Gloria said.
Sam had always dressed in lots of black, some leather, funky scarves, and interesting, handcrafted earrings she usually bought from vendors who sold products from women starting up their own businesses from around the world. She had an edgy, artsy style that was as far from Lily Pulitzer as Mirror Lake was from New York City.
“It’s a nice look,” Meg said cautiously. “What do you think, Gran?”
“Very cheery, dear. The Queen always wears bright colors. I must say, I enjoy them, too.”
“Harris said he got it for me so I can have something nice to wear when I meet his family next weekend,” Sam said.
“Oh, it wasn’t like that,” Sam said. “Just a suggestion.”
“Speaking of bright colors,” Gloria asked, “what’s the bright green paint for?”
“It’s leftover from an art class. I was wondering if I could paint this wall.” She pointed to a half wall in the middle of the store, where a few dresses hung on racks jutting out from it. “I know you’re planning a full remodel, but I thought a vibrant color would really perk things up. And I thought I could do a purple stencil on it.”
“Sure,” Meg said. “Go for it. It sounds fun.” Frankly, today she didn’t care if Sam painted the wall orange with purple spots on it.
“By the way, how’s Spike doing, dear?” Gran always pried in the kindest way. But if it kept Meg’s mind—and everyone else’s—off her problems and kept her from crying in her coffee, so be it. With Sam’s help, Meg pushed the bell-shaped, Italian satin dress over the manikin.
“Back to causing trouble as usual,” Sam said. “I was out with Harris Saturday night and we ran into him. It wasn’t very pleasant.”
“If he’s out and about,” Gran said, “then he must have recovered from the accident.”
“He’s not back to work yet because of the concussion and his arm cast. But Alex and Tom’s new housekeeper is Greek and she kind of adopted him. She’s been bringing him food since he got home from the hospital.”
Gran suddenly gasped. “Oh, my lord.” She was looking out the window onto Main Street. “Here comes Maurice Manning.”
Meg stopped fluffing the skirt to eye her flustered grandmother. “Gran, are you blushing?”
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