by Laurel Greer
“I know,” he murmured. His hand slid from her shoulders to settle low on her belly.
Oh, that felt too good. Not in a tearing-clothes-off kind of way. No, Tavish’s palm caressing her stomach felt like Sunday mornings in cozy pajama pants with animal-shaped pancakes and a sippy cup of apple juice alongside their mugs of coffee.
So a lie, then. It feels like a lie.
The brief spate of pleasure drained from her body. Losing the energy to keep herself upright, she leaned against his hard chest. His arms encircled her. Fingers finding purchase on his wrists, she teased the light dusting of hair and warm skin. The links of his bracelet were warm from the heat of his body.
She studied the piece closely. White and yellow-gold strips, bent and fused together in an irregular design, made a series of modern, Celtic-like knots. Only two twisted links, one thinner than the other, were identical in pattern. A pattern etched into her memory as she’d worn it on her own finger for a short-but-unforgettable spell.
“Tavish.” Her voice echoed hollow from her chest. “These are our wedding rings.”
“Yep,” he murmured. His lips came to rest on the back of her hairline at the base of her French twist.
“You’re still wearing your wedding band?” And mine?
“Not exactly. I took it off my finger.” He traced the backs of his fingers down her shock-frozen cheek. “But somehow I couldn’t let go of it.”
Don’t ask. You don’t want to know. You don’t want to know. “Why?”
Damn it.
“I couldn’t let go of the last thing I had of you.” He nuzzled her ear, buried his brow in the curve of her neck.
The need to reiterate her position, more to remind herself of her commitments rather than to remind Tavish, built up until it spilled out of her mouth in a torrent. “Love’s not just feeling, it’s doing, too. I’m not saying you need to be here every second of every day to be a good father, but you need to figure out some sort of regular visitation. Something concrete, dependable.
“I’m not going anywhere—I’ve got my job and my family. I have to mend the rift I’ve caused, prove I’m there for them. Re-establish my equilibrium well before the baby arrives. Their support will be critical as my pregnancy progresses and after the birth. But if you can figure out a way for us to have your support, too...”
“So stop thinking and start acting?” Tavish said, tone thoughtful. He splayed one big hand across her abdomen and slid the other up to cup one of her breasts. Languid heat ambled down her limbs, saturated her fingers and toes until they felt like lead weights. “Works for me.”
She groaned. “We can’t...”
“I’m not suggesting we make love, Lauren.” One of his fingers circled her nipple and even through her dress and her bra it sent shockwaves of pleasure through her body. “But keeping my hands entirely to myself seems a shame.”
“We’re in a pretty public place...”
The first few bursts of fireworks thundered above them. “No one’s coming around here. Terrible view of the show.” Sliding out from behind her, he laid her down gently and climbed off the table. Excitement bordering on frenzied need tore through her as he stood at the end of the table and stroked callused fingertips along the insides of her thighs. “Awesome view for me, though.”
Rising up on her elbows, she stared at him as the heat of a flush spread from her thighs to her belly to her breasts. “What are you doing?”
Tavish braced a hand next to her body and brushed his other thumb along her cheekbone, pulling her in to share a kiss that melted her insides. “You wanted actions over words.”
“This isn’t the kind of action I meant.”
“I’ll try what you meant. But I want this, too.” His words weighed her down, and she sank against the hard wooden tabletop, destroyed by the powerless hunger in his gaze. “You... I can’t...”
“You can, sweetheart. Open for me.”
Whimpering, she let her legs fall to the sides. A thrill swirled in her core at seeing him on his knees. Eyes shuttered, he held her gaze as he sneaked her panties to the side. His thumb dipped into her center, and she bit her lip as her needy flesh throbbed around the sweet abrasion, then spasmed in complaint when he withdrew.
He settled his palms on the very tops of her thighs. “What do you want, Pixie?”
Her pleasure dulled at his words. She wanted all of him. Every day, every minute. She couldn’t have that. But she could have him for a moment. And what a moment it would be. “I want your mouth.”
The tawny curls on his head, lit with flecks of red and blue and green from the fireworks overhead, lowered to her most sensitive place. Hot breath panted against her skin. “Here?”
“Close.”
She could feel him smile against her sex as he pressed the barest of kisses to her aching want. “Here?”
“Closer.”
“Here, then.” Spreading her with his thumbs, he ran his tongue along her slick flesh.
Raw currents of pleasure poured through her as she went tense and boneless all at the same time. She wanted completion, but this was too good to rush. Nothing mattered more than the aching press of his mouth against her center, of his tender hands loving her as if she were the best gift he could ever be given. Her body didn’t care about the impossibilities, only registered the perfection of having his tongue curving around her sensitive, wet bud. Her muscles strained and her back arched. “Tavish!”
“Let go, Pixie.” And his skilled fingers and mouth wouldn’t let her do anything but.
She forgot about everything, a blessed gift, as he tormented and touched her until she dissolved under a sheet of white light. Booming fireworks covered the sound of her release.
“I love making you gasp my name,” he mumbled. His breath came out in rushed gusts as he rested his cheek on her stomach.
“Mmm.”
He righted her panties and tugged her skirt back into place. Utterly sated, she sent him a wobbly smile.
“Love making you smile, too.” His expression faltered. The satisfaction dimmed in his eyes. And in that moment, she could almost read his mind.
If only it was always this easy.
* * *
By the end of Monday, after spending the morning at the outdoor rock-climbing facility and the afternoon polishing up winter brochures for the ski school, Tavish’s mind hummed. It might not be the same as facing off with a polar bear with only his camera as a buffer, but working for WiLA had kept him engaged all day long. So much so he’d gone out after his shift and taken a series of pictures better than any of the work he’d done in Russia over the winter.
Inspired, and shocked by how much he wasn’t hating life in Sutter Creek, he picked up the office phone and dialed the department head of Media and Theatre Arts at Montana State. Nothing serious. Just putting feelers out. Lauren wanted proof that his relationship with their baby would have some stability to it. And the thought of his child growing up with any of the doubt he himself had borne crushed his chest like a boulder. He couldn’t always be around. But he could work on making his schedule more predictable. And maybe pick up some work closer to home for part of the year.
Dropping his name ranked as one of the more obnoxious ways to start a conversation, but it did get him the department head’s direct line PDQ.
As soon as the receptionist put him on hold, he started doubting his decision. Hang up. Hang up.
His hand refused the command.
“Bob Davenport speaking.”
Tavish vaguely recalled the man’s name from somewhere, but the people he’d met over the course of his career were too numerous to always put a face to. “Good afternoon, Dr. Davenport. This is Tavish Fitzgerald. Thanks for taking my call.”
“I know your work well. And call me Bob. What can I do for you?”
Hang up. Hang up. “I’m wondering
if you have any positions coming up on your faculty in the near future.”
That was the opposite of hanging up. Argh.
“Well.” Bob Davenport sounded flabbergasted. “We don’t have any specific positions... Were you looking for full-time?”
“No. Not at all. Maybe two courses a year, max. Preferably to do with environmental photography. Getting the message of a cause, an emergency, across in a few frames.”
“No political causes?”
“I could teach it. But I’m not going to accept any more of those assignments.” Tavish used to get a rush from war zones and unstable regions. But getting killed by an IED while on assignment was no longer an option. He couldn’t promise to always be in Sutter Creek, but he could at least do his best to stay alive.
Davenport hummed thoughtfully. “Do you have a master’s degree?”
“Yes, from Yale.”
“Good, good. Send me something on paper, but you’re plenty qualified with that degree.”
“I figured. And I’m interested in settling semipermanently into the area now.” The words were coming out of their own volition. They had to be.
“I have to say, I’d scrounge up some money to make room for you. I can’t offer you a permanent position, but you could come in as an artist-in-residence. It would involve teaching seminars, supervising some student projects, and would give you some time to continue with your own work. The salary is by no means substantial...”
Ah, academics. Tavish had a feeling the hiring process wasn’t as simple as Bob Davenport made it sound. Then again, it didn’t matter if it didn’t turn out. This was an exploratory call, not a commitment. “I’m not worried about the money. I’ll keep doing location work.”
“When would you want to start?”
“My schedule’s clear come November. I could be yours for the winter session.”
Holy hell. He blinked, floored by his own statement. The winter session? Talk about a way bigger step than he’d been intending on taking today. How’s that for action, Lauren?
“I don’t want to get ahead of myself, but I feel good about it,” the other man said.
The receiver vibrated against Tavish’s ear as his hand started to shake.
“I’m going to make this happen,” Davenport continued. “We can’t pass up someone of your caliber.”
Sweat beaded on Tavish’s forehead and dampened his T-shirt despite the air-conditioning. “Thank you for the compliment,” he choked out.
“I’ll call you back as soon as I figure out logistics. Give me a few days.”
They exchanged cordial goodbyes, then hung up.
Tavish stared at the phone. That had been too damn easy.
He’d completed his masters to get more credibility behind his name, but maybe it would come in handy, provide him with a challenging and productive job in Montana. One that would still allow him to work abroad. Hope blossomed in his chest. He could experiment with how many assignments he had to take in a year in order not to feel like he was crawling out of his skin in Sutter Creek. Half the year here, half away, maybe.
He closed his eyes. Defeat erased his desperate attempts to be positive. The urge to leave would come. Maybe not as often as in previous years. But enough to be a wall between him and Lauren. Half a year. How could that possibly be enough?
But how could he not at least try?
Chapter Ten
Lauren trudged toward the base lodge early Monday evening, giving mental kudos to her brother. Running WiLA was a pile of fun, but that fun came with a fair degree of challenge. So far today she’d juggled staff scheduling requests, put out fires with a bookings glitch and called in a maintenance crew when a fuel injector had crapped out on the Peak Chair’s prime mover. However, it was better than suturing wounds.
No. Dealing with a fricking diesel engine is not better than medicine. She shoved the door of her brother’s office in the basement of the main lodge and held back a groan as it swung open.
Tavish sat at Zach Cardenas’s desk, studying a sketchbook. She’d been hoping for some time to herself to end the day, but no, no reprieve for her.
Probably a good thing given they needed to talk about what had happened at the reception, though knowing a conversation was necessary didn’t mean she actually wanted to have it. Maybe he expected quid pro quo for how well he’d pleasured her on that picnic table. It would only be fair. That table, or maybe his tongue, merited being bronzed. But though they’d walked back to the lodge hand in hand—separating before they’d run into any guests, mind you—she hadn’t seen him yesterday. This morning, he’d kept things super light between them, greeting her with an exaggerated, sexy grin and a comment about getting to play secretary to the boss. Did he intend to end the day in the same vein?
Slumped in his chair, he lacked his customary, just-shy-of-arrogant confidence. He greeted her with a bare nod. No more teasing, then. Whatever was on his page was demanding his full attention.
She straightened her hiking shorts and perched herself on the corner of his desk. “Where’s my end-of-the-day innuendo? It perked me up better than a coffee this morning,” she teased.
He lifted a shoulder and traced her knee with the pencil in his hand. “Just tired.”
Based on the color in his cheeks and the lack of smudges under his eyes, she doubted it. “You sure?”
“Yeah.” He ran his hand through his hair. “I just got off the phone with...work stuff. Got me a little edgy, I guess.” Dropping his pencil on the desk, he traced her knee with the tip of his finger instead.
Her breathing kicked up a notch. She linked her fingers with his to prevent him from traveling closer to the hem of her shorts. Hyperventilating would not project an I-can-take-you-or-leave-you image.
Leaning forward, she caught a better view of his creation, which looked like his thinking place. She’d last been there with him after her grandparents’ funeral. She’d been distraught and he’d used his skillful hands and mouth to get her mind off her grief. Then they’d argued.
And he’d left.
Just like he’ll leave in a few weeks. She forced the thought to linger, let the full weight of it settle on her shoulders. “Can I see?”
His guarded eyes studied her for a moment before he passed the book to her with a flick of his wrist. “I guess.”
Lauren rotated the pad. The flowing water was indelibly and precisely etched. Alive on the page. “Tavish,” she breathed. “This is incredible.”
He shrugged. “Fine arts electives came in handy. I can create something decent with most art materials.”
“This is beyond decent. You could sell this. I feel like I could put my hand through the page and bring it out dripping.”
“Thanks for the compliment, but I couldn’t sell my sketches.”
“But drawings and photography are both art. And you’re gifted in both media.”
“I’m not above selling my art. Obviously. But that—” he pointed at his sketchbook with the unsharpened end of his pencil “—that’s me. I don’t sell myself.”
“I can see your heart in this, definitely. I think I get what you mean.” She flipped the page.
And was staring into a mirror.
Her breath caught in her throat. “Oh, my God.”
She tried to breathe evenly. He’d rendered her face with such detail, such reverence. If his art was a part of him, then did he consider her a part of him still?
“Tavish.” She traced a finger along the two-dimensional replica of her nose.
He kept his gaze on his tented fingers in his lap. “Your eyes are the same color as the river as it changes from shallow to deep. I was at that spot, and remembered...” Turning red, he looked around the room with a panicked jerk to his motions. He stood and grabbed a clipboard. “I have to go debrief with the rafting folks.”
He bolted throu
gh the door faster than the river at spring melt, leaving Lauren holding a mirror-image picture of herself but no longer knowing who she was beneath the surface.
* * *
Straggling into the WiLA office two days later, Lauren collapsed into the office chair. Hump day number one was over, and she was pleased with how she’d done so far. Andrew’s job was mainly supervisory, but like her brother, she couldn’t help but get involved in operations. She’d have preferred to actually do some of the guiding, but being pregnant precluded buckling on a climbing harness. Tavish had filled in the gaps where necessary—they made a good team. On the job, at least.
A single daisy, stuck in a water glass next to her keyboard, drew her attention to a sticky note attached to the flat-screen computer monitor.
Meet me at my place at 7.
My place.
Huh. Up until now, Tavish had always called the pretty apartment just off Main Street “Mackenzie’s place.” Lauren sank farther into the chair. Why did he have to tease her with little steps toward growing roots? It didn’t matter how many little steps he took—he wouldn’t be able to make the big leaps.
Don’t forget that. If they were going to function together as parents, they had to resist their emotions—and their physical pull. So what if he still kinda-sorta wore their wedding rings? She still hadn’t convinced him to stay put in Sutter Creek.
But...my place...?
No. She couldn’t count on him.
Stay firm.
She recited the words to herself as she closed up and headed home. As she changed into a T-shirt and a stretchy skirt that skimmed her knees. As she drove to Tavish’s, and especially when she read the Post-it note on his door, written in the same bold print as before.
Come on in, sweetheart.
Her internal stay-firm mantra wavered in the face of his words, the confidence of his penmanship. And when she cautiously opened the door, walked through the entryway into the high-ceilinged living and dining area, the chant shriveled and died.
All of Mackenzie’s old furniture—gone. She stroked her hand along the back of the polished leather couch. He’d decorated with raw-wood coffee and end tables and a Peruvian rug. A square dining table filled the other end of the rectangular room. Some late-nineties rock played quietly from the docking station on a tall, wide bookshelf next to the unlit fireplace. An assortment of hardcovers and paperbacks stood on the half-filled shelves.