There were reasons. Compelling ones, she was sure. She just couldn’t remember them as she gave him her most charming smile and told him there was more stew if he wanted it.
He had seconds, told her it was great, then finished the bit in the pot before she carried his and Tyler’s bowls to the sink.
“What Tyler said about it being a good day,” he murmured, handing her his milk glass when she came back for it. “It was.” He kept his focus on the glass and her hand, his tone thoughtful, as if he was a little surprised by that perception. Or perhaps by the admission.
“Now,” he continued, moving past whatever had prompted it, “if you don’t mind, I’m going to get that shower. You wouldn’t have a spare razor, would you?”
She told him she did. A small package of them was in the drawer below where she’d left the toothbrush on the counter for him last night. She didn’t bother telling him they were hot pink.
It did Rory’s heart good to know her little boy had had such a good time that day. It did something less definable to it to know Erik had somehow appreciated it, too. Something that fed an unfamiliar bubble of hope that common sense told her was best to ignore. But with Tyler pretty much worn out and in need of a bath, she gave it no further thought. By the time she’d helped him with his bath and his prayers, it was all he could do to keep his eyes open.
Erik seemed to have had the same problem. When she finally came back down the dimly lit stairs, the fire was nearly out and Erik had fallen asleep in front of the television.
He lay stretched out on the sofa in his jeans and pullover, one leg angled with his bare foot on the cushion, the other foot on the floor. With his dark head propped on the curved arm of the sofa, one arm thrown over his eyes, his other hand splayed on his stomach, it looked as if he’d intended to catch something more entertaining than the weather report before turning in for the night.
The volume on the detective series had been muted, though.
They hadn’t talked about it, but there had been no question that he would stay again that night. The negligible melt that afternoon had started refreezing the lower the sun had sunk and, last they’d heard, it was taking forever to get anywhere on the roads. Those that were open, anyway. That was why he’d followed the Otts home in his monster of a truck, because they’d made the drive on balding tires, and dropped off the Shumways since it was dark by then and they’d all walked earlier.
His breathing was deep and even as she picked up the television’s remote and turned off the set.
As exhausted as she suspected he was, she didn’t want to wake him. She shouldn’t stand there thinking about what a beautiful man he was, either. Or how kind and generous he truly seemed to be even when he didn’t want her getting too close. There was something terribly intimate about watching him sleep. Something that might almost have felt intrusive had she allowed herself to remain there any longer.
She lifted the soft throw blanket from the arm of the chair, moved back to lift it over him. Smiling a little at his freshly shaved face, she eased the covering over him. When he didn’t move, she let out the breath she hadn’t even realized she’d been holding and carefully lifted her hand to his head.
Her fingers had just skimmed the barely damp hair he’d combed back from his forehead when she went still. She hadn’t been thinking. She’d simply started to do what she always did with Tyler when she tucked him in and brushed back his hair. The gesture was one of simple affection, of taking care.
As oblivious as he remained to her presence, she let her fingers slip over the soft strands, then curled her fingers into her palm as she stepped away and quietly headed for Tyler’s room. Since she felt pretty certain Erik would wake up at some point and head for bed himself, she left the tree lights on so he’d be able to see.
It was to that soft light that he awoke a little after midnight, along with a cramp in his neck and an ache in his back that, he realized an hour later, made sleep impossible.
* * *
Rory heard the faint tap on the door, blinked into the shadows. It had been raining for a while now. She’d lain there, listening to the steady sound of it, imagining the drops taking all the ice away, before the new additions to her usual anxieties about what she’d taken on ruined the little exercise. Everything always felt so much more overwhelming alone at night. With Erik there, she’d at least been able to manage the more restful thoughts for a while.
Hearing the tap again, she slipped from the trundle by the night-light she’d moved to the only working outlet in the room and opened the door.
Her glance collided with Erik’s solid, shadowed and bare chest. Down the hall, light from her bathroom filtered through her bedroom door, too dim to reveal more than curves and angles and the shadow of his forearm as he gripped his neck.
He stepped back as she stepped out and pulled the door closed behind her.
She hadn’t grabbed her robe. Shivering a little, she crossed her arms over the sleep shirt that barely hit her knees. “Are you just now coming up to bed?”
“I came up a while ago. Do you have anything I can rub on my shoulder?”
He still hurt. Pretty badly, she assumed, to have come seeking help. Feeling guilty that he’d hurt himself helping her, feeling worse because his discomfort was bad enough to keep him from sleep when she knew how tired he must be, she headed for her bedroom door and the bathroom right inside.
The light above the vanity cut a swath across the near edge of the queen-size bed that had once occupied her guest room. If the rumpled purple comforter and sheets were any indication, whatever sleep he had managed had been as fitful as hers tended to be. As she turned into the bathroom, she noticed his nearly dry socks, his long-sleeved undershirt and a pair of gray jersey briefs on the towel rack above the heater vent. With the washer and dryer off circuit, he’d had to improvise.
Realizing what he wasn’t wearing under his jeans, she quickly opened the medicine cabinet, pulled out a tube and turned to hand it to him.
He’d stopped in the doorway beside her.
The light was infinitely better here. There were no shadows to hide the broad expanse of his beautifully formed chest, the flare of dark hair, the impressive six-pack of his abdomen or the fact that while he’d zipped his pants, he hadn’t bothered with the button.
Her glance jerked up. His hand still clasped his shoulder, his fingers kneading the tight muscles there. But it was his cleanly shaven jaw that held her attention. The hard line of it looked tight enough to shatter teeth. The way he arched his back and promptly winced made it evident his shoulder wasn’t the only problem.
His frown of discomfort shifted to the pastel tube he took from her.
“What is this?”
“Herbal cream. I bought it when I pulled a hamstring.”
“When?”
“It wasn’t anything I did here,” she assured him, since she had been known to acquire a bump, bruise or strain herself during her move. “It was in a yoga class. It’ll help,” she insisted, pretty sure he’d had something more industrial strength in mind.
The skepticism carving deep lines in his face remained as he held up the tube and backed into the bedroom to let her pass. A gravelly edge of fatigue roughened his voice. “I appreciate this. Sorry to wake you.”
She didn’t bother telling him that he hadn’t. Or that she was actually grateful for the reprieve from her sleeplessness. All that concerned her now was that he was in pain.
“Where do you need that?”
He’d moved to the foot of her bed, away from the narrow shaft of light spilling across the bedding at the corner. Her bare feet soundless on the carpet, she stopped three feet away.
“By my right shoulder blade.”
He wouldn’t be able to reach there. Not very well, anyway, as stiff as he appeared to be.
“Do you wa
nt me to do it?”
He didn’t look as if he thought that a very good idea. “I’ll manage.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yeah. I’ve got it,” he insisted, only to wince again the instant he moved his hand in that direction.
Not allowing herself to overthink the situation, she took back the tube. Twisting off the cap, she squeezed a hefty dab of the white cream onto her fingertips and handed the tube back to him.
“You have no business calling me stubborn, you know that?” With him filling the space in front of her, she added, “Turn around,” and after a second’s hesitation on his part found herself faced with his broad and sculpted back.
In the filtered light, the view of him half naked was no less unnerving, but at least he couldn’t see how hard she swallowed before she reached up and spread the cream between his shoulder blade and the long indentation of his spine. His skin felt as smooth and hard as granite when her fingers slipped upward.
Traces of rosemary and mint mingled with the scents of soap, shampoo and warm, disturbing male.
Silence didn’t seem like a good idea.
“Why is it that when I came literally a split second from wounding you, you said I wasn’t even close? You actually did hurt yourself,” she pointed out, rubbing the cream over a knot the size of an egg, “and your ‘almost’ is two hours.”
He lowered his head, gave a small groan with the movement.
“It had to do with circumstances.”
She was about to tell him he’d have to do better than that when he sucked in a breath.
She went still. “Did I push too hard?” she asked instead.
His breath leaked out, the tightness in his back audible in his voice. “In a good way.”
She’d smoothed her fingers alongside the wide curve of his shoulder blade, the long muscle there as unyielding as the bone beside it. Repeating the motion, keeping the same pressure, she felt his broad back rise as he drew another deep breath, then slowly released it.
What she was doing felt good to him. So she did it again, slower this time. It felt good to her, too, she realized, easing her motions even more. Though she’d tended to fight his efforts, he had been taking care of her in one form or another since the day they’d met. As little as there seemed to be for her to do for him in return, as little as he seemed to want from her beyond what centered on their professional relationship, the least she could do was take care of him now.
“What about the other side? Is it sore?”
“Not as bad.”
Meaning it hurt there, too.
Reaching around him, she held out her hand. “I need more cream.”
“You don’t have to do this,” he told her, but even as he spoke, he uncapped the tube and squeezed the analgesic onto her fingers.
“You hurt yourself helping me,” she pointed out. “So, yeah, I do.” As tall as he was, her elbows were even with her eyes as she raised her arms to work on the other side.
He seemed to realize how far she had to reach.
The bed was right there. “So it’s guilt motivating you,” he concluded, and sank to the nearest corner. He straddled it, his legs planted wide.
She sat down a little behind him. With one leg tucked under her, the other dangling over the foot of the mattress, she rested her hands on his shoulders to knead the knots with her thumbs.
“Must be,” she conceded as he lowered his head again. “Especially since I know this isn’t how you’d planned to spend your weekend.”
She’d thought before that there were reasons she needed to keep her guard in place with this man. She just hadn’t bothered recalling them at the time. With the feel of his big body relaxing beneath her hands, her palms tingling as much from the feel of him as from friction and herbs, it seemed wise to recall those points now.
Reminding herself of the subtle but definite distance he’d put between them last night helped her remember why that need was there. Recalling her comment to the girls about his dates helped, too. There were other reasons, she knew. Even more compelling ones. But for the moment, the last one served her purpose perfectly.
“I’m sorry you missed your party.”
“Everybody missed it.”
That would be true, she thought, now working her fingers up the cords at the back of his neck. “I’m sure your date was disappointed.”
For a moment Erik said nothing. Her fingers were making slow little circles at the base of his skull, reversing their motion to follow the rigid cords to where they met the equally taut muscles in his shoulders.
“I didn’t have a date,” he finally muttered.
She kept moving down, past the sore spot on the right, but before he could wish she’d stayed there, she’d continued lower, working her magic along the sides of his spine.
What she was doing felt like pure paradise. She had wonderful hands. Soft. Surprisingly strong. Yet incredibly gentle as she lightened her touch to soothe away the worst of the soreness, then gradually increased the pressure again.
He’d felt a different sort of gentleness in her touch before. He’d thought he’d been dreaming, that he’d only imagined her touching him with even more tenderness—until he’d opened his eyes to see her turning away. The brush of her fingers over his forehead had brought something he couldn’t remember ever experiencing from a woman’s touch. A feeling of ease, of comfort.
There had been a disturbing contentment to the feeling that didn’t coincide at all with the direction his thoughts headed now, but something in him craved that kind of caring. Something undeniable and essential and that should have felt far more threatening than it did with the feel of her small hands unhurriedly working over his back.
The ache running from his neck to the bottom of his ribs had started to ease, the tightness there no longer threatening another spasm. An entirely different sort of tension replaced it as her fingers methodically moved over his skin, massaging toward the base of his spine.
His breath slithered out when she stopped well above the waistband of his jeans. Still, the thought of her dipping her hand lower had every other muscle in his body going taut.
“I thought you might be taking the woman you’d gone out with before,” she said into the quiet. “Is she someone you’ve been with a long time?”
There was nothing deliberately sensual about her touch as she worked her way back up. Nothing provocative in the quiet tones of her voice. Yet the question added a certain strain to his own.
“I haven’t been with anyone in a long time, Rory.”
Her hands had reached his shoulders. Feeling her go still at the status of his sex life, or maybe the fact that he’d so frankly admitted it, he turned as he spoke, catching her wrist as her hand fell.
“Why the questions?”
Beneath his grip, her pulse jumped.
Rory wasn’t sure how to answer. She hadn’t expected him to tell her how long it had been since he’d slept with a woman. That hadn’t been what she was asking. Or maybe it had been and she just hadn’t let herself acknowledge her need to know. The queries had started out simply as a defense against the undeniable emotional pull she felt toward him. She hadn’t allowed herself to consider why his being in a relationship with someone should even matter to her. But it had. And he wasn’t. And all she could do now was scramble for an explanation that wouldn’t betray how very much he already mattered to her. And he did, in ways she was only beginning to comprehend.
“I guess I wanted to know if you were involved with anyone.” She lifted her shoulder in a shrug. “Just curious, you know?”
In the pale light, she looked impossibly young to him. Incredibly tempting. Mostly, she looked much as she had last night. Far more vulnerable than she wanted to be, and trying hard for a little bravado.
He saw weariness in her gu
ileless features. He’d heard that same drained quality in her admission. It was almost as if as late as it was, as long as the day had been, she was simply too tired to keep the bravado in place.
“I’m not,” he assured her. “I haven’t been involved with anyone in years.” Involvement implied an attachment he’d avoided for the better part of a decade. A need to be there for someone. A need to let that someone count on him to be there for her. A need to know she’d be there for him. He’d had absolutely no interest in that sort of commitment. Until now.
“Just curious, huh?”
“A little.”
If she’d been trying for nonchalance, she failed miserably.
“You know, Rory,” he murmured, self-preservation fighting the need to tug her toward him. “Now would probably be a good time for me to let you get back to bed.”
“Probably,” she agreed softly. “But I think I’ll just go downstairs and read for a while. Seems like a good night to tackle the business plan.” She lifted her chin, gave him a tiny smile. “I tried, but I can’t sleep.”
The simple admission pulled at him, the helplessness in it, the weary frustration of trying to escape what kept a person from rest. What got him, though, was the loneliness she tried to hide with the quick duck of her head.
She’d made no attempt to reclaim her hand, and he couldn’t quite make himself let go. Unable to shake the thought of how alone she’d seemed cuddling her son on the boy’s bed that morning, realizing how she undoubtedly spent many of her nights, he put self-preservation on hold.
“So what kept you awake? Old worries?” he asked, because he knew how long she’d struggled with them. “Or new ones?”
“Both.”
“Today probably didn’t help.”
He probably hadn’t helped. He just wasn’t sure how else he could have accomplished what they’d both needed for her to know. Yet while he’d been busy making sure she was aware of everything that needed to be done around the place to keep it up and how to take care of the problems she could expect, the weight of even more responsibility had piled on her shoulders.
Her Holiday Prince Charming Page 17