And so would today, especially with her looking as good as she did in shorts.
Mentally, he sighed. She wasn't going to like this at all. “Listen, Becca, I want to thank you again for all your help, but I'm a big boy now. I can handle things on my own from here on out."
Her pretty pink nails flashed up at him as her fingers drummed against her nicely flared hips. “I'm sure you can, big boy. But look at it this way. The sooner you get your house fixed up, the sooner you can ride off into the sunset."
He'd have to be blind, deaf and stupid to miss her cool sarcasm. But he had to admit she had a point. The sooner he was done, the sooner he could book. He studied her again, her red-gold hair a thoroughly tempting mass of soft-looking curls pulled up and back with one of those monster hair clips, and dressed for dirty work in a baggy Tim McGraw T-shirt and faded thigh-high denim shorts that showcased her mile-long legs.
More than enough woman to drive a man who'd spent the last eight years in the company of men insane.
"Did you get the grass seed?” she asked.
Apparently she hadn't noticed the supplies propped against the back porch wall at her feet. Jake nodded in their direction and said dryly, “And the lime, fertilizer and straw. Hull's delivered it yesterday afternoon.” On credit, which had amazed him. Turned out he'd made a few trips to Holton Hill with the woman behind the counter way back when. He didn't remember them, or her name, but he'd gratefully accepted the credit she offered.
"Great. Aunt Martha has a spreader we can use."
"I'm surprised you didn't show up with it."
Her delighted laughter reminded him painfully of simpler, happier days. “Feeling a little cornered, Jake? You never did care for the idea of being pushed into anything until you were darned good and ready."
When he didn't respond, her eyes and voice softened enough to make him hard. “I'm sorry. I only meant to help."
How was he supposed to keep his mind on his work and his hands to himself when she looked at him like that?
"Then let's get to it,” he practically snarled. He wanted this over.
They spent the next seven hours busting butt in the smothering heat. Rebecca's aunt not only had a spreader, but a couple of rakes and an ancient rototiller. The thing was cranky from dampness and disuse, but Jake, who'd been tearing machines apart and putting them back together since before he could read, soon had it oiled and running.
Feeling as if he were jackhammering concrete, he plowed up his hard-packed yard so the grass seed would have a fighting chance. Behind him, Rebecca raked smooth the clumps of dirt he'd left in his wake. Now and then she slipped into the house to get them something cool to drink. Once, she went over to her place and came back with a snack tray of fruit, cheese and crackers. Together they spread straw over the grass seed and fertilizer as the sky darkened and the wind picked up. The first rumble of thunder echoed in the distance as they returned the gardening equipment to her aunt's garage.
"Hungry?” Rebecca asked, after he'd pushed the rototiller back into its cobwebbed corner.
"As a bear, but I don't—"
"Good. I found some canned stew and enough flour and yeast to make baking powder biscuits in the house. The dough's already risen so it won't take but a few minutes to roll out a batch."
She turned and left the garage. Feeling annoyed, Jake followed her back to his house. Enough was enough. He wasn't frigging helpless. He entered the kitchen, planning to tell her he could make his own damn supper. “Rebecca. Hold up a minute."
She opened the refrigerator, and released a blissfully cool burst of air into the room. As she looked at him over the door she smiled, and the warmth in her eyes turned his brain to mush. “What's up?"
Jake lost his breath. The dirt smudges on her left cheek and chin and stray bits of straw in her hair practically begged for his attention. He shoved his hands into his pockets and looked around the room, desperate to focus on anything but her. “Nothing."
"Would you rather skip the biscuits, have an omelet instead? It is kinda hot and sticky to be turning on an oven. You could save the biscuits for morning."
So much for declaring your independence, eh, Donovan?
He forced himself to meet the genuine warmth in her eyes. Warmth born of a friendship forged during many home improvement projects they'd cobbled together as kids, trying to hold their homes together while their parents could care less. Rebecca wasn't acting any differently now than she had back then. He couldn't count how many meals they'd shared while fending for themselves. Saltines and ketchup being one of the more common choices, by default. Until he'd started working at Feeney's, there hadn't been much else they could afford to eat between the times her Great-Aunt Martha invited them in for a treat.
"Stew and biscuits sound good. The storm'll probably cool the air down.” He knew better than to hope the same for himself. Especially when all he could think about was how much he wanted her, about what he wouldn't give to drag her upstairs for a long, cool, shower, then get hot and sweaty with her all over again. Some kind of friend he was. “Uh, thanks for stocking the fridge, by the way."
She'd left eggs, bacon, bread, butter and coffee—a big can of coffee—in addition to that awesome peach pie and chicken casserole in the freezer. He'd practically gorged himself on both his first night home.
"You're welcome. I know how it feels to come home to an empty refrigerator."
That she did. Jake winced with fresh guilt as she turned away to knead the dough she'd made earlier. Rebecca had never known her father, and her mother had taken off when Rebecca was sixteen, shortly after he himself had been ‘strongly encouraged’ by the local law to join the army. He hadn't wanted to go, to leave her to fend for herself, but...
Next thing he knew, he was in boot camp, feeling lonely as all get out, writing his first letter to her out of sheer desperation for someone to connect with he could trust. She'd written back immediately to tell him she'd come home from school one day to find her mother had cleaned out her closets and left.
Somehow Rebecca had pulled herself together and gotten on with her life, earned herself scholarships to both the local two-year college and the University of Pittsburgh ... where Jake had tracked her down for a few unforgettable hours, then, as abruptly as her mother, pulled his own disappearing act on her. As he watched Rebecca cut the rolled dough into biscuits with a jelly jar, Jake wondered if he'd fallen into the Twilight Zone. By rights, the woman should hate him for what he'd done. Instead here she was, acting like none of it had ever happened.
Why was she being so nice to him?
"I got the paint,” he said, unwilling to ask the question that was really on his mind.
"You did?” Rebecca looked over her shoulder. She seemed genuinely surprised. Jake ached, as he had for most of the day, to release her monster hair clip and see if her hair still fell to her hips.
"You said it was on sale."
"I know, but ... I didn't really expect you to do it."
"You didn't?"
She turned back to her biscuits. “Of course not,” she said breezily. “Since when have you ever listened to me?"
Jake stared at her slender shoulders and back, stumped. Obviously the woman had no idea of the impact she'd had on his life, of the decisions he'd made, by and large, because of her.
Then again, you've never told her.
If you have any sense left, you never will.
As they sat down to dinner, Jake squelched a grimace of pain. The souvenir gunshot wound he'd brought home from a not-so-quiet trip to a military hot spot not on the general public's radar was letting him know he was pushing his physical limits. He looked up at Rebecca, buttering a biscuit across the table from him. A lone tendril of red-gold hair slipped free of her hair clip and she swept it back, curling it behind her ear. Even under the harsh glare of the fluorescent light they'd turned on as the sky darkened, her hair shone like burnished gold shot through with fire. Jake recalled how he'd wrapped her silky curls around
his wrists in the moonlight and lost himself in her big blue eyes as he buried himself inside her so deeply he...
Hell. Jake shifted in his seat, then burned his tongue on his stew. Half an hour later, Rebecca put away the last of the dishes, cheap iridescent gold glassware Jake recognized in mild amazement as the stuff he'd brought home from Feeney's fifteen years ago. The station had given them away free with fill-ups.
"I'd better get going,” Rebecca said as Jake finished wiping the kitchen table. “That storm's about to break loose and my windows are open."
As if on cue, a low rumble of thunder rolled across the sky. Jake glanced out the window and tossed the dishrag into the sink. “I'll walk you."
They paused on the back porch. The air crackled with electricity as another wave of thunder rolled over them. Jake studied the charcoal sky. Considering the sweltering heat, Jake was sure he smelled like a bull, but he'd swear he could still smell strawberries on Rebecca.
The same scent that somehow graced his sheets.
"The furniture upstairs,” he said abruptly. “The stuff in the old man's—my room. Whose is it?"
Rebecca didn't answer right away. When she did, it was with a quiet, “Mine."
"Yours? What's it doing over here?"
His sharp surprise had her looking mildly nervous, like she'd been caught with her hand in the cookie jar. “There's no room for it in the apartment. I picked it up at an estate sale six months ago. I needed a place to store it for a while."
And in exchange, she'd cleaned his house. Things were beginning to make sense. “It looks great, Becca."
Her all-out smile did dangerous things to his libido. “Doesn't it? Rosewood. Every last piece of it. Hand-carved."
"Antique?"
"Of course. Can you believe how good a shape that wood is in? It's over three hundred years old. Came all the way from France."
Excitement glowed in her eyes. Unrestrained joy for her lifelong passion of finding treasures other people considered junk. What Jake wouldn't give to be able to put that smile in her eyes, to make her half as happy as her beloved antiques. “I didn't know they made beds that big back then. I mean, weren't people a lot smaller then?"
"This one was custom built. It's somewhere between a queen and a king size. Impossible to find a mattress for. I think that's why I got such a good deal on it. I had to have a new mattress custom-made and sew the sheets myself."
Jake shifted, suddenly aware that they were discussing a bed. His bed. Rebecca's bed. “What about the quilt?"
Rebecca's smile turned rueful. “A little project I finished up in a hurry a week before you came back."
"You made that quilt for me?” The bold red-and-white star pattern flashed across his mind. It must have taken months.
Rebecca frowned at him as if he wasn't quite all there. “No,” she said slowly, “I made it for the bed. I started it last winter. I just hurried to finish it when I heard you were coming back. I didn't think you'd be bringing your own bedding.” She looked away, out over the yard. “I can have everything moved into storage if you'd rather get your own stuff."
"No. No. It's fine, really. I won't need anything of my own, and you're more than welcome to keep your ... things here as long as the place is mine.” So the extra set of white sheets with the red satin trim and matching bath towels were hers, too. “I just wondered where it all came from."
Rebecca continued to watch the coming storm. When she finally spoke, Jake had to lean close to hear her above the rising wind. “Most of Mickey's furniture was falling apart, and covered with so many stains, burns, holes and scars it wasn't worth saving. I hope you don't mind that I got rid of it."
Jake didn't hesitate. “Are you kidding? It's a relief not to have to deal with.” Those memories. “With that stuff."
"I thought as much,” she said quietly.
Jake studied her profile, and knew he was in trouble. Even after all these years apart, Rebecca knew him too well. He'd have to be crazy to see her again. To let the feelings he'd locked deep inside himself have any hope of escape.
"Thanks for lighting a fire under me,” he said, and slid his hands into his back pockets to keep from touching her. “If you hadn't pushed me into getting started right away, I probably would've slept for a week. Living in prison is like living in a beehive. Between the noise and the total lack of privacy—well, anyway, thanks for the push. And the bed. I've never slept in such a nice one."
Rebecca's grateful smile sent a powerful rush of desire shooting though him. “You're welcome on both accounts,” she said, still smiling. “The push ... and the bed. I'm glad you like it."
The first fat drops of rain pelted the ground. Jake looked into the cornflower blue eyes that had haunted him nightly for the past eight years and swallowed, hard. “It's great. Really. I wish it were mine."
It could be, if you stayed in Warner.
The thought hit him like a sledgehammer. Jake wasn't sure where the idea came from, but was damned sure it wasn't his. He searched Rebecca's eyes, but found only his own memories of a shared bed in Pittsburgh, and the stirrings of a passion he'd never thought to feel again.
Without thinking, as if it were the most natural thing in the world to do, he stepped toward her and slipped a hand behind her neck. Her eyes widened and her lips parted on a soft gasp, but other than that she just stood there and stared at him like a doe frozen by headlights. Jake smiled and lowered his head, then braced himself for his first taste of ambrosia in eight long years.
Rebecca blinked and placed a searing palm on his chest. “Ah, Jake, I don't think this is a good idea."
His heart felt like it would explode beneath her hand. Their eyes locked, their mouths just inches apart, and Jake heard himself say in a voice so low and gravelly he barely recognized it, “You got a better one?"
She hesitated. “Sure."
"I'm all ears.” He waited, caressing her nape with his fingers, and reveled in the silky feel of her skin, the soft strawberry scent of her hair. For a gratifying instant, she seemed to melt into his touch, seemed to sway a little closer. Jake closed his eyes and savored the moment, savored the knowledge she was his, and felt himself rise to the occasion in anticipation of the pure pleasure to come.
"Uh, Jake?"
"Hmmm?"
"Race you to the garage?"
His eyes popped open as she ducked out from under his hand and took off down the steps. He swore at his own stupidity and swung over the porch railing after her. He landed on his bad leg and nearly fell face first into his freshly seeded yard, which was quickly turning into mud. Cursing fluently, he scrambled from his knees to his feet. The rain erupted full force as he reached the six-foot hedge that separated their yards. As he skirted the small, rectangular swimming pool in her aunt's back yard, the gunshot wound in his hip burned with an unholy vengeance. Ignoring the pain, he pitched himself against the side of the garage palms first a split second before Rebecca did the same. “Gotcha."
Half-panting, Rebecca pushed off the garage wall and turned her face to the storm. She'd lost her monster hair clip somewhere around the pool. She reached up with both hands and slicked her soaked mass of curls back, then pressed her palms against the side of the garage and looked up at him, all traces of uncertainty gone from her eyes.
Rebecca the head librarian was back in control.
"You made good time, Donovan."
"Considering you cheated, yeah."
She looked at the sky. “I think we'd better get inside."
Just then the wind and rain surged, creating an incredible racket as it pounded on the corrugated plastic roof that covered the steps leading to her apartment. Jake ignored the shooting pain in his hip and sprinted after Rebecca along the side of the garage. A blinding shaft of lightning cracked close enough for him to smell the ozone as he propelled her up the steps ahead of him. An ear-splitting boom rent the air before the sky unleashed another fiery bolt, practically on the heels of the first. Swearing, Jake kicked the door ope
n and shoved Rebecca inside. She stumbled and let out a surprised shriek as he dived in after her, knocking her to the floor.
They landed in a wet, muddy tangle of arms and legs. For several stunned seconds, neither of them moved while the air rumbled around them. Breathing hard, Jake mentally took stock of whose limbs were whose—and where. He figured Rebecca was probably doing the same. He got himself oriented and backed away first, bracing his arms on either side of her as he tried to push himself up. A searing pain shot through his hip when he put pressure on his right leg and he swore sharply.
"Jake? Are you all right?"
"I'm fine. Just give me a minute to regroup."
"You're clenching your jaw."
"I'm in pain, here, Rebecca. Unless you plan to do something about it, I suggest we drop the subject."
A long moment passed before they awkwardly pulled apart.
Rebecca stood first, then swept her tangled hair back and over one shoulder. Turning away, she snagged two bath towels from a pile of folded laundry on the couch and handed him one. She began to towel the rainwater from her hair with the other. Her hair didn't reach her hips any more, but was still long enough to wrap around his wrists. Mid-back was Jake's guess.
More than long enough.
Rebecca noticed him staring and stopped drying. Jake forcibly directed his thoughts elsewhere. “Sorry about your door,” he muttered. “And the mud.” Thanks to him, it was all over the floor. All over Rebecca.
She looked down at the mud that smeared her chest and legs. Her wet T-shirt clung to her like a second skin. She swallowed, and he saw her cheeks flush bright red. No wonder. He was staring at her like a sugar addict in front of the cotton candy booth at the county fair. The combination of mud and water left very little to his imagination.
"It's okay,” she said with a strange little catch in her voice. “The door was unlocked. I'm sure it'll be fine.” She swung her head around as another crack of thunder shook the building's foundation. “Goodness, will you look at that?"
Jake's Return Page 3