by Sylvie Kurtz
"Listen to this," Beth said, reading the newspaper by the glow of a hurricane lamp on an end table. She sat on the floor her back against the sofa. Jamie slept a safe distance away from the stove, an arm draped over Max who didn't seem to mind in the least. "'An employee at Gus Leonard's Country Store found a pair of wreaths in the storage space in the attic. The wreaths date back to the store's opening thirty-five years ago. They were fashioned by Alice Leonard, Gus's beloved wife. They were seen every year until Alice's death ten years ago. Gus has generously given them to the Beautification Committee who will use them to decorate the Town Hall doors.' Isn't that great?"
"Hmm." The walls seemed close in. Ice ticked against the windows. His muscles wound tighter and tighter.
"Look at these pictures. Aren't they wonderful?"
She handed him a section of paper showing black-and-white photographs of Christmases past. New England charm and tradition preserved in each one. There were bright lights and faces. Snow and sleds. Greenery garnished with ribbons and bows on lampposts and the band shell. He could almost hear the voices of the children's chorus dressed as angels, their excitement as they surrounded a Santa distributing presents from a large pouch, the high decibels of their games at a long-ago party.
"It says here donations are piling in. Looks like we'll have our old-fashioned Christmas after all. Next week is going to be crazy. I hope the weather decides to calm down for a while."
They spent the rest of the evening in companionable silence. Every now and then Beth would change positions. She moved from floor to rocking chair to the opposite end of the couch, switched from the newspaper to a recipe book, which she read as avidly as a novel. Before long, she dozed and the book fell to the floor.
101 Casseroles for Busy Cooks. He smiled as he put the book on the end table. A hundred and one more nights of her cooking to look forward to.
He unzipped one of the sleeping bags she'd brought down, and draped it over her. Somehow she ended up with her head against his shoulder. He started to extricate himself only to have her snuggle closer. So he relaxed. She would move soon enough. Even in sleep he was willing to bet she didn't stay still very long.
Peace reigned in this room. Warmth poured from the hearth. Surrounded by night, in the soft glow of light, it created a world of its own. Jamie and Max slept by the fire, a Rockwell portrait of innocence. Beth dozed in his arms, completing the picture of contentment he'd grown up longing for. He should have fallen asleep in a blink. But he couldn't.
Feelings crowded him. Satisfaction. Anger. Desire. Confusion. Mostly what kept him wide awake was an itchy need to grab onto this fantasy of family come to life. But how could he hold on to it and not hurt Jamie, not hurt Beth?
He couldn't stay. Not forever. That much was clear. Happily-ever-after just wasn't in his cards—not with all his baggage.
This time he knew ahead of time the fantasy wasn't a forever thing. So he was in control. He would call the shots. And when spring came, he could walk away without a scar.
Beth shifted in his arms, her hand crept around his waist, her head nestled deeper into the crook of his shoulder. He placed his cheek against the top of her head, inhaled the subtle scent of peppermint and woman. Heat, heaviness, hunger invaded his body.
She wasn't free of her past, either, he reminded himself. But in her case there was no guilt. She hadn't stood helplessly while a drunk kid mowed down the one she loved. She'd been there, supported, eased her husband's crossover into the next world.
She was a vital woman who had much to give the world. She'd made a worthy life for herself since her husband's death. But she hadn't made room for another man. She deserved someone who could give her that happily-ever-after, not someone who would break her heart.
Who was he to hurt her?
And Jamie deserved someone who would teach him to be a good man. Logan wasn't the one to do that, either. Not when every move would have him on edge wondering when the next truck would hop a curb. He couldn't afford to become attached to the boy.
Who was he to injure another child?
Yet he couldn't seem to let go of the fantasy of family come to life.
They would talk, he decided. Tomorrow. She, too, would know the score ahead of time.
The prospect sent a lightning bolt of fear through him. To talk meant opening up, telling her the truth of what happened, showing her he had limits that couldn't be breached. He would have to take the chance that, like Julia, after she knew the real him, she might turn away.
Chapter 11
Waking up nestled against Logan's body had felt much too comfortable. Given the small confines of the sofa, Beth should have felt cramped. But she hadn't. Her curves seemed to fit just right against Logan's hard planes. Her arm draped just fine over his chest. Her leg slipped just perfectly between his. No wonder her dreams had bordered on the erotic.
She tried to rid herself of the rapturous images floating in her mind by making coffee. From the gallon jug on the counter, she poured water into the bottom section of the percolator, then counted scoops of ground beans and added an extra one. Strong coffee should wake her up. She placed the contraption on the stove to perk, sure she could now go on with her day—until the images came back.
Huffing out a breath, she raked fingers through her sleep-tangled hair. She'd been on a beach. The moon was full and hot like the sun, but it was night, of that she was sure because the stars, a diamond field of them, had twinkled from the sky. The wash of warm ocean water lapped over her and her faceless lover, keeping pace with the rhythm of their lovemaking.
Her body tingled even now at the memory of that slow, deliberate seduction, of kisses deep and caresses soft, of body moving against body, of the need building then cresting, of the explosion of sensations that made her feel as if she were part of the stars.
She groaned. What is wrong with you? You're acting like a teenage girl who's never slept beside a man. She went to the pantry but didn't really see any of the goods lined up on the shelves. Her mind was too full of Logan and the feel of his body next to hers. It had been a while, she rationalized.
Frowning, she opened the fridge, remembered to conserve the waning cold and shut the door once again. What should she make for breakfast? She had to use up the supplies in the refrigerator before they spoiled. That's it, concentrate on important things.
Logan stirred in the living room. The sleeping bag they'd shared rustled. His feet hit the floor. The wood stove door creaked. The coals crackled when he added another log. Then his footsteps padded down the hallway. Her pulse scampered. And the sight of him, face smooth in sleep, came back to her, splashing the erotic dream into her consciousness all over again. Heat flushed her face. Her movements around the kitchen became jerky.
Stop that! She swiveled, took out a skillet and slapped it onto the stove. Chiding herself did not help.
Along with the remembered pleasure came a measure of guilt she wasn't quite sure how to handle. Jim was dead; it wasn't wrong to want another man. But not now, not during the Christmas holidays that had been so special to Jim, not while he was fading from her memory.
Still, the yearning was there, making her pop crazily like corn kernels in hot oil as she searched the pantry again. Bread. Where had she put the bread?
"Good morning," Logan said.
She caught her small sound of surprise and turned to face him. He looked much too handsome with his disheveled hair, his bare feet and his shirt not quite buttoned all the way. A tension buzzed around him, too, as he leaned against the kitchen doorframe—like a spring storm approaching, fraying nerves and setting off flickers of expectations even though the sky was still blue and the storm hours away.
"Good morning!" She cursed the overbrightness of her voice and turned back to the stove. "Want coffee?"
She didn't wait for an answer but poured him some. As she pivoted to hand him the mug, she found him there ready to take it. His fingers curled over hers, hugging them against the warmth of the cup. Her heart
thundered. Her throat went dry.
"Since that first day you came over with the casserole," he said. His voice was butter soft against her skin. "I wake up with the taste of you on my mind."
The storm she'd sensed brewed in his eyes—much closer than she'd thought. She cleared her throat. "Oh..."
The aroma of coffee smoldered between them, strong and rich. Would the thought of sex come to her every time she had a cup of that dark brew from now on?
"How do eggs sound for breakfast?" Her voice squeaked. She tried to slip her fingers from the mug, but he tightened his grip.
"Does that frighten you?"
He wasn't talking about eggs. "It petrifies me."
He leaned forward, kissed her. A gentle possession that spoke of intent. A shiver of delight rolled through her, leaving her weak-kneed and wanting.
He pressed into her. "Was that so bad?"
She inched back. "Oh, no, it was, um, very... nice."
Without taking his heated gaze from her, he plunked the coffee mug on the counter, trapped her between the sink and his hips. Her hands had nowhere to go but on his chest, holding him back. His hands circled her waist, setting off alarm and desire in equal measures. Then they traveled up, stirring an avalanche of sensations. She swallowed hard. Her fingers dug into his chest. To push him away or to pull him closer? "Wait!"
He said nothing, but his darkened gaze questioned. His fingers were splayed over her ribs, his thumbs rested against her breasts, making them ache, making it hard for her to think. What exactly was she objecting to?
"I-I'm not very good at this sort of thing," she said, searching for an explanation, looking intently at the plaid pattern of black, gray, and white on his shirt.
"Neither am I."
"I don't.... I'm not..."
Not quite sure what she wanted to say, she lifted her face, meaning to talk directly to him. He took it as an invitation and kissed her again. The slow, seductive kiss of her dreams. Her thoughts spun. Her pulse galloped. Her heart would surely jump right out of her chest if it kept up that pounding pace. She reached for his shoulders, fisted the soft fabric of his shirt around her fingers and hung on to keep from slinking bonelessly to the floor. His hunger fired hers until she was lost in a soup of stirred needs. A helpless sound mewled through her.
He pulled away slowly, rested his forehead on hers, skimmed his wonderful hands up and down her sides, making her shiver all over. His breath was as ragged as her own and puffed in heated bursts against her mouth. "There's something between us, Beth."
"Logan, I..."
"We understand each other. You're not ready for a husband, and I'm not ready for a wife. We both know happily-ever-after doesn't exist."
"I..."
"But we're both ready to feel alive again."
Alive? Yes, alive, that was the overwhelming feeling prickling through her—aliveness.
"I don't know." It was part plea, part apology.
He dipped his head again, touched his lips to hers, sent her senses spinning, her mind reeling, her body melting against his. It shouldn't be so easy for him to muddle her.
"It feels right," he rasped against her ear. "I want you, Beth. I want you like I haven't wanted anything in a long time."
His confession brought a host of confusion. She'd wanted him to find his heart again, had wanted him to smile, to feel alive. But was she ready to give away part of herself to reach her goal?
"I think you want me, too."
She groaned. "Yes, but..."
His thumbs caressing her sides made it hard to concentrate. "Logan... I'm afraid."
"I know. So am I," he assured her. "We'll take it slow."
"Yes, slow." A wave of relief swept through her, but before she could analyze what she might have agreed to, Jamie's footsteps and the click of Max's nails echoed in the hallway.
She sprang away from Logan, blushing as guiltily as the time the principal had caught her and Jim necking outside the gym in high school. She swiveled to the stove, could make no sense of the dials, lifted the skillet and put it down again. "An omelet maybe. I have to use up the cheese before it goes bad."
"Sounds good," Logan said, reaching for his abandoned mug of coffee.
"Good morning, sleepyhead," she said to Jamie as he walked into the kitchen. "How did you sleep?"
Max trotted over to Logan, sat in front of him, thumping her tail, and looked up at him expectantly.
"I wish Max could stay over every night." Jamie sleepily wiped at his eyes and sank into a chair.
She smiled at the cozy picture Jamie and Max had made sleeping by the fire and wished she'd caught the moment on film for Jamie's album. "Yeah, Max is a good dog."
"Knock-knock," Jamie said, resting his head on an upraised arm.
She reached inside the fridge for the carton of eggs. "Who's there?"
"Juno."
"Juno who?" She grasped a bowl from the cupboard.
"Juno what time it is?"
Logan crouched beside the dog and scratched her ear. "It's time for Max to go outside and take care of business."
"Woof!" Max agreed.
"Want to take her, sport?"
The sleepy eyes filled with anticipation. "Can I?"
"Sure. Why don't you get dressed, and we'll take her out?"
Jamie ran up the stairs. Max bounded after him.
"Beth?"
Logan rose and advanced toward her. The egg she cracked against the side of the bowl crumpled in her grip. Bits and pieces of shell slid into the bowl along with the white and the yolk. Slimy egg white gooed her palm.
"Do you want Monterey Jack or Cheddar in your omelet?" she asked, discarding the shattered shell and reaching for another egg.
He caught her by the waist, stilled her with his hands. Her breath caught in her throat. She felt his smile against the side of her face. Her heart knocked hard once. She cracked two more eggs into the bowl.
"Cheddar." His imitation of laughter rumbled in his chest, against her back. "I'm in the mood for Cheddar this morning."
She smiled, too. Slow, they would take it slow. "Cheddar it is."
* * *
"I need a favor," Beth said, even before Logan had opened the door all the way. Her mouth was agape, ready to apologize for her request and promise repayment, only to discover that Logan stood half-naked, suds slathering part of his face and chest. He wore a displeased scowl, but she couldn't help laughing. "What happened to you?"
"A slight disagreement with the mutt about the necessity for a bath."
"Oh." She swallowed another wave of giggles. That was good. That was excellent. If he was giving Max a bath, surely that meant he planned on keeping her. He said he was ready to feel alive again. Giving Max a bath was proof. "Who won?"
He grinned and wiped suds from his chest with a lazy swipe of hand. "I'm not sure."
"Where's Max now?"
"Hiding behind a box."
"Still soapy?"
"No, most of it's on me."
She ogled his chest. "You wear it well, too."
Pure devilment registered on his face when he noticed her appreciative inspection. One hand slid to the button of his jeans. "Want to see the rest?"
She blushed and stammered. "Uh, no, not right now. I..."
The sudden image of Logan naked leaped to her mind and she forgot why she'd come over. More evidence that her ordered life was quickly slipping into pure bedlam.
She'd spent the past five days in a state of total distraction. Dinners were stretched to their limits. Touches were snuck under the table. Kisses were stolen while doing dishes, lingered over in the front doorway. She was late twice to a Beautification Committee meeting. Since age twelve, she'd never messed up a recipe, but in the past few days she'd managed to burn a batch of pancakes, turn a skillet of chicken breasts into a charred mess and forget the sugar in a pan of brownies. Sleep was becoming a stranger. Even Jamie had noticed her distractedness and asked if she was all right.
She was afraid she
was taking a fast slide into incompetence.
That fact became clear this morning, when after she loaded her car with her Holiday Fair goodies, she discovered she'd left the lights on all night, and the battery was dead.
"I, uh...," she tried again, but her brain refused to engage.
"Need a favor?" Logan, ever so helpful, reached for her and made whatever thought she might have regained fly out the door. "Happy to oblige, ma'am."
"Yes, a favor." She sampled the side of his neck and drank in his scent. "My car won't start. The battery's dead." She waved vaguely in the direction of her house. "Cookies. Boxes of them. I have to get them to St. Mary's for the Holiday Fair."
"You want me to drive." He nibbled her earlobe, sending shocks of pleasure down to her stomach.
"Yes, that's it. Please." But the please wasn't politeness, it was unadulterated begging. She tilted her head up, and he was glad to indulge her with a deep, dark kiss.
"I can't stay," she whispered, trying to push away from him, enjoying the heated feel of his skin under her palms. "Jamie's by himself. He's supposed to be looking for his boots."
He let her go, but she was pleased by the apparent reluctance of his hands leaving her hips. "I'll pick you up in ten minutes. As soon as I dry the mutt and get some clothes on."
Her gaze followed the hard planes of his chest, took in the definition of biceps, the enticing flatness of stomach. "Pity."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah." She took a backward step out the door.
He hung on to the doorknob. "Beth?"
"Mmm."
"Soon."
He wasn't talking about the car ride, not with eyes that hungry. She swallowed hard thinking soon wouldn't be soon enough, thinking soon would be too soon, thinking she was going crazy. Her heart pounded. Her palms were sweaty. A queasy anticipation tap-danced in her stomach. And she spilled her half-formed thought. "Jamie's spending the night at Eve's."
"Is he?"
The raw hunger in Logan's eyes turned ravenous.
"Secret hush-hush mission. I'm guessing Christmas shopping in the morning." She tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear.