by Mika Jolie
Fuck!
Yeah, he needed one of those. Only he’d sworn off the only person his body craved. Grabbing his coat, he stepped into the crisp cold air. Snow fell gently from the dark, cloudy sky. He drew a deep breath and exhaled, a frosty mist flowing from his mouth like smoke. But his body seemed impervious to the frigid weather. Ah hell, every inch of him simmered for Claire.
He should have kissed her. A month ago, their kiss, the sex, had been full of urgency, now he yearned for slow and deep, the feel of her mouth against his. Skin on skin. Maybe one more time to get her out of his system.
But he’d want more.
Nope. Not gonna happen. Foolish desire would not sweep him down that icy river to who knows where again.
Ever.
Something squeezed his gut and hit his heart. He’d always want her. He ached for her, probably would always ache for her.
Shit! Where Claire was concerned, maybe he needed to wave the white flag and accept he was an inmate for life. No chance for parole. His emotions forever fucked up.
He glanced at the clock in his Jeep. Six o’clock. Unlike him, she was probably still sleeping. He picked up the phone anyway, keyed in her name and stopped. He shouldn’t. They had fun last night, but that’s all it was. Claire was a runner. He’d been there, done that, even bought the T-shirt. He wasn’t interested in a repeat performance, best to leave things as they were. Sure he understood why she reacted the way she did that night.
Kind of.
Not entirely.
If she trusted what they had, she would have come to him and let his love be her sanctuary. She was eighteen. Impressionable, easily bended. Still, ten years to finally come forward—and let’s not forget she had a life in Los Angeles. Sooner or later, she’d leave again. Then what?
Always running. Just because she finally told him what drove her to bail on him didn’t mean she was ready to stop. From the night she left, she’d rarely looked back. A day or two here and there for a wedding, Christmas–if her schedule allowed it, but her visits were always quick. In and out.
Until now. A month later, she was still here. But it was temporary. Just like she’d become.
Forrest massaged his temples to suppress the bitch of a headache he felt coming.
Besides, they were in the F-zone, well, maybe not quite the friend zone. Amiable was better suited–friendly, pleasant. In either case, friends didn’t do lust. More importantly, he knew better than to act upon it. He was logical, balanced, and his heart wasn’t going there again. At this point, he’d lost track of how many times he’d reminded his heart it wasn’t up for grabs.
He sounded like a broken record.
Still, he wished he’d kissed her. The brush of his mouth on her shoulder didn’t count, and definitely wasn’t enough. Hell, he probably shouldn’t have done that either, but the temptation had overwhelmed him. Her skin, smooth brown and glowing by the fire, had begged for him to touch, to feel. Claire continued to squeeze at his brain, obliterating the thinking he needed to wheel-and-deal and shut her out. This middle ground between lust and logic was not good for his sanity. Neither was the semi-hard-on he was sporting.
Forrest stirred, aching. “Fuck, Claire,” he swore and pressed the TALK button. Her name glowed on his smartphone. He was screwed.
“Hey,” she greeted him in a melodious voice still heavy with sleep. “Why are you up so early?”
His mind shifted gears and accelerated to what she might look like right now. He knew she liked to sleep in those little short shorts and a tank, hair pulled in her usual ponytail. Her nipples were probably hard under the soft material. Removing his glasses, he scrubbed a hand over his face instead of banging his head on the steering wheel like he really wanted. “Heading to the farm,” he answered, hoping that his tone didn't show how sexually wound up he was.
“Oh. Need help?”
“Aren’t you in Chappy?”
“No. I stayed in town last night.”
She was in Edgartown. Way too close. Within fifteen, twenty minutes tops, he could be at her door, get that kiss and be on his merry way back to Vineyard Haven. But he’d want more. A quickie would do too, up against the wall, on the sofa. Whatever, as long as he was buried in her. He groaned. His only savior was the fact she was staying at Charles’ house and he had no desire to set foot there.
“Jason texted last night to let me know the boat couldn’t cross over,” she continued.
After they took the ferry back, he had driven off as soon as she entered her car. Leaving no crack in the window of opportunity for him to change his mind and drag her to his house. But he should have known she wouldn’t be able to cross Norton Beach. Due to the crazy winter, it tended to freeze at night. She was so close.
“We stayed out too late, I should have thought of that.” But everything about Claire, the evening, had been spellbinding.
“Not too late at all. I was having a ball.” She let out a short laugh, then said, “I didn’t want the night to end.”
“Me neither.” His balls just left the building. He was officially a sap. “Listen,” he said, snapping the short silence between them. “I have to go.” Better to end the call now. Who knew what he’d say next. Maybe, I’ve been sporting a boner since you told me you were going to touch yourself and think of me.
“Want me to meet you?” she asked quietly.
His heart stopped for a moment. He needed to get that annoying organ fixed. He blamed it on the unexpected offer. It was tempting and threw him off his axis a bit. “You’re terrible at farming.”
“Not true.”
The stubbornness in her voice only made him want her more. “You can’t even milk a cow.”
“I don’t like touching any other nipple but mine, and that’s only when necessary.”
He could almost see the teasing glint in her eyes and that made him laugh.
“And yours. Possibly between my teeth,” she added in a soft, warm voice.
The semi-hard-on he’d been suppressing officially went into a full, massive erection.
“You taught me how to harvest beets. Do you remember that?” she continued, as if she hadn’t intentionally put that image of his nipple between her teeth in his brain.
“I remember.” He shifted slightly, adjusting himself.
“How old was I at that time, nine, ten?” she asked, laughter in her voice. The sound warmed his blood.
“Ten.” He’d been thirteen and thought she was the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen. Almost two decades later, he still felt that way.
A short silence fell between them. Each lost in the time capsule of their youth to the day when he had found a clueless ten-year-old Claire practically covered under a large straw hat kneeling by the line of beets ready for harvest. Lowering next to her, he had removed the hat and shiny black hair fell to her waist. Her face scrunched into a scowl.
“Have you ever picked any vegetables or fruits?” he had asked.
She shot him a look as if he was a thirteen-year-old idiot. “Of course.”
“On a tree?”
She looked blankly at him.
“You know, on a ladder?” he continued.
“Well, no. They were low so I just picked them.”
Forrest nodded and chose not to go into details of what lay ahead for her. “You can pull the whole thing out like this.” He demonstrated. “Don’t remove the top. Beet greens have a delicious and distinctive flavor.”
She giggled. “You’re such a nerd.”
“They also hold more nutrients than the roots,” he continued, ignoring her comment. Most of the time he paid her very little attention anyway. They were only talking now because Jason had asked that he help her out. Wherever his best friend was, she was never too far behind. He long ago accepted hanging with Jason meant having Claire around. “At least that’s what my parents tell me.”
“I knew that,” she responded, but the smile on her lips told him she was thankful for the explanation.
He ret
urned the smile and placed the beet in the nearby basket.
“I fell in love with you that day,” Claire said over the line, pulling Forrest away from the snapshot of something that happened almost twenty years ago, yet managed to stay so vivid in his mind.
“You were too young. Maybe a crush.” At least that’s what he and Jason had decided to call it after he’d confided in his friend and told him how his breath had caught at the sight of her like that. Of course he also promised to kill his best bud if he so much as breathed a word to Claire. Up until that moment in the garden, she had been a nuisance.
“No, it was love,” she said firmly. “Just like when I was fifteen, seventeen, eighteen, all the years in between, after, and now.”
Forrest’s head fell back and he closed his eyes. After a second or two, he focused his gaze on the fallen snow. Everything around him was calm and quiet, nothing like the turmoil inside him.
“Claire, when you love someone, you don’t run.” His parents taught him that. Now he wondered how much of that pertained to their relationship. Had his father known about his mother’s affair with Charles?
If so, when had he found out?
His gut clenched.
“I know,” she said after a heavy sigh. “Back then, I was...”
“Eighteen,” he finished.
“Impressionable. More so than I care to admit. I needed to come into my own.”
“And you’re there now?”
“Yes,” she answered without any hesitation.
A thick silence fell between them. He glanced at the clock; twenty minutes had passed. “I have to get going.”
“Forrest.”
“Claire,” he said in his best by-the-book voice.
“Have a great day,” she said in a cheery voice then disconnected the call.
Less than fifteen minutes later, Forrest pulled his Jeep by the barn. Years of rain, sleet, and baking summer sun had taken its toll on the shed. He spotted a few stubborn patches of sun-bleached red paint clinging to the wooden sides and made a mental note to repaint it in the summer. Once inside, he hung his coat on the hook by the door and walked up the wooden ladder leading to the hayloft. He piled straw bales held tight by orange twine onto one another, then threw some over his shoulder to the lower level, the thumping noise caused the horses to stir.
“Time for breakfast,” he said, jumping off the ladder’s bottom step.
The horses hung their heads over their doors, ears perked, eagerly watching as he cut the twine off the straw bales. While they ate, Forrest moved about and inspected the rest of the area, making mental notes of what needed retouching. He thought of the day he found Claire kissing that stupid plum. It had taken all the strength an angst-driven eighteen–year-old boy could muster not to kiss her then. All because he had promised Jason he wouldn’t make a play for her until she was at least seventeen. For some unknown reason that had been the magical age they felt she’d be mature enough for a serious relationship. Boys were idiots. Why the hell he’d ever agreed to that was still a mystery.
Maybe it was because he saw how much Jason genuinely cared for Claire. Not the I’m aware you have tits kind of way, more of you’re a fucking pain in the ass to have around, but if I had to have a sister, it’d be you way. Out of respect for his friend he had honored Jason’s wish. That decision cost him Claire’s first kiss, making Tyler the lucky recipient. The fucking bastard. Of course it irked him, always had and probably would continue to do so for the rest of his life, not that he was jealous of Tyler or anything.
Yeah he was, just a tiny itty-little bit.
Tyler knew that too and loved rubbing it in his face.
By the time he stepped out of the barn, Forrest was covered in dust and hay. As he tossed his coat inside the Jeep, his father’s Labs came bounding through the freshly fallen snow, big chunk of flakes fell onto their fur. They jumped, tongues hanging out of their mouths, wet paws landing on his thighs. Laughing, he dug in his pocket and handed each of the dogs a cranberry oven-baked treat.
“Keeping Mom company?”
The dogs licked his hand. He scratched their chins and the tops of their heads. Once they seemed content with the amount of affection, he walked the couple of yards to the house with his father’s four-legged friends by his side. He glanced around, snow covered land stretched before him. The trees stood still, a dust of powder on their bare limbs. With the exception of birds chirping warnings, everything was calm and quiet.
As he got closer to the house, the black S-class Mercedes sedan came into view, and the familiar clutching seized his gut, as it did every time he thought of his mother and Charles. Only a month since finding out Luc hadn’t been his father, he was about to come face to face with his so-called father. Ignoring the sick feeling inside, Forrest pushed the door open, bringing in a blast of the cold air from outside with him.
Absolute stillness and quiet greeted him.
For a brief moment, he thought about walking out, but he trekked down the hall to the kitchen. With each closing step, his heartbeat quickened. Faint sound of Miles David Blue in Green drifted from his father’s study. He paused. White knuckles gripped the handle and turned it. Other than the music, a dark empty room greeted him. His brain rattled inside his head, memories of his late father came splashing so fast that his heart rate went haywire. He pulled the door closed so fast, it almost slammed. Realizing he was shaking, he stood still for a beat, swallowed the emptiness residing in his hollow gut, and continued down the hall to the kitchen.
He pushed the door open. His mother and Charles sat facing each other, fresh brewed coffee on the table, hands laced together. Bile rose in Forrest’s throat.
“Forrest,” she said, quickly coming to her feet.
“Why is there music in Dad's office?”
“I was in there earlier,” his mother explained.
He purposely kept his gaze on his mother. Her eyes were a bit puffy, like she’d been crying. Any other day, he might have tried to get to the root of her tears, but today he didn’t give a fuck. “Were you two fucking while Dad was alive?”
“Forrest!” his mother bellowed.
Charles came to his feet and stared at him. “Don’t be an asshole. There’s nothing going on between your mother and me.”
Forrest snorted.
“You stayed away for a month,” Charles continued, disgust filling his voice. “Did you ever think she needed you to mourn with her?”
“I’d tell you to fuck off but being you’re my father and all.”
His mother grabbed the sleeve of his sweater. “Stop,” she said firmly.
Forrest pulled away as if her touch burned. “However, since this is not your house, I can tell you to get the fuck out.”
“Since you’re my son, I’m going to tell you to get off your fucking high horse,” Charles spat back.
The two men’s gazes clashed. Forrest's jaw rooted. Burning rage hissed through his body like deathly poison, screeching a demanded release in the form of violence. He shoved his fingers through his hair, turned on his heels and walked out of the house, ignoring his mother’s call after him.
Thirty minutes later, the snow now falling more quickly, Forrest steered the Jeep onto Main Street in Edgartown half in a daze. The opposite direction of his office, the last place he should be. A ball of anger sat on his chest, waiting to take over. Since he couldn’t punch someone, he needed another form of release for all the shit boiling inside him.
Sex.
With Claire.
He was about to make a left on Bay Road where he knew she’d be, when he caught sight of the small figure crossing the street. Puffy long black coat, face hidden behind the hood, a cup, of what he assumed was coffee in her hands. He didn’t need to see her face, the sudden stir in his pants was a clear indication he’d found the reason he’d driven to town.
Pulling the Jeep to a nearby space, he parked, slammed the door and bolted across the street. “Claire,” he called after her.
; She stopped dead in her tracks and turned to him, smiling. Her face makeup free and so fucking beautiful it made his chest ache.
“Hey,” she said, “coffee?”
He pushed the hoodie off her head, cupped her face and kissed her with all the pent-up frustration buried inside him. She opened for him, pressing closer, harder, kissing him with everything she had, and obliterating every thought. The worries of the day evaporated like a summer shower onto a hot car. When he finally broke their connection, they staggered back, gasping for air.
“No complaints, Doc, but to what do I owe this honor?”
“Blame it on a case of insanity. It’s going around.” Drunk on endorphins, he captured her hand. “We’re going to my house.”
Chapter Eighteen
“Having a broken heart is like having broken ribs. On the outside you look fine, but every breath hurts.”
Anonymous
“Kiss me again,” Claire said, sitting in the Jeep.
Forrest pushed up his glasses, and answered without a glimpse in her direction. “Later.”
“Wait a second.” Her hand pressed on his arm as the Jeep ignition revved to life.
Beneath the thick wool sweater, the muscles in his shoulders tensed. Fingers still gripping the key, he glanced at her. She almost gasped at the swirls of emotion–anger, grief, sadness. Flames of hell danced in his dark eyes, very similar to the night she willingly gave herself to be used as a cushion. As good as that moment had been, the cheap feeling the morning after was not high on her list.
“Kiss me again,” she said again and curled her fingers around the cup of coffee.
“What is this about, Claire?” he asked, voice strained.
She cleared her throat. “I want to see something.”
Through those sexy glasses, he gave her a long, steely look, then took the cup from her death grip and placed it in the cup holder. “Come closer.”