by Ani Gonzalez
It was the most erotic thing he'd ever experienced.
She finally broke the kiss and leaned back, her fingertips sliding down his neck, leaving fiery trails behind.
She stared at him with wide eyes, her mouth moved but he didn't register any words. He couldn't. He felt as if his nervous system had overloaded with too many sensations.
"Zach," she repeated. "You're shaking." She grabbed his jacket and glared at the innocent piece of leather. "This thing isn't nearly warm enough."
He tried not to smile. His physical reactions had nothing to do with the weather or his inappropriate clothing choices.
But Patricia didn't know that. She took his arm and pulled him toward the barn.
"We should go inside," she said firmly.
He let her lead him to the barn, thoughts racing. He hadn't felt this kind of arousal in...never. Even with his kinkiest, most acrobatic girlfriends. Hell, even chained up in the PRoVE specimen room.
Especially chained up in the PRoVE specimen room.
They got to the door and she reached into his jacket pocket and took out his keys. The intimate gesture shocked him even more than the kiss. How did she know where he kept his keys?
She opened the lock and struggled with the heavy barn door. That surprised him out of his stupor and he stepped up to help her open the rolling door. The weight of the wood was reassuring, a physical sensation that anchored him to reality.
An anchor he desperately needed. He felt adrift, unmoored. They stepped into the house and he glanced around his living room, trying to get his bearings. His leather sofa was still there, along with the comfy ottoman with the colorful Native American print that his mom picked out. The cowhide rug was still in place. The box with Gabe's papers still sat in the corner, looking lonely and out of place. The rest of the furniture was still covered in large canvas tarps, waiting for him to decide where to put it.
Everything seemed normal. But Patricia was acting like a stranger, a sexy, bewitching stranger, and he, well, he didn't feel normal right now.
He'd been with girls before, many girls, in many places. But this was different. For one, this was his friend. For another, this was his home and he never brought girls to his place.
And, yet, here was Patricia, turning on the entry lamp and taking her puffy coat off and putting it on the antique coat hanger, as if she'd done that every day of her life. She adjusted her top, smoothing it over her hips with a gesture that made his muscles clench. Her boxy polo shirts and pink aprons had hidden a stunning hourglass figure. One that he ached to explore in detail.
Hell, he'd lost it. He'd really and truly lost it. He took off his jacket and hung it up next to hers, noticing that she hadn't hung up her scarf. She was still wearing it, fingering the silky cloth as she walked into the open living area, hips swinging. He stared at her, hypnotized as she circled around the leather sofa and flipped the switch that turned the gas fireplace on.
The fireplace created a warm halo around her curvy figure, and he followed her into the living room like a moth drawn to a flame.
She heard his footsteps, turned to him and smiled. It was the old Patricia smile, sensible and practical, but the jewel-colored top hugged her curves tightly, the neck scooping down to reveal a bit of cleavage, and her hair glowed in the firelight. The silly scarf that haunted his dreams hung down from her neck. She played with the fringe, a nervous tic that made him smile. Her eyes were dark and her mouth was still swollen from his kiss.
"There," she said, in a throaty voice that did not sound at all like Patricia O'Dare. "Now you can warm up."
He looked into her eyes and held her gaze for a long second. A light blush crept over her cheeks. He focused on the involuntary reaction with predatory intensity.
"Oh, I plan to warm up," he said, circling an arm around her waist.
She squealed in surprise and held on to his shoulders. Her breasts pressed against his chest and her mouth was inches away from his and he narrowed the gap as he enjoyed the feel of her curves against his body.
"But the fireplace has nothing to do with it," he breathed as his lips closed over hers.
She sighed in surrender, the sound making his body clench. She kissed him back fiercely, and he felt her fingers dig into his flesh.
He savored her hunger, drawing her close until he could feel every inch of her body pressed against his. Her top slid up and his fingers slid under the cloth. Her skin was satiny soft and she shivered as he caressed the curve of her waist.
Then he pulled back. This was going too fast. This side of Patricia was new and mysterious and he wanted to slow down and savor the experience. He took a ragged breath and trailed kisses down her jaw and onto her silky neck, burying his head in her gardenia-scented hair.
"Slow down, baby," he muttered against her skin. "I want this to last."
He felt her tense.
"Slow down?" she replied, her tone incredulous. "You want me to wait?"
She pulled away from him, and he found himself staring into her wide, outraged eyes.
"Um, yes?" he replied, now thoroughly confused.
So he liked to take his time, what was wrong with that? Most girls found it flattering.
But Patricia wasn't most girls. She glared at him, grabbing his shirt as if she planned to strangle him with it.
"I've waited long enough," she said, her voice a sexy growl that made blood rush through his body.
He shifted uneasily, his pants suddenly uncomfortably tight.
Maybe this whole taking-it-slow thing was overrated. Patricia certainly seemed to think so. And who was he to disagree?
She tugged on his shirt forcefully, trying to take it off. He laughed and tried to help her, but the shirt, and the thermal underwear under it, tangled around him, making the process difficult. She kept trying though, her fingers scorching his flesh as she struggled with his clothes.
His amusement quickly evaporated, turning into desire. He shrugged the sweater off and, with one last tug, Patricia pulled it over his head.
But the motion unbalanced her and she stumbled on the upholstered ottoman and fell, landing on the cowhide rug.
"Ouch." She winced in pain and frowned at the rug. "This isn't exactly plush, is it?"
"No," he replied, enjoying the sight of her sprawled on the floor, all tousled hair and wild eyes. "I didn't buy it for the house. It was part of the pizzeria decor."
"Cows and pizza?" She giggled. "That makes no sense"
He smiled. "That's why it ended up here."
That made her laugh, a welcome, familiar sound that reminded him that this was Patricia, his neighbor, his friend, his business conspirator.
And his business conspirator was wearing too many clothes. Well, he knew how to take care of that.
And, just to make her happy, he wouldn't take it slow.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
SEVERAL HOT, sweaty, and unforgettable hours later, a familiar buzzing sound rang out, jerking Zach into wakefulness.
He was in his bed, on the barn loft, covered by a patchwork quilt and two down comforters. That part, at least, was familiar. His barn was spacious and comfortable, but it was a pain to heat in the winter, hence his reliance on the Little House on the Prairie school of bedding.
But Canadian goose fluff wasn't the only thing keeping him warm.
Patricia was curled up around him, wearing one of PRoVE's purple "Virginia is for GHOST Lovers" t-shirts and nothing else. She was fast asleep. Her hair was spread out over one of his white pillowcases, and the purple fabric draped around her bottom enticingly.
It was a good, if unbearably early, way to wake up. The sky was still dark, which meant they still had a couple of hours before the bakery opened for business, and he had a long list of things they could do to pass the time. Sleeping wasn't on the list.
Answering his brother's phone call wasn't on it either.
But the phone kept buzzing like an angry hornet. He sighed and got up, grabbing a flannel robe to stave off
the cold. Might as well find out what Gabe had to say.
Although he had a feeling that he already knew.
He picked up the phone. Gabe's text was terse. "Check your e-mail and call me." Zach pulled up the e-mail and winced. Gabe had sent him a document, a very long document that took forever to download onto his phone.
What the hell was Gabe sending him? Another offer?
He scrolled through dozens of pages in inscrutable legalese. The gist, though, was fairly clear. This was no offer, it was something far worse. Infringement, violations, seizure...blah, blah, blah. The document was clearly marked as "draft," and the email indicated that it had been sent to Gabe as a "courtesy."
But the threat behind it was real. Gabe's clients had given up on carrots and had picked up some pretty hefty sticks.
The phone buzzed as Gabe sent one frantic text message after another. His cold-as-ice, hard-as-nails, corporate android of a brother was freaking out.
He grabbed the loft ladder and climbed down. He turned on the gas fireplace, regretted, for the umpteenth time, not putting in a wood one, and walked to the kitchen. In general, his barn wasn't big on amenities, it was hard to find luxury items, like wood fireplaces, that would fit in such a space. The kitchen, however, was an exception. He'd given Sebastian's designer girlfriend, Lily -- the one who'd helped him fix up the pizzeria -- free rein. Liam Hagen turned some old barn boards into kitchen cabinets and Lily found a slab of overstock gray granite, and together they came up with something rustic and barn-like that was still functional. Lily had even found a high-end espresso maker for him.
The coffee maker was his favorite. He grabbed a Pepe's Pizza mug, some Café Bustelo, and started the espresso maker. In a couple of minutes, he'd have a steaming hot cup of java. A thought occurred to him and he reopened the cupboard and looked inside.
No luck. He didn't have a spare mug for Patricia. He didn't do much entertaining at the barn, after all.
He added "get an extra mug" to his mental to-do list. Then he gave thanks for unsuccessful promo efforts and reached for a "Virginia's Only Haunted Pizzeria Will Knock Your Socks Off" thermos. That promo had never seen the light of day -- socks and pizza didn't mix well -- but he still had the sample thermos.
It would have to do.
He poured his coffee into the thermos and put another cup to brew. After a woman gave you some of the best sex of your life, the least you could do was give her a real mug for her coffee, right?
Mug washed, he assessed the situation. He wished he could sit in the kitchen, drinking coffee and thinking up interesting ways to wake up Patricia. Unfortunately, his brother's frantic e-mails had to be addressed.
He walked over to his office area, where a cardboard box sat in isolated splendor. He had a desk in the attic of the pizzeria and most of his business stuff was in it, or, usually, under it. He didn't do much work in the barn.
Until now. Gabe must have asked their mom to bring the box to the barn. Gabe was doing his damnest to knock some sense into his little brother's head.
But Zach didn't feel like being sensible. He opened the box and took out a bunch of papers, including a study on a proposed Pepe's Pizza expansion, a bunch of slides with promo and branding packages, and a pack of glossy pictures with proposed logos. Gabe's minions wanted to change the name to Poltergeist Pizza. He glanced at a graph with expansion plans and profit projections and was, reluctantly, impressed. That, he had to admit, was a lot of money. Then he hit the jackpot, a folder containing a presentation on copyright and trademark law, a study on the images and quotes he used in his pizzeria, and a spreadsheet with a list of violations and potential liability.
He gave a low whistle. That was a lot of zeroes.
That he currently didn't have to pay because he was Gabe Franco's little brother and the copyright holders were more interested in having Gabe's firm build them a profitable restaurant chain that monetized their film library than in suing Zach's ass off.
For now. Gabe's tersely-worded text messages indicated that was about to change.
He stared at the pile of cease and desist letters and the various replies Gabe's pricey lawyers had drafted up. The issue was now in something called "preliminary negotiation phase." He didn't know what that meant, but if he agreed to a buyout, he stood to gain a pile of money and a lawsuit-free future.
And if he didn't he stood to lose everything.
He stared at the papers, curiously unafraid. He'd worked on this restaurant for years. It had been his whole life, the only thing that kept him going after the accident. He should be devastated.
But he wasn't. He couldn't explain why.
Maybe it was because of the Rosemoor? With the buyout money he'd be able to remodel the building and cover costs for...hell, for the indefinite future. He'd be able to turn it into almost anything.
The sky was the limit.
A new project would fill the empty space left behind by the sale of the pizzeria. Un clavo saca a otro clavo, as his mother would say.
He looked down at his scarred arm. He knew he could start over.
He'd done it before.
He sipped his coffee and walked over to the canvas tarps on the other end of the room. The barn had doubled as his family's storage space for years. He'd sold, donated or thrown out mountains of stuff when he'd decided to move in, but there were still a lot of "treasures" that had been left behind. The covers were Lily's solution to the storage space problem.
He reached the largest tarp and pulled on it, revealing a black baby grand piano with several dents, a "Ferroviaria de Mexico" sticker, and a tattoo-style rose with the legend "Fuck the Shipping Charges" painted on the side.
He'd sold the rest of his equipment to repair the roof of the pizzeria. He'd even sold his guitars, which had paid for the new fridge. Commercial fridges were hellishly expensive, he'd found.
But he didn't sell the piano. Partly because he didn't find a buyer. Not many professional musicians wanted a ginormous piece of equipment that was pretty much impossible to move. Hell, the previous owner, a Baltimore bar manager desperate to get rid of his shiny black albatross, had practically blackmailed him into taking it. The thing didn't fit Zach's nomadic lifestyle, so he'd stashed it in his parents' barn.
And there it remained, hidden under a canvas avalanche. The accident put a stop to his gipsy musician's life and he'd moved back to Banshee Creek. Eventually, he'd bought the barn from his parents and turned it into his home.
But he hadn't touched the piano.
Until now.
He set the thermos on the floor and opened the top. The instrument was perfectly tuned, which cost a pretty penny every year, but he was religious about maintaining his musical instruments in good condition.
Even if he couldn't play them.
No, that wasn't quite fair. His arm had healed. He could play, at least this piano. He couldn't play professionally, that would kill what was left of his tendons, but he could play piano at home.
He just hadn't wanted to.
Until today.
He sat down on the bench and lifted the fallboard revealing polished black and white keys. He hadn't felt the urge to play or compose for years now, but, this morning, a melody was running through his head, something light and airy with a catchy hook.
He played a couple of bars and hummed. That sounded good. He automatically reached down into the bench shelf, where he used to keep his songwriting journal.
It was still there.
And so was his lucky CBGB pencil, sharpened to a tiny nub. He grabbed the journal and scribbled a couple of notes.
Then he played them again. He paused, drank some coffee and added a bunch of lyrics. Then more playing.
It was rough, which was okay. First drafts were supposed to be rough. There was something there, though, a haunting melody, a verse about loss, a sharp undercurrent hinting...what? New life? Resurrection?
Something. He played some more and made more notes.
The song was a bit ma
udlin right now, but there was a joyful strain in there, and, if he could coax it out, the contrast would be fantastic.
He played on, laying the foundations for what was a pretty cool song, if he said so himself. It was catchy and hooky, but still meaningful, a hard trick to pull, as he knew all too well.
He paused, satisfied, and leafed through his journal. There was a lot of good stuff in here. Some of it was unpolished, most of it was unfinished, but it was good.
How bizarre.
That's when he noticed a figure, leaning against the leather sofa wearing a garish purple t-shirt and a pair of very familiar plaid boxer shorts. Patricia must have raided his underwear drawer.
She was all tousled hair and flushed cheeks and she sipped carefully from a porcelain coffee mug. The sight of Patricia wearing his clothes made heat course through his suddenly tense body and his new song was forgotten.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
IT WAS the saddest song she'd ever heard. No, that wasn't right. Mozart's Requiem was sadder, but this was, in a way, worse. It sounded lost and lonely and like something was missing. Something vital. The song made her heart hurt.
"I didn't mean to interrupt," she told Zach, who had stopped playing and was staring at her.
But she was glad he'd stopped. That song was oddly disturbing. It was also, she had to admit, unbearably catchy. She found herself fighting an uncontrollable urge to hum. It was quite the ear worm.
And also quite the surprise.
Waking up in a strange bed was enough of a shock. Climbing down a ladder to find a gorgeously disheveled Zach playing the piano was even worse. He was wearing sweatpants and a brownish-colored grandfather-style plaid robe, which was open so she could see his chest. His hair was messy and his face was unshaven, and he looked good enough to eat.
Memories from last night sprang into her head. Zach's naked chest, the way he touched her, the way he tasted...She drank her coffee, suddenly feeling faint.
At least she had caffeine. Zach had made her morning coffee which was...touching. She wasn't used to having someone else make her coffee. It was definitely a new experience.