by Helen Lacey
Scott shrugged lightly. “Your brother doesn’t seem to mind that she can’t cook.”
“No. In fact, I think he finds it endearing,” she replied.
“Well, there’s certainly no doubt he loves her.”
Evie nodded. “Yes, no doubt. They’re very happy together. And my brother is a good man,” she said directly. “He’ll treat her right.”
Scott’s gaze narrowed fractionally. “I wasn’t suggesting otherwise.”
Evie lifted her shoulders and then dropped them quickly. “Sorry—habit. Sometimes I’m overprotective of my family.”
“You shouldn’t apologize for that.” He grabbed a stool in one deft move and placed it against the wall. “Actually,” he said as he sat, “I find it endearing.”
Evie didn’t miss the hint of intimacy in his words. In fact, she knew he was being deliberately provoking. While she was trying her best to not think about him in that way, he didn’t appear to feel the same need.
Youth and bravado.
Or just plain old male egotism running riot.
Either way, Evie knew it had to stop. Because if it didn’t, she knew any moment she was going to start thinking about that scorching, toe-curling kiss again. Which simply would not do.
“I hope the bike didn’t wake your guests.”
She snatched a look at him, not wanting to notice the way his jeans stretched across his thighs, but noticing anyway because he was impossible to ignore. “I doubt it,” she said quietly. “Trevor’s staying over at Cody’s, and the Manning sisters can sleep through anything.” She checked her watch. “And the Kellers have gone into town for dinner and a movie.”
“So we’re all alone?”
More intimacy. More curled toes. More everything. Evie fought to catch her breath before it left her throat. “Like I said, Amelia and Flora are inside asleep.”
“And they can sleep through anything?”
Her heart skipped. “What did you have in mind?” she asked, although she couldn’t believe the words came out.
“Come for a ride with me?”
She straightened, narrowed her gaze and automatically looked at her watch. “It’s ten o’clock.”
“Do you have a curfew?” he asked.
Evie shook her head. “Of course not. It’s just that I couldn’t—”
“I promise the bike won’t turn into a pumpkin after midnight,” he said, smiling just enough for her to see his dimple. “And I won’t turn into a frog.”
“You’re mixing your fairy tales,” Evie said. “Cinderella and The Frog Prince—both favorites of mine—but both very different stories.”
“The ending’s the same, though, isn’t it?”
Evie drew in a breath. “Yes.”
“So come with me?” He looked at her with searing intensity. “I feel like a walk on the beach.”
Evie squashed back the feeling of anticipation weaving up her back. But she willed herself not to be tempted. “Not a good idea.”
He chuckled and it was such a sexy sound Evie could barely stand still in her own skin. “Evie, there’s something unique about you that makes me want to get to know you better.”
Evie held her breath. The man was seductive and mesmerizing. And she was in serious trouble of falling head over heels in lust. “We agreed that we wouldn’t get involved.”
“It’s just an invitation to walk along the beach,” he said easily. “Not a marriage proposal.”
She twisted her fingers together, determined to do something with her ridiculously unsteady hands. I am behaving like a first-rate fool. But her resistance lingered. Evie knew what would happen if they were alone together on a deserted beach late at night. They might kiss again, and touch... Scott might take her in his arms and she would go willingly to wherever he led her. Perhaps they would make love on the sand.
He studied her face, absorbing every feature and making her hot all over. “Okay,” he said so quietly Evie took a small step toward him. If he was going to speak she wanted to hear what he had to say. When he pushed himself off the stool, they were only a few feet apart. “Evie...”
She looked up, met his gaze and swayed forward.
“You’re very talented.”
Not what she was expecting. And he now looked above her head and at the many paintings hung around the room, and she hadn’t expected that, either. “Thank you.”
He stepped to the side and walked between the freestanding easels. “Do you sell much of your work?”
“Not really.”
“Why not?” he asked, and stood in front of a trio of watercolor landscapes on one wall. “These are excellent.”
Evie followed his steps. “Do you have an interest in art?”
He shrugged. “I know what I like. Although I’m no expert. You have an amazing gift.”
A gift? It had been such a long time since anyone had called it that. Gordon had, a lifetime ago. He’d been her greatest supporter and in many ways her muse. He’d pushed her to work harder, to give her best every time she put brush to canvas. But his death had killed off something inside her, too. Evie hadn’t stopped painting completely, although the need to showcase her work had been left behind with all the rest of her ambition. Nowadays she only painted for herself, and with the B and B, her son and the classes she taught occupying most of her time, painting for herself had become little more than an occasional whim.
“I don’t get to paint as much as I used to.”
He half turned and faced her. “Why not?”
Evie shrugged. “No time.”
“Although you used to have time,” he said quietly, and motioned to the nearly two dozen frames hanging around the room and the stack of unfinished pieces lying against the wall in a dark corner. “Judging by the look of things.”
She shrugged again, feeling the bite of criticism. “Do you mean before I became a single mother and had to run this place by myself?”
He turned back to her immediately and both brows shot up. “Is that your way of telling me to mind my own business?”
Evie glared at him. “Would it make much difference?”
“I can be as sensitive as the next guy,” he said easily, looking her over in that way which made her skin burn. “Try me.”
She went to reply, and then stalled. Evie rarely talked about her work. Actually, she never talked about her work. But there was an edge of something she couldn’t quite recognize skirting the mood between them, and she felt reluctant to break the link. Evie clutched her arms around her waist and wandered toward an unfinished piece on a large easel.
“I don’t paint like I used to. I don’t seem to have the heart for it anymore.” She let out a heavy breath. “I don’t think I’ve admitted that to anyone before.”
He came beside her and looked at the picture. “You lost your drive?”
“I guess. When I was young I lived to paint. I couldn’t wait to create the next piece, to see where the brush would take me. I’d spend hours in here, mixing colors, sketching and thinking up new ways to be bold and innovative. And then I stopped. After Gordon...well, I just couldn’t seem to...” She paused and looked at the unfinished pieces in the corner. “I just couldn’t finish anything.”
“Do you still enjoy painting?”
She glanced sideways. “In here I do.” She tapped her temple softly. “But in here...” Her hand came to her chest. “I don’t have the feeling in here. And that’s where it really comes from. Creativity is all about heart.”
“And your heart is still broken?”
Evie swayed sideways. The need to be held by his strong arms suddenly overwhelmed her. She’d never ask it. Never show it. But it pierced through her with razor-sharp precision. “My heart is full,” she said quietly. “With my son, my family, this place I’ve been blessed to live in. Plus, I have my students, and teaching gives me great satisfaction.”
He looked at her, meeting her gaze head-on. “There’s a ‘but’ in there, Evie. And there’s no shame in that. If
you love to paint, then that’s exactly what you should do. You owe it to yourself to try and find your heart again.”
She felt the sting in his words, although she was certain he hadn’t meant it that way. She knew she was being overly sensitive, but she bit back anyway. “I wouldn’t expect someone like you to understand.”
“Why not?” he shot back quickly. “Because you think I’m just a grunt who runs into burning buildings for a living?”
He was stung by her comment, and part of her couldn’t blame him. Her words had sounded condescending and she wondered why she’d said them. Normally she was rational and sensible. But she was mad at him for making her explain her thoughts and feelings about her painting. It wasn’t open for discussion. Not ever.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” she said, and pushed herself to move away from him. She grabbed a bundle of paintbrushes, took them to the sink and dropped them into a plastic container. “I don’t talk about me,” she admitted, still by the sink and without the courage to turn around and face him. “Not to anyone.”
“Then I guess we’re a lot alike.”
She snapped her neck around and managed a tiny smile. Were they alike? Was that why she sensed an invisible thread of connection between them? And why it felt like way more than physical attraction? She felt something, a kind of link with Scott, but it was hazy, like drifting through fog while listening to the sound of someone’s voice.
“Do you ever envy those people who can express every emotion and feeling they have whenever they’re having it?” she asked. “Sometimes I do. My sister M.J. says whatever she wants regardless of the consequences—and she gets away with it. While my other sister, Grace, is about as uptight and closed off as you can get.”
“And you?”
She shrugged, turned around and rested against the bench top. “I’m somewhere in the middle. Reliable and predictable, following rules, making sure everyone else is taken care of.”
“There’s nothing wrong with following rules, Evie. Or being reliable,” he said, and crossed his arms. “You don’t have to be reckless to lead a fulfilling life.”
Evie stared at him. It seemed a strange thing for him to say. He was a firefighter. He lived his life on the very edge of danger. What would he know about following the rules? Unless she’d completely misjudged him.
“You sound as if you’re talking from experience.”
He lifted his shoulders and dropped them with a heavy breath. “I just know that sometimes being reckless hurts people. Risking everything can be disastrous. Often someone else is left to pick up the pieces, and that’s not a great legacy for anyone to leave behind.”
He was right. And it was exactly why she always lived her life in a sensible, orderly fashion. Sure, there were no risks, but there was also no chance of hurting the people she loved. Strange, but she’d imagined Scott as a risk taker.
“I didn’t think you’d be so...so...”
“So what?” he asked.
“So sensible,” she replied. “Your job, your age, I thought you’d be—”
“I’m twenty-seven,” he said, cutting her off. “Not seventeen. In fact, I’ll be twenty-eight in a couple of months. As for my job, sure, it can be dangerous—but so can working on a high-rise or driving a truck. I haven’t any illusions and I don’t take the potential dangers of my job lightly. And I certainly wouldn’t expect anyone...” He stopped, looked at her and twisted his mouth for a moment. “I wouldn’t expect anyone...any woman to wait around for that late-night call saying I’d been injured, or worse.”
Her chest tightened. She knew that call. She’d experienced it firsthand. “Is that why your last relationship didn’t work out?”
“We worked together, lived together—I couldn’t treat her like the rest of the crew. I wanted to keep her safe. She put up with twelve months of what she called my outdated macho crap and left.”
Evie had always secretly liked that outdated macho crap. “And you won’t get seriously involved with anyone while you’re a firefighter?”
He shrugged. “No.”
Part of her was acutely disappointed—the other was impressed by his integrity and she admired his principles. A niggling thought suddenly attached itself to the back corner of her mind. If only Gordon had thought like that. I wouldn’t be a widow—my son would still have his father.
“You might fall in love?”
His blue eyes seared into hers. “I might.”
“And if you do?”
He shrugged again. “No point worrying about something that hasn’t happened.”
Evie read between the lines. So there was no middle road. He was a man with strong convictions, and her admiration spiked. She was like that, too. She’d made a commitment to raise her son and be the best mother she could be after Gordon had died. All her energy, all her love had gone into her parenting. The good daughter, the good mother, the good widow.
And now Scott had walked into her life and she felt like abandoning every single of one of her principles and allowing herself to get swept up in his arms. Evie had never experienced anything quite like it before. Certainly she’d had desire for Gordon and enjoyed making love with him. But this feeling...this low-down-in-her-belly kind of slowly building craving was suddenly all she could think about. All she could want.
“I have to go,” she said. So quietly she wasn’t sure he heard her.
But he had. He grasped her arm as she made a move to leave. “Don’t run away.”
Evie’s breath caught in her throat. “I have to,” she whispered.
“You act like I’m some sort of threat to you,” he said, and rubbed the underside of her arm with his fingers. “I’m not. At least, not intentionally.”
“That’s not it. I’m a threat to myself,” she admitted, hypnotized by his gentle caress. “I’m feeling so... I’m not sure what exactly. But I know I shouldn’t be feeling whatever it is. Maybe that doesn’t make sense—I don’t know. I only know that you’ll be gone in three weeks and I’ll still be here. And I have to make sure I’ll be here with myself and with my life intact.”
His touch continued to hold her captive. “I have no intention of taking advantage of you, Evie,” he said softly, his voice as seductive as the soft stroke of his fingertips. “And if you feel like you’ve been suddenly hit by a freight train—well, frankly, so do I.”
She looked up. He wanted to kiss her...and Evie wanted it, too. She willed herself not to feel such a longing, to look at him and not see a man she desired more than she’d imagined possible. But her body was in control. Her body was calling all the shots.
Her breasts felt heavy, as if they knew she wanted him. Still, he only touched her arm, gently rubbing the soft skin. But it was enough. Her nipples peaked, tightening so much she knew they were clearly visible through the thin cotton of her T-shirt and lace-cup bra. Her belly dipped and rolled on a wave of desire so strong she wondered if her legs might give way.
“I can’t...I want to...but I can’t,” she whispered. “I’m an ordinary woman and I lead an ordinary life... Don’t ask me to be something other than who and what I am.”
Scott’s fingers stilled. “I wouldn’t. I won’t. I get you, Evie,” he said as he released her. “I get the way you live your life—I get that you had to do whatever it took to work your way through losing your husband. I understand why you always do the right thing, the sensible thing. And because you’re right—I am only here for three weeks and the two of us getting involved would not be sensible. It might be incredible...it might be mind-blowing. But it wouldn’t be sensible.”
He stepped back and put space between them. Then he stepped away and grabbed his helmet and keys. When he reached the door he stopped and half turned. “And, Evie—there’s nothing ordinary about you,” Scott said quietly.
Once he’d gone through the door, Evie’s shaky legs found a chair and she slumped back with a heavy breath. Scott Jones was one heck of a nice guy. And I’m falling for him hook, line and
sinker.
Chapter Six
On Saturday morning Evie headed into town and shopped at her favorite organic grocery store. When she got home Scott’s motorcycle was notably absent and she experienced a mix of emotions. He’d gone for an early run that morning and they’d barely crossed paths over breakfast. She attended to her guests during lunch and, after catching up on a few domestic chores, spent the afternoon in her studio.
By the time she’d showered and changed her clothes, it was nearly five o’clock. She heard Scott’s motorcycle return and then the sound of feet on the stairwell followed by a couple of doors opening and closing and the distinct hiss of the shower in the guest bathroom.
She walked into the kitchenette and saw her son. “Are you getting ready soon?”
He half frowned from his spot near the sink. “I wish I could stay home.”
“No chance. Your grandparents are expecting you.”
Trevor’s lanky shoulders popped up and down. “It was just a thought.”
“And I thought you liked your grandparents?” she suggested quietly, smiling.
He grinned. “You know I do. But there are basketball tryouts coming up before the school terms out and I figured I should practice if I want to make the team for next year.”
A team? And sports? She planted her hands on her hips. “Okay...where’s my son and what have you done with him?”
Trevor laughed. “It’s still me. I just thought I might try out, that’s all... You know, get outdoors for a while.”
Her smart, computer geek son certainly surprised her. “I think...I think it’s a great plan.”
He shrugged, looking embarrassed all of a sudden. “Yeah, well, it was just an idea. I probably won’t make the cut. You know I suck at sports. But Scott said he’d help.”
Scott...
Of course. Her fatherless son would think Scott Jones hung the moon.
She ached inside thinking about it. “You’re a shoe-in, I’m sure. Now go and get dressed. You’ve got fifteen minutes.”
He dragged his feet as he left, and Scott came into the room a couple of minutes later. Evie pretended to busy herself by mopping up a nonexistent spill on the draining board. The air between them was thick. Stupid, she thought, to have tension when there were no words said and barely any eye contact. Evie slanted a look in his direction while she folded a tea towel. He looked so good in dark olive chinos and pressed white shirt. Too good. Everything about him oozed sex—the way he moved, the way he spoke, the way his hair flicked across his forehead.