Sea Glass Winter

by JoAnn Ross

  He drew her back against him, gathering her close, inhaling the herbal scent of her hair, the fragrance of the silky flesh behind her ear. “Let me show you exactly how much I want to make love to you.”

  Take it slow. As he brushed butterfly kisses over her face, a soft, excited laugh slipped from between her lips.

  “I’ve been waiting for this for what seems like forever,” she murmured as his mouth glided along her jawline.

  “That makes two of us.” She was so unbearably soft. And warm. And special.

  He undressed her slowly. Tenderly. She lifted her arms as he pulled the sweater over her head. Then pulled the jeans down her legs.

  “Wow. I didn’t even know they made bikini panties for pregnant women.”

  “Remember when I went to Portland overnight with Kara, Sedona, Charity, and Maddy?”

  “Sure.” He’d played poker with the guys and lost every hand because his mind had been fantasizing about spending the night in some luxury hotel with a view of the river and city lights, and making love to his Phoebe in an oversized marble tub.

  “Kara found out about this amazing maternity boutique,” she said on a light gasp of pleasure as he slipped his finger beneath the low-cut waistband. “Charity, who apparently is rich, though you’d never know it because she’s so nice, insisted on practically buying out the lingerie department for me.”

  He could feel her light laugh beneath his fingers. “I told her I didn’t have anyone to wear them for, but all of them said that didn’t matter. That I should wear them for myself.”

  “Tell them thank you for me.”

  The shadows in the room deepened. When he reached to turn on the lamp, she caught hold of his hand.

  “I want to see you, Phoebe.” He lowered his mouth to hers again. “All of you.”

  “I’m fat,” she protested. The complaint was little more than a whisper, but Ethan had no trouble hearing it in the hushed stillness of her bedroom.

  “Not fat.” His fingers dispatched the clasps of the lacy bra. Hot damn. He hadn’t lost his touch. “Beautiful,” he said as he scattered a trail of kisses across the slope of her breasts.

  She was still tense. He could feel it. Sense it.

  Ethan had waited too long for this moment not to want it to be perfect. So he was willing to forgo the lamp. But no way was he going to make love to Phoebe in the dark.

  He stopped his caresses just long enough to snag the lighter lying beside the candle on the bedside table. He touched the flame to the wick, bathing her in a warm yellow glow.

  Her heavy breasts were the color of porcelain, but so much warmer. Her flesh was drawn tight against her belly, outlining the child she’d run away from a dangerous marriage to protect. The child she was still having to fight to keep.

  The child Ethan swore she would keep.

  “You,” he said, as he kissed a white stretch line, “take my breath away.”

  “You don’t have to lie.” Even as she protested, when he skimmed his tongue over her navel, she arched her back in pleasure.

  “I’ll never lie to you, sweetheart. And especially never about this.” He kissed his way up to her breasts, running his tongue over a taut nipple. Her flesh was so hot, Ethan was amazed it didn’t sizzle at the wet caress.

  Basking in the pleasure of the fragrant damp flesh, he moved to the other nipple. “There’s something really hot about a warm, ripe woman.”

  “Now you make me sound like a fruit from one of those trees in your orchard,” she complained. But he could tell she enjoyed the idea.

  “Absolutely,” he agreed. “And before the night’s over, Phoebe, my love, I’m going to taste every delicious bite.”

  There was no storm. No flare of fireworks. The earth did not move.

  Instead there was flickering candlelight and the scent of melting wax. Sweet, whispered words. Tender, murmured promises.

  Fingers linked, lips melded, legs entwined as Ethan finally slipped into her as easily and as perfectly as if they’d been created for each other. Which to his mind, they had.

  And as the flickering candle burned low and a huge harvest moon climbed high in the sky, showering its light over the room, Ethan and Phoebe soared over it.

  22

  It was raining. Again. As he gulped down three packages of microwave instant oatmeal, Matt made a mental note to start checking his feet every night before bed to make sure they weren’t becoming webbed. Aimee had assured him that Shelter Bay summers were awesome, but he was beginning to suspect that her bar might be set a lot lower than his.

  “We have a problem,” his mother said as she sat down across from him.

  He wondered what her first clue had been. The problem was obvious… they were living in the wrong damn state.

  “What?” he asked around a mouthful of oatmeal.

  “That gallery in Portland, the one where I’m having my exhibition next month? The hotel room they booked only has one king bed.”

  “So?”

  “So, because of some Christmas boat parade thing, the hotel’s booked solid. I couldn’t get two rooms.”

  “Why do you need two rooms?” He took a long swallow of milk.

  “Because I don’t want you having to sleep on the floor.”

  “Why would I do that? I’m not even going.”

  “Of course you are. You have that night free. I checked your schedule.”

  “I’d rather just stay home and watch a video.” He paused, thinking about their conversation last night. “And work on my term paper for Coach Slater’s class.”

  “But you’d be alone.”

  Which was the freaking point. She had no idea how much he’d been looking forward to her going away for that show. “What, you don’t trust me?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “You said yourself I need to apply myself to get my grades up.”

  “I did, but—”

  “So, that’s what I’m going to do. You’ve got to admit that me working on the physics of basketball and getting started on that English reading list makes more sense than hanging around some gallery with phony artsy-fartsy types.”

  “Excuse me? I’m artsy-fartsy by your definition.”

  “No, you’re not. You’re my mom. And I realize you have my best interest at heart.” He figured that, along with the mention of getting started on the damn list, would soften her stance. “But since I’m too old for a babysitter, you’re just going to have to bite the bullet and trust me.”

  “Of course I do,” she said, not quite convincingly, making Matt wonder how long it would be before they got beyond that stupid pot fiasco.

  What nobody knew was that it hadn’t even been his stash to begin with. Not that he ever would’ve ratted out the owner. Even if she hadn’t been a girl who’d taken off her shirt and bra while they’d been studying in her bedroom while her parents had been at some movie premiere red-carpet deal.

  “But what if something happens?” his mother was asking as Matt was imagining, not for the first time, what Lila Greene might have looked like with the rest of her clothes off. What really sucked was that before he’d had an opportunity to spend more time with her and find out, he’d been busted by that pot-sniffing German shepherd the campus cop had brought in, and her movie-producer parents had banned her from seeing him again.

  “Like the house catching on fire,” his mother said.

  “You taught me how to dial 911 before I was three,” he reminded her.

  “Like it or not, I’m your mother. I worry.”

  “Well, don’t. Everything’ll be copacetic. Really.”

  He’d never been so happy to hear anything in his life as he was the beep of the horn on Aimee’s janky Volvo outside the door.

  Feeling as if he’d just gotten a reprieve from death row, Matt jumped up and grabbed his jacket and book bag. “See you after practice.”

  He managed to escape before she humiliated him by going out to meet his new “friend.” Which would undoubtedly le
ad to her giving Aimee the third degree.

  “Let’s roll,” he said as he threw his bag into the Volvo’s backseat. “Now.”

  “We’re not late.”

  “I just want to get the hell out of Dodge.”

  “Bad morning?” Aimee asked.

  “It could’ve been,” he said as she pulled away from the house. Matt did not look back. “If you hadn’t shown up just in time. Like Black Widow from The Avengers.”

  “Thanks. But I’d rather be Katniss from The Hunger Games, who’s a heroine because she’s wicked smart, and not because of how she looks wearing a catsuit.”

  Matt decided not to point out that there was nothing wrong with Scarlett Johansson poured into black latex. In fact, Black Widow claimed a major chunk in the hot-chick section of the pie chart that was his brain.

  “Pull over,” he said after they’d turned the corner.

  “Did you forget something?” She pulled the Volvo over to the shoulder of the narrow, winding road.

  “Yeah.” He unfastened his seat belt, leaned across the console, and kissed her smack on the mouth.

  It wasn’t a long kiss. He didn’t use any tongue and kept his hands in her hair instead of letting them wander into dangerous territory. But it still left her eyes as wide as an owl’s when he pulled his head back.

  “What was that for?”

  “I owe you.”

  “For what?” She looked a little stunned. Which was weird. He couldn’t have been the first guy to ever kiss her. She was sixteen. She had wheels that would let her go anywhere she wanted. With anyone she wanted. And the back of that station wagon offered a lot of possibilities.

  “Because you saved me. From my mother, which, believe me, is no small deal. But also because your basketball physics lecture got me back on the team.”

  “I’m glad.” She touched her mouth with her fingertips. Her nails were short and unpolished. “But a simple thanks would’ve been sufficient. You didn’t have to kiss me.”

  “It was a spur-of-the-moment thing.” He shrugged, wondering, as he refastened his seat belt, if she was afraid he might want to become a couple just because she’d rescued him from high school oblivion. “It didn’t really mean anything.”

  “Don’t worry, I didn’t think it did.” Her cheeks turned a bright pink as she put the car back into drive. “Because boys like you never kiss girls like me.”

  “Boys like me?” What did that mean?

  “You’re, like, from Hollywood.”

  “Technically Beverly Hills.”

  “Even worse. I’ll bet the girls at your old school look like they belong on Gossip Girl.” The wipers were really squealing this morning. He could hardly hear her voice, which wasn’t as perky as it had been yesterday. “Which I so don’t.”

  “I think you’re cute.”

  “Maybe if the light’s right. On a rare good day. I’m a nerd, Matt. I’ve been a nerd all my life.”

  “So?”

  “So…” She shook her head. “I don’t know. It doesn’t matter. Let’s just drop it, okay?”

  “Fine.” The temperature inside the car had dropped twenty degrees. “If it makes you feel better, like I said, it was a spur-of-the-moment impulse. It wasn’t as if I was hitting on you for sex or anything like that.”

  “Oh, yeah.” She smoothed a hand over her hair where his hands had been tangled in it. “Thanks. That totally works.”

  Matt didn’t need to be Dr. Phil to realize she was being snarky again. Fuck. Was there anything more complicated than girls? She’d told him she was also driving Jenny Longworth to school, and as they pulled up in front of the other girl’s house, Matt decided scientists would unlock the code for cold fusion before any guy managed to figure out the mysterious workings of the female mind.

  23

  Claire was in the midst of tackling moving boxes when there was a knock on the door. She opened it to find a wide-shouldered man in a Gor-Tex jacket, jeans, and lumberjack boots standing on her front porch.

  “Hi.” Little lines fanned out from brown eyes as he smiled. “I’ve brought your basketball setup.”

  “I didn’t order that.” Though it was on her to-do list. Hopefully for this week. Okay, maybe next, given all the work she still had to do for her upcoming exhibition.

  “Sorry. Dillon Slater sent me over with it. I guess he forgot to mention it.”

  “Yes. He did.”

  “Well, then.” He held out a hand that had more than its share of nicks and scars. “I’m Lucas Chaffee.”

  “The contractor, right?”

  “That’s me. Dillon knew I had an old portable setup from before I installed a permanent one at my wife’s and my place—”

  “Your wife being Maddy Durand.”

  “Maddy Chaffee now,” he corrected easily. “I see you’re getting caught up on all the Shelter Bay stories.”

  “Dottie and Doris mentioned your marriage when I was in their shop yesterday and said I needed a contractor.” And here he was. Could this be a portent that life was finally turning around?

  “This is a way cool cottage, but it could use a little TLC. Not just for appearances, but for structure.” He pulled a pocketknife out of the front pocket of his jeans and stuck it into one of the pillars holding up her moss-covered porch roof. “You’ve got dry rot.”

  “I read that on the inspection report.” But she’d decided that even if she and Matt had to live in the Whale Song Inn while she had the cottage torn down and a new house built in its place, the land, which she’d bought at what would be seen as fire-sale prices in California, was worth it. “Which is ironic considering how wet it is here.”

  His answering grin was as charming as Dillon Slater’s. But even if she hadn’t known he was married, it wouldn’t have strummed those chords the way Matt’s coach’s smile had. Don’t go there! she instructed her rebellious mind, which had dreamed about the man last night. A hot, X-rated dream involving sex on the beach in the rain.

  So not only was she subconsciously lusting after her child’s teacher, whom she’d just met, but she was also on the verge of becoming a cliché—a sexually frustrated cougar. She’d bet her entire stash of beach glass that Dillon Slater was younger than her own thirty-three.

  “The term’s misleading.” She was relieved when Lucas Chaffee’s voice dragged her thoughts back to her rotting porch. Which wasn’t the least bit sexy.

  “It’s actually caused by the brown rot fungus, but it does need moisture to get started. After that, it can take off and spread like, well, fungi. I’m really not here trolling for business. As I said, Dillon just wanted your son to have the basketball setup, but you’ll want to get it taken care of as soon as possible.”

  “You come very well recommended, so yes, I’d like to discuss some options with you. But I’ve got a gallery showing shortly after Thanksgiving, so I’d rather not even think about doing any work until after that.”

  “The cottage has stood here since the thirties. I imagine it’ll stand for another few weeks. What did the report say about the electrical?”

  “That, fortunately, had been updated. And I had additional circuits installed in the garage for my equipment.”

  “Super.” This time, while she still wasn’t attracted to him in that way, his easy grin had her wondering if all the men in Shelter Bay were so sexy. She’d met Sax Douchett a few times while eating at Bon Temps, and he certainly fit in the hot category.

  “I’ll get started on the basketball rig. It’s portable, with wheels, so Dillon figured you could set it up at the end of the driveway so your son can keep up with his practice shots. Then, once you get the house restored, you can get something more permanent.”

  “Coach Slater certainly seems to take a personal interest in his players.”

  “He’s hands-on—that’s for sure. But if you’re worried that your son’s getting special treatment because he’s the Beverly Hills phenom who rode into town on a white horse to take the team to state, you needn’t
worry. I’ve watched Dillon with some of the other players whose families have been having a rough time during this recession. He’s not one to play favorites.”

  “That’s good to know. Though do people really expect Matt to solve all their problems?” And technically, he’d ridden into Shelter Bay in a black Lexus, but that wasn’t the least bit pertinent to the discussion.

  “Yeah. Some do. But you don’t have to worry about Matt being under impossible pressure, because Dillon’s been working overtime to keep expectations reasonable.”

  “I have the feeling high school basketball holds a higher priority here than it did in Beverly Hills.”

  He laughed. “Yeah. I’d say you’re probably right. There’s not a lot of movie premieres and charity balls to go to in Shelter Bay, so once the winter rain sets in, high school hoops are pretty much the top ticket in town.”

  As he went out to his truck and began taking out the backboard, rim, pole, and what appeared to be a brand-new net, Claire hoped the amiable, handsome contractor was right about Dillon Slater protecting her son from Shelter Bay’s fans’ expectations.

  24

  “Marry me,” Ethan said as Phoebe lay in his arms the next morning.

  She’d awoken still basking in the afterglow of their lovemaking and the feeling of sleeping in his arms. Then she’d remembered that horrid subpoena and it had felt as if an icy wave had washed over her.

  “What?” Startled out of her worrisome thoughts, she looked up at him.

  “You must have thought about it. I have.”

  “You have?” She’d hoped. But he hadn’t said anything, and having loved the place they were already in, she hadn’t wanted to risk their closeness by asking.

  “I love you. And I’d gotten the impression you love me—”

  “You know I do.” She hitched up to a sitting position, and although he’d already seen and tasted every bit of her body, feeling suddenly modest, she tucked the flowered sheet beneath her arms. “More than I ever thought possible.”