by Beth Andrews
Beneath the too-strong, citrusy scent of air freshener lingered the sour smell of cigarette smoke. The linoleum was faded and curled up at the edges, the dark paneled walls—what was it with this town and paneling?—covered with dusty plaques of pithy sayings. I Only Drink to Make You More Interesting. Don’t Cry Over Spilled Milk—It Could Have Been Beer. If You’re Drinking to Forget, Please Pay in Advance.
She was desperately trying to follow the Don’t Cry advice when Joe suddenly appeared in front of her. He took one look at her face, grabbed her hand and tugged her through an unmarked door.
CHAPTER SEVEN
SHE HEARD JOE swipe his hand along the wall before light flooded the storeroom. Allison angled her body away, desperate to hide her distress. Joe closed the door and came up behind her, his concern as tangible as the heat of his body.
“What happened?”
She shook her head and prayed he would drop it. But she knew better. Knew she’d feel better, too, if only she could tell him. But, of course, she couldn’t.
“Bad news?” he asked, in that deep, troubled voice, and suddenly she didn’t care about the conflict between them—she needed to feel all that solid, country-Joe concern wrapped around her. She turned, and pressed into him, buried her nose in the side of his neck. Wrapped her arms around his waist. Enjoyed the soft feel of his sweater so much that she squeezed him.
A little too hard, apparently, because he grunted. Then his arms came around her and he squeezed back.
Warm. Firm. Strong.
And so very tempting.
“Want to talk about it?” he murmured.
No. She didn’t. What she did want, with every aroused ounce of her femininity, was to taste him. Had his flavor changed? Would her tongue still tingle when it made contact with his skin? She had to find out.
Yes, she was desperate for a distraction and Joe provided a handy one. Would it be wise to kiss him? No. Spontaneous? Definitely. He’d implied she couldn’t be impulsive. Cared too much about being in control, he’d said. Well, who could blame her?
Everyone in her life except her had control. Her mother ruled her finances. Tackett called the shots at the office. And Joe...Joe had the upper hand, here. In more ways than one.
So maybe it was time for a little spontaneity.
She lifted her head and pushed Joe back against the door. He gave a half-grunt, half-groan when she body slammed him, trapping him from knee to chest. Then she curled her fingers into his sweater, stood on the tips of her toes and sank her teeth into his chin.
He sucked in a breath and reared away. The back of his head thumped against the door and for a long, wordless moment he stared down at her. When she followed up her bite with a lick his expression morphed from shock to desire, his eyes narrowing with sexy intent. She knew that look. It had always made her vibrate, as if someone had flicked a switch, sending a relentless electrical current through her body.
And apparently someone was still manning that switch because she was pulsing like a Cuisinart.
Though so much about Joe had changed, his effect on her body remained the same. Which would probably turn out to be a very bad thing, but at the moment, she couldn’t bring herself to be anything but grateful.
She could see the moisture from her mouth on his chin, the smudges of red where her teeth had scraped him, and she shuddered with the need to bite him again. Hard. Heat pulsated from her thighs to her hands.
Do you know what you’re doing?
But she’d stopped thinking the moment her body had touched his. Her nails dug into his chest and she wriggled against him, his muscular length both fresh and familiar at the same time.
His chest rose and fell rapidly against hers while his fingers tightened on her hips. From the back of his throat came a deep, primal noise of appreciation. His arms slid up and around her. He lowered his head, skimmed his mouth along the side of her neck and up behind her ear. The warmth of his breath on her skin had her craving a much more intimate, rhythmic heat.
The thought of opening herself up to Joe again like that—literally and figuratively—sent nerves sparkling through her chest, and her lungs felt suddenly too small. She turned her head and touched her tongue to the stubble along his jaw, inhaled and caught a hint of sandalwood. Realized she wasn’t the only one shaking.
She moved her hands to his ribs and around to his back, pressing even closer, wondering how she’d managed to go for so long without touching him.
He shifted his hold, stroking his hands up under her hair and cradling her head. She licked her lips and felt him jerk. Felt something else, too, high and hard against her stomach. Her core went molten. His breathing intensified.
Then he pushed her away.
* * *
EVEN AS HE slid out from between Allison and the storeroom door, Joe was calling himself all kinds of foul names. But, damn it, he’d only meant to console her. She’d looked so...unhappy. So fragile.
He touched his fingers to his chin. Yeah. Fragile like a tigress in heat.
His erection sat up even straighter, like a student determined to be teacher’s pet, and Joe set his jaw. If he didn’t stop thinking about her mouth, he’d have to hide out in the storeroom all night.
The small space echoed with uneven breathing, and the scrape of his boots on cement as he turned to face her. She stood with her arms crossed, skin flushed and ice edging into her eyes. But the hurt lingered.
He hadn’t meant to make her feel rejected. But he didn’t want to lose himself in the moment, either. He might accidentally tell her how much he’d missed her. How watching her charm Liz and indulge Snoozy, how seeing the regret she felt for upsetting Eugenia and the gratitude she felt toward Pete, had all made Joe realize she wasn’t the materialistic snob he’d accused her of becoming. The person he’d needed to believe she’d become.
She lifted her chin. “Why did you push me away?”
And she was a hell of a lot more forthright than he remembered.
“It’s not what you want,” he gritted. “I’m not what you want. You’re not thinking clearly.”
“You’re the one who’s been drinking.”
Not anymore. Not tonight. He’d keep his distance from the bar—and from her—even if it killed him.
Muffled sounds of cheering and laughter reached them. Someone must have finally won at the pool table. When he didn’t speak, Allison swung away, rubbing at her arms and studying the contents of the storeroom.
Lopsided stacks of cardboard boxes bearing liquor logos lined two walls. A floor-to-ceiling wine rack, the bottles intermingled with packs of paper towels and spools of toilet paper and towers of cardboard coasters occupied the third. Most of the remaining space in the room was taken up by a haphazard stack of broken chairs, a plastic bin overflowing with dirty aprons and towels, and a battered stepladder. The place reeked of stale beer and mildew.
“You’re not going to forgive me, are you?” she asked.
He yanked his gaze away from the Shelves of Blessed Oblivion and took a moment to consider. Best thing he could do for either of them was remain silent. Let her believe the answer was “no.”
Gradually her chin lowered, and her expression emptied. “I’m ready to leave whenever you are.”
He knew damned well she didn’t mean the party, or even the bar. But, damn it, they were sticking to the deal. He’d negotiated two weeks, and they were only two days in.
She’d see the before and after—for one room, anyway. As long as the electrician and the building inspector could fit him in, and if he and Allison got a move on, they just might be able to get the drywall up and painted, the bathroom tiled, and the new carpeting in before they left for Virginia. Then maybe she’d understand, if only partially, why working for T&P couldn’t compare.
He opened the door. “Let’s go find
Snoozy so he can show us how happy Mitzi is to be back home. After that we’ll head back to the motel. It’s been a long day.”
“It certainly has.” She marched past him, head up, shoulders back, and he felt again that tingling of pride he had no right feeling. He had to keep his distance, or risk letting her down again.
His gaze dropped to her ass as he followed her out to the bar. Judas Priest, it was going to be a long two weeks.
* * *
TWO HOURS AFTER arriving back at the motel, Allison sat in the center of her bed, knees to her chest, eyes alert, ears strained for unusual sounds. Like slithering. Or hissing.
Or fang sharpening.
So much for believing Mitzi couldn’t escape. But the daylight made it easy to believe that ghosts and goblins and vampires weren’t real. And that pythons wouldn’t be lonely for the only home they’d known for half a dozen years.
Damn that Joe Gallahan. She never should have let him talk her into saying goodbye to Mitzi. But Snoozy had been so eager to show them her new temporary digs—the bathroom in his loft upstairs. Mitzi liked to soak in the tub, he told them. The entire time Snoozy talked, the python watched them from where she was curled up, around the base of the toilet.
Allison counted to ten, pulled in a breath, counted to ten again. Eyed the phone on the nightstand. Imagined herself dialing the motel office, waking Joe, asking if she could spend the night on his couch. He’d laugh so loud he’d drown out the sound of a python winding its way across her bed—
She shuddered and leaped to her feet, and bounced in a circle as she scanned the mattress.
A desperate glance at the clock revealed it was nearly one in the morning and her gaze landed again on the phone. She rolled her lips inward and bit down hard. There was nothing for it.
She’d have to sleep in her car.
She half-bounced, half-walked to the edge of the bed and jumped, then gathered up a pillow, a blanket, her purse and her car keys and hurried to the door. At least she wouldn’t have to bother Joe for a flashlight—the security lights were plenty bright.
She unlocked the car, made a nest in the backseat, climbed in and hit the locks again. Then she settled on her side and prepared to get some much-needed sleep.
Her eyes shot right back open. Was he kidding with these lights? She pulled the blanket over her head and squeezed her eyes shut. Shifted to her left side. Her back. Her right side. Considered reclining in the front passenger seat but was too tired to climb over the console. And too lazy to get out of the car just to get back in again.
She jammed the pillow over her head and started counting backward from one hundred: 100, 99, 98...she remembered the shock on Joe’s face when she’d shoved him against the storeroom door, and how his mouth lowered toward hers...97, 96, 95...Joe, concern on his face as he handed her a plate of food. Anger in his eyes as she accused him of petty revenge. Laughter smoothing the tension from his jaw after a harmless spider knocked him on his ass. She gave a sleepy giggle and yawned, snuggling deeper under the blanket...94...93...92...Joe cheering on his friend at the pool table—
Bam, bam, bam, bam, bam. Allison gasped and shot upright, heart thrashing against her ribs. She blinked frantically—why was it so dark?—then batted the blanket away from her face. Someone was at the window. She shrank back, pressing into the corner, then recognized Joe. He peered through the glass, his expression as black as...well, as black as the parking lot would be if it weren’t for all these asinine streetlights.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“Trying to sleep.” She scooted back down and covered her head. “So go away and leave me to it.”
“You can’t stay out here. It’s not safe.”
She flung herself upright again and scowled at him through the glass. “Oh, but it’s perfectly fine to shut me up in a room infested with cold-blooded, man-eating, squeeze-the-life-out-of-you predators.”
“One predator. And we removed her.”
“What if she had a boyfriend?”
“I thought we settled this.”
“In a room full of people. In the middle of the day.”
He straightened. She heard him sigh. He bent down again. “Come inside. Stay with me. You’ll be safe.”
“I may not be a zoologist but I do know that not all predators are cold-blooded.”
He growled, and for some reason the sound turned her on. Good grief. After all they’d been through tonight. She flopped back down and closed her eyes.
“You can have the bed,” he said through the window. “I’ll take the sofa. We’ll figure something out tomorrow. Just come inside. Please.”
“I’m fine where I am.”
“Don’t be—”
She kicked at the door. “Go. Away.”
Another growl, then silence. She waited. More silence. She opened one eye and tipped up on her elbow, just in time to see Joe disappear through the office door.
He’d keep her safe, he said. He had to be kidding. She hadn’t felt safe with him since the first morning he’d arrived at T&P toting a hangover. The black moods, the excuses, the stumbling into her apartment when she’d felt obligated to open the door because otherwise he’d end up passed out in the hallway—
Rap, rap, rap.
She shrieked then bolted upright for the umpteenth time. What now? Joe stood outside the car, a pillow under his arm. Oh, hell, no.
“Go away,” she yelled.
“Open the door, slick.”
She threw the blanket over her head and lay back down.
“Either you sleep in the motel or I sleep out here with you. Which will it be?”
“I don’t need you to babysit me. I’m fine.”
“Who says I’m doing this for you? Some psycho killer comes along and slits your throat and my dreams of running a motel empire die right along with you. Can you live with that?”
Oh, for God’s sake. With a frustrated growl, she rummaged for her keys and pressed the button to unlock the doors. Joe climbed into the front passenger seat and proceeded to spend the next several minutes playing with the seat adjust buttons until she threatened to turn the radio on and tune into an ’80s-only station. When he finally settled down he’d reclined so far back that she didn’t even have to straighten out her arm to touch his hair.
“What about your cat? Aren’t you worried one of Mitzi’s offspring will turn her into a midnight snack?”
“I’m counting on the Garp effect.”
“The what?”
“Garp. You know, the movie. Based on the John Irving novel? Garp and his wife are standing in front of a house they’re considering buying when an airplane comes crashing down and takes out the entire second floor. And Garp decides this is the house he wants to live in.”
“Because...he’s looking for a fixer-upper?” She really should have changed position, so her feet instead of her head were behind Joe. That way, if the recline button he’d worn out suddenly failed and he came crashing down on her, he wouldn’t end up flattening her skull.
Plus it was more intimate this way, with their heads so close they could almost whisper—as if they were lying next to each other in bed. She squeezed her eyes shut, disturbed by a surge of yearning.
They’d been so unhappy with each other at the end, and obviously still had so much bitterness between them. Their lives were too different to even entertain the idea that they could have a functioning, healthy relationship.
So why was she wishing for a second chance?
Guilt? Loneliness? Whatever it was, it was more than physical need. And it was damned inconvenient.
“Because,” Joe said, “the odds that another aircraft will ever crash into that house again are astronomical.” He yawned. “The house had been plane-proofed, right before their very eyes.”
&n
bsp; “So you’re saying odds are there will never be another snake taking up residence in the walls of your motel.” When he hummed in agreement she punched at the back of his seat. “Are you kidding me with this? How do you know that at this very moment, there aren’t a gazillion mini Mitzis slithering among the rafters, on the hunt for someone to squeeze?”
“First of all, they’re not rafters, they’re studs. Second of all, if Mitzi had a boyfriend, I think we’d have spotted him by now. And if Mitzi had had a gazillion babies, don’t you think we’d have glimpsed at least one? Trust me. Nothing’s going to get into the rooms I’ve renovated. They’re sealed up tight. Between the drywall joint tape, the paint and the caulking, no creepy crawlies will be invading your space.”
“I don’t care. I’m not going back in there.”
He heaved an exaggerated sigh. “How about if I get someone from Pests R Us to come by tomorrow and take a look? Will that make you happy?”
“Depends on what they say.”
“If they say there are no snakes in the motel, can we sleep in our beds tomorrow?”
“Yes.”
“Good.” He shifted impatiently. “Because I won’t be getting any sleep out here, I can tell you that.”
“Is the seat that uncomfortable?”
“It’s those damned streetlights.”
She couldn’t help it. She laughed. “Good night, Joe.”
“Maybe for you.”
Allison smiled into her pillow, lulled into relaxation by Joe’s even breathing and the squeaking, rhythmic chorus of the crickets outside. Then something squawked, and made a chittering sound. She held her breath.
“Joe. Hear that?”
“Yeah.” He sighed the word. “It’s a raccoon. He won’t bother us. Go to sleep.”
“Okay.” She tried. She really did. But she was suddenly too wired to sleep. “Joe?”
It took him a few seconds to answer. “Yeah?”
“How about Pumpkin?”