by Toni Blake
He didn’t know her well—wouldn’t know her well. And as he’d told her, this was only sex—all it could be. But he knew his life was richer for this moment. All these moments. With her. In bed and out.
He watched her, prodded her. He thrust up into her; he caressed and explored. Their eyes met, blotting out everything else in the room—in the world—in that moment, and she came sobbing, whimpering, eyes falling shut, head dropping back.
And as he took all that in, let his gaze drop from her flushed cheeks to her pale breasts to the spot where their bodies were joined, a whole other kind of control entered the picture—the kind he lost just then, his own climax rushing over him like a tidal wave out of nowhere, forcing him to drive high and hard up into her, emptying himself there.
He heard, saw, nothing for a few seconds—was just gone to that place where the ecstasy owns you. And when he came back down to find himself holding this sweet, sexy, naked redhead in his arms in a strange bed, in a strange town, in a strange existence, one thought permeated his brain. I never lose control that way. Ever.
But it had been a while since he’d gone to bed with a woman.
And hell, life hadn’t exactly been normal or easy lately.
So it doesn’t mean anything.
Other than that you clearly needed that release.
She peered timidly up at him then, green eyes shining on him like crystals. Her voice came as soft as her expression. “That was nice.”
“Yeah—it was.”
He kissed her then without really planning it. Maybe because her lips were like the color of the cranberries they’d strung together. Maybe because she looked like she wanted to be kissed—as a reassurance that he’d liked what they’d just done, too. Or maybe because all this touching and kissing with her had just . . . come easy somehow, felt natural.
Just then, her white cat came pouncing up onto the bed next to them—and made his way straight for Shane, settling warmly against his other side.
The woman he held rolled her eyes. “And the bromance continues.”
He slanted her an amused glance. “You jealous?”
“Of you or of him?”
He just laughed. And told her with a wink, “Well, you’re better off with him. You should stay away from guys like me.”
She met his gaze, looking a little bolder now—almost challenging. “Because you’re such a big bundle of trouble?”
He kept his expression light, easy. “Yes ma’am.”
And she gave her head a pretty tilt, a curving lock of pale auburn hair falling across her cheek. “You don’t seem like such a bad guy.”
He tossed her another wicked grin. “You don’t know me that well yet.”
“Where’d you get that scar, mister?” she asked then, reaching a fingertip to gently touch the mark beside his eye. A little thing he barely noticed about himself anymore. “Bar fight? Or something worse?”
And for the first time ever, given the nature of the conversation, Shane almost wished he had gotten it in a bar fight. “Actually,” he said, “it happened in a bike accident.”
“You have a motorcycle?” she asked.
He only sighed. Then laughed at himself a little. “No—I meant a bicycle. I was thrown over the handlebars when I was twelve.”
Which drew a gentle trill of laughter from her, too. “Yeah, you’re so tough and bad. Here I’d been thinking that scar had come from some of that trouble you claim to be. Hate to tell you this, but I’m starting not to believe you very much about that.”
Though in response, he just shrugged. Got a little more somber. “Doesn’t take fighting in bars to make a guy trouble. Surely you know that, Candy.”
“Yeah,” she said softly, almost wistfully. “I do.” Then she gave her head a thoughtful tilt. “Mind if I ask you something?”
“Probably.” He chuckled again—but this sounded like it would be a little more serious than the last question. “I mean, if you have to ask first, it’s something I might not want to tell you—right?”
Instead of answering that, however, she moved straight on to the question. “Remember when you told me your mother wanted you gone, and that she thought you were bad? I was wondering how you know that. I mean . . . if she actually told you that.”
Shit. He hadn’t seen this coming. And suddenly regretted that strange moment of openness in the garden at Miss Ellie’s. That was what Candy did to him—she put him at ease, maybe too much.
There was no keeping his light expression in place at the mention of his mother, so he didn’t even try. And didn’t particularly want to discuss this. “What does it matter?”
“I just wondered. I mean—you keep telling me what a bad guy you are, and I’m curious what you have to back that up. Or . . . where it came from.”
He just looked at her. Was she wanting to absolve him somehow? Wanting to find out he was a better person than he’d painted himself to her? So he’d be a safer bet? So it would make more sense for her to be in bed with him right now?
He could do that. After all, he was leaving soon—in less than a week if he was going to make it to Miami by the twenty-fifth. And he’d gotten a call from the A1 Body Shop saying the body work on his truck was done and they were ready to paint, so it wouldn’t be long now. He could leave her with better ideas about him and it wouldn’t hurt a damn thing.
But . . . he was who he was. And since she was so open and honest with him about who she was . . . hell—he just didn’t see the good in not keeping it real here.
“Look, honey,” he said, “no matter how you slice it, I’m no Prince Charming. I could tell you a lifetime of stories about running with the wrong crowd and getting into bad shit. Doesn’t mean I’m the devil—but don’t be expecting me to get my wings anytime soon, either.” He winked. “I’m no angel second-class, or even third or fourth.”
He couldn’t read her expression—couldn’t tell if she was disappointed, convinced, anything—as she said, “Are you going to answer the part about your mom? Did she tell you she wanted you gone?”
And at this, Shane thought back. The answer didn’t matter in the big picture, but maybe it was a question he’d never really thought about before. And even if it felt like a lifetime ago, a whole other world, now images flashed in his mind. Times he’d gotten in trouble at school and she’d been called in to talk to the teacher. Times he hadn’t done his chores or had bullied a neighbor kid, a time he carelessly dropped a glass figurine she’d valued and that he shouldn’t have had his hands on in the first place. The fact was—his mother hadn’t needed to tell him he was bad. Looking back, he could see he’d been a handful—he’d been angry at his parents’ divorce. And he’d blamed her, though he wasn’t sure why now.
“No, I don’t think she ever actually told me. But I got in trouble a lot.”
“Plenty of kids get in trouble a lot. That doesn’t mean their mother wants them gone.”
The words, which he’d shared with her and were seared into his brain from a long time ago, made him flash back again to when they’d been said. On that car ride to Montana with his dad. They’d been passing over flat, barren land that seemed to stretch forever in all directions, land that had made Shane feel like they must be traveling to the ends of the earth. And his dad had been reassuring him that things would be better. Better than barren land. And better than at home.
“My dad told me,” he said to Candice.
“Your dad told you your mother said you were bad and that she wanted you gone?”
He gave a short nod.
And she looked unexpectedly outraged, her brow knitting. “I’m sorry, but why would he do that? Why would any parent tell their child that? Even if it was true—why would you burden your kid with something so hurtful?”
Huh. He’d never thought about it before, but maybe he could see her point. Though it didn’t change anything, so he only shrugged. “Okay, my dad might not have been the best judge of what to say to a little kid. But that doesn’t mean she didn�
��t say it.”
“It also doesn’t mean she did.”
Shane sighed—taken back to a time and a place he’d rather forget. And he thought Candy was making a pretty big assumption here. He flicked a pointed glance in her direction. “And again, what the hell does this matter? And why the hell are we talking about it?”
“Well, it just seems to me like the kind of thing one parent would say about the other after a bad divorce or something—you know?”
He took that in, turned it over in his head. She was suggesting that his dad would hurt him in order to get back at his mother. And she didn’t even know either one of them, so besides being awful damn presumptuous, it was also on the verge of pissing him off. “My dad was no saint, but he was the best dad to me he could be—he loved me.”
As she tensed slightly next to him, he knew he’d spoken a little harshly. And he hoped she’d let this drop now. But instead she quietly, almost cautiously said, “Maybe he loved you too much. Maybe he wanted you all to himself.”
“Damn, girl,” he muttered. Trying to bite his lip. Trying not to tell her to mind her own business, that she didn’t know what she was talking about, that his dad was the one parent who had given a shit about him so to shut the hell up about this.
But he knew deep down she meant well. He knew deep down she just didn’t like the idea of a parent abandoning a kid—because she’d been there, too. “Candy, honey, are you sure you aren’t trying to fix for me what you can’t fix for yourself?”
She looked confused. “What do you mean?”
“Remember, you filled me in on your past, too.”
Her eyes changed then, telling him maybe she’d forgotten. But she shook her head and said, “No, this isn’t about that. This is about . . . facts, that’s all. The facts, for me, are that my dad went out to the store one night and never came back. Cut and dried. Simple as can be. The facts for you don’t seem as clear—you have this idea about yourself and I just wondered how it got there, where it came from. And it sounds to me like it came more from your dad than your mom.” Her voice went quiet then, as maybe she, too, heard for the first time that the accusation was . . . big. She whispered the last part. “That’s all.”
“Well, here’s a fact for ya—and the only one that really matters in the end,” he said. “She let him take me. Never called, never wrote, never heard from her again.” Then he pushed back the covers, jarring both her and the cat slightly, but he didn’t care at the moment. “Now if it’s all right with you, I’m gonna go take a shower.”
Candice lay in bed with Frosty, watching Shane stalk naked toward the bathroom down the hall. Two thoughts warred in her head. That he had a great butt. And oh Lord—why had she interrogated him that way?
But as soon as he disappeared behind a closed door and she heard the water running, the second thought weighed down on her.
She hadn’t meant to be so pushy about something so personal. This is what you get by being too isolated—you become socially awkward in sensitive moments. Ugh.
Maybe he was right in a way; maybe this was about her own issues. She knew what it was like to be left by a parent. But when hers had left, it hadn’t formed her core opinion about herself. Her mom had worked hard, even amid her own heartbreak—one more bad boy; they were always leaving—to be both mother and father to her. And she’d had this warm, loving community to make her feel normal and loved and whole.
And yeah, sure, it had still left a scar. Deep down, any kid in this situation had to wonder how a parent could do that and if it was about them? But again, it hadn’t ruled her life. And so maybe she didn’t want it ruling Shane’s, either.
Although maybe it was too late for that.
And none of her concern.
And God—what if she’d taken the nicest thing to happen to her in a very long time and blown it to bits with her careless analysis?
She lay shaking her head at her insensitivity.
“I need to fix this,” she said softly to Frosty, who lay stretched out near her feet.
He flicked his tail as if to say, Whatever.
“Thanks for your concern,” she told him—then rolled her eyes. “You probably just want him all to yourself.”
And it hit her then—how much she wanted him. Not necessarily to herself. But in her bed. For at least the next few days until he left Destiny. One night hadn’t been enough. And she knew that once you formed that emotional attachment—that thing she’d been so wary of—two nights, or three nights, or ten nights wouldn’t be enough, either. But she at least wanted him for as long as she could have him. Trouble or not.
So she bounded out of bed and threw on some clothes, trying to make herself look as pretty as she could without the aid of a shower or bathroom supplies. And she dashed downstairs and decided to make a more romantic breakfast for him than the first awkward one they’d shared together in her kitchen.
When he entered the room twenty minutes later—Frosty faithfully on his heels, of course—she turned from the stove to face him with the plate of pancakes she’d just scooped off the griddle.
“Consider these apology pancakes,” she told him. “Is there any chance we can forget that last conversation and get back to the fun stuff?”
He didn’t smile. Instead he simply arched one brow and said, “Fun stuff?”
She walked over and rose on her tiptoes to kiss him on his stubble-covered cheek, then held up the plate once more. “Kissing? Flirting? Pancakes?”
He met her gaze. “Throw in some more hot sex and you’ve got a deal, Candy Cane.”
Sixteen
“Sort of a fallen angel, aren’t you? What happened to your wings?”
George Bailey, It’s a Wonderful Life
The Destiny town Christmas party was tomorrow, and that meant a morning of phone calls and emails, and an afternoon of final decorating and setup at Miss Ellie’s house. Shane watched TV and played with the cat—though he claimed he didn’t enjoy that part—while Candice took care of the morning tasks, after which he helped with the afternoon ones.
Candice made sure to again thank Miss Ellie for letting them use her house. “It’s really the perfect place for the party,” she said, then glanced toward Shane, who was carrying some empty boxes down to the basement. “And with a little help from Shane, I think we’re all set.”
“Oh, I don’t think it’ll rain, honey, or that you’ll get wet,” Miss Ellie said, as usual not quite hearing what Candice said. “But if it does, you get that Shame fella to keep you warm—he’s a looker, that one.”
It surprised Candice to feel her cheeks heat, but she instantly realized it was more about remembering ways Shane had indeed ended up keeping her warm last night than being embarrassed in front of Miss Ellie.
As the two prepared to leave, the old woman gazed out the window on her front yard and said, “A snowman.”
Candice and Shane just looked at each other, and Candice said gently, “There isn’t a snowman in your yard, Miss Ellie.” Was the old woman imagining things? Miss Ellie had long been hard of hearing, but even at her advanced age, she’d never been senile.
That was when Miss Ellie looked over at her and said sensibly, “Of course there isn’t. You and Shame should build one. That’d be a nice extra touch.” She ended with a succinct nod, clearly feeling adamant on it.
Again, Candice and Shane exchanged glances, and this time he said, “Up for it, Candy Cane?”
Yet no matter how warm he’d kept her last night, her eyes dropped to his hands. “You don’t have gloves.”
He winked. “Good thing I’m a tough guy.”
“I bet if I go into Miss Ellie’s hall closet, I can find a pair.” She looked back toward the old woman in her easy chair by the front window. “Miss Ellie, do you have any gloves? For a man?”
Miss Ellie looked a little surprised, then thoughtful. “Well, I had a great deal of love for my Harvey before he passed. He was a wonderful husband.” Then she, too, looked at Shane’s hands. “You’
re gonna need some gloves if you’re going to build us a snowman, Shame. Check the hall closet.”
Shane just smiled at the old woman, then returned a few minutes later with an old pair of brown gloves that must have once belonged to Harvey. “Thank you, Miss Ellie,” he told her, holding up one glove-covered hand.
“Good that they get some use,” she said. “Things get old sitting around not being used. Getting used makes things . . . matter more, I think.”
Candice found herself pondering the elderly lady’s words as she and Shane bundled up and went outside. They somehow made her think of . . . herself. Romantically, sexually. Something in her had stagnated over the years, maybe almost atrophied. It made her feel alive in some fresh, new way to have all these feelings she’d forgotten about flowing through her veins again.
Together, they built a snowman as tall as Shane. It was hard work, but still fun. Candice couldn’t remember the last time she’d built one.
As they worked together on the lower part of the body, Shane leaned over to kiss her, and despite the cold, the sensation tingled all through her. He stopped to kiss her again—longer this time—as they carved and smoothed out the shape. After he placed a pair of earmuffs on the snowman’s head, courtesy of Miss Ellie’s closet as well, he kissed her once more. And he kissed her yet again as she tied a navy blue scarf around the snowman’s neck.
She couldn’t help smiling at him—her nose was cold and her fingers nearly frozen beneath her mittens, but those kisses did help warm her up from the inside out.
“Do you still hate Christmas?” she asked teasingly.
He gave her a sexy, flirty grin. “Guess maybe it has its high points, after all.”
A few minutes later, as they finally left Miss Ellie’s, Candice wasn’t sure what would happen next—between them. So she said, “Well . . . guess we’re done getting ready. All that’s left now is the party.”
He nodded next to her in the car. “If you don’t mind driving me to town, I should probably stop by the church. Mick texted me a few minutes ago to say they could use some manpower this afternoon—they’re working ’til dark, trying to beat that Christmas Eve deadline.”