by Mindy Neff
“Hey. You still have that painting.” Above the mantel over the fireplace was an oil rendering of a house on a lake done by a once-obscure artist whose work was becoming quite popular.
They’d bought the painting at a garage sale seven years ago—well, Colby had bought it, but she’d been with him. And it had hung in their apartment. She’d been really annoyed that he’d taken it when he’d left.
“You know, that’s probably worth some money now,” she said.
“I didn’t buy it for the art value. I just liked it.”
“Have you noticed that the house in the painting looks a lot like this place?” She moved closer to the framed canvas, while Colby went into the kitchen. She could hear him opening and closing cupboard doors. Although the art depicted a farmhouse on a small lake, Colby’s house and its pond could easily have been used as the model.
Is that why she’d been so drawn to the painting all those years ago—because it stirred up fond memories at the McGiver’s farm? She hadn’t made the connection then, at least not consciously.
Colby came up behind her, reaching around her with a glass of iced sweet tea. “I guess they do look a lot alike,” he said.
She took the glass from him, followed him over to the sofa. Not a single cushion or magazine was out of place. “Have you even started to pack?”
“Nope. Planned to, but I ended up staying at your place.”
She’d intended to leave a cushion’s space between them, but he snagged her elbow and guided her down next to him. Tucking her close to his side, with her back to his chest, he positioned a throw pillow in his lap and propped her arm on it.
“Thanks.” Her heart was beating like a bongo drum at the closeness of their bodies. First that breezy kiss, now this nonchalant cuddling.
She cleared her throat. “You don’t seem too worried.”
He shrugged. “I won’t need much the first month or so that I’m there. Be mostly working. Besides, if I need stuff, I can call in some movers and have them pack up.”
“For a man known to cross all his T’s and dot every I, you seem awfully blasé about moving.”
He toyed with her hair, easing her head back against his shoulder. “It’ll get done when it needs to.”
“I’d have probably started packing a month ago.”
“You anxious to get rid of me or something?”
“No.” Just the opposite. “I guess I’m just surprised, and trying to get a bead on you.” Without thinking, she kicked off her sandals and swung her legs up onto the couch. As soon as she’d done it, she froze. Snuggled against him this way, should she really be getting even more comfortable? Was she sending out weird signals?
He rested his cheek against the top of her head. “Relax.”
“I am.”
She felt him smile. Then he asked, “So, where’d you sleep when you spent the night here all those years ago?”
“In the yellow room upstairs.”
“Mmm.”
“Do you still have a yellow room?”
“Want to see?” He leaned sideways and looked at her.
“Sure.”
He helped her sit up and stand, then, keeping his fingers entwined with hers, he led her toward the stairs.
Why did she suddenly feel as though she’d agreed to more than a tour of the upstairs?
There were four bedrooms upstairs and Becca went straight to the corner room, delighted to find that it was still yellow—and still had the same queen-size bed with its white, cast-iron head and foot rails, the same creamy quilt and the yellow cushion in the window seat. She remembered sitting there often, gazing out at the meandering creek. “Did you buy this place furnished?”
“Not totally. The McGivers were downsizing, didn’t need four rooms of furniture, so I negotiated for some of it.”
“I always loved this quilt,” Becca said, running her fingernail over the fine stitches surrounding the buttercup design.
“I hardly ever come in here. It’s a whole lot of house for just me.”
“True. What made you buy it?”
He shrugged. “I liked it and I could.”
She glanced at him, not really surprised by his answer. He’d hated the fact that he grew up poor, so buying something just because he could made a certain amount of sense. Clearly he hadn’t chosen the place with the idea of filling it with a wife and kids. He’d already made that clear enough.
“Come on. I’ll show you the rest.”
He opened the other two bedroom doors so she could poke her head in, pointed out the bathroom as they passed, then led her to the master bedroom at the opposite end of the hall. This room, too, had a wonderful window seat, but it looked out over the pond and the peach orchard.
Here, he’d made changes. The room was more masculine, with heavy oak furniture, a satin bedspread in burgundy and gold and a sculpted wool rug that picked up the same colors. There were no photographs on the dressers, but the knickknacks and accessories around the room made it feel homey and lived-in.
Becca could easily imagine that with a few feminine touches, this room would be the perfect retreat for relaxing...and loving.
“What do you think?” he asked softly.
She looked into his eyes, and had a feeling that he was asking about more than her opinion on the decor.
She took the chicken route and answered, “It’s nice.”
His hand came up slowly, cupped her cheek, his fingers tunneling through her hair. Watching her, giving her plenty of time to object, he began to lower his mouth to hers. The anticipation was so excruciating, Becca stood on tiptoe and closed the last breath of distance herself.
Her arms went around his neck. She tried not to clobber him with her splint, then forgot all about her injured hand and everything else as he shifted and took the kiss deeper. She opened her mouth, invited him in, tasted the sweet tea on his lips and tongue. Moaning, she pressed closer, wanting to climb right up his body.
Oh, this was what she remembered. The fire. The passion. One thing about Colby Flynn—he could kiss like nobody’s business.
At last he broke the contact, raised his head, his breathing as hard and fast as hers.
“The timing’s right. I calculated it when you told the X-ray tech the date of your last period. Be sure, Becca Sue.”
His words momentarily snatched her out of the sensual fog.
Do you want to try to have a baby with me?
She licked her lips. “So you planned this...today? You didn’t just suddenly get swept up with lust?”
“Hell yes, I got swept up.” A crease formed between his eyebrows. “Do you think I’m just doing you a service? Because if you do, sugar, think again. I want to make love with you so badly I’m about three seconds away from total combustion. I just needed to know that we’re on the same page—because I wasn’t planning to use any means of birth control.”
Becca felt a moment of panic. Could she do this? Should she do this?
He was offering up her dream—a child—with no strings attached. If she wanted those strings, then it was a no go.
Becca had known for a long time that she’d never fallen out of love with Colby Flynn. He was her greatest weakness and her heart’s every desire.
The fact that he would do this for her made her love him even more. They’d done a good job of staying friends over the years, even after an intimate relationship and a bittersweet breakup.
Oh, she knew full well there would be another bittersweet parting, but baby or not, she was confident that they could still remain friends.
Colby would always be part of her life.
And that’s what made up her mind.
If a baby came out of their union, she was fully prepared to be a single mother. After all, if she’d had the means, she would have already started the process of becoming a single mother by choice.
Colby was offering her an alternative. A means to her end.
“We’re on the same page, Colby. I want to make love with you
.”
11
Colby unzipped the back of her dress, eased the spaghetti straps from her shoulders and slid them down until the dress fell in a puddle at her feet.
She wore only a pair of white bikini underwear—and a huge bruise on her side. He bent down and softly kissed the discolored skin.
“I hate that this happened to you.”
“Shh.”
She took his face, brought it back to hers, wrapped herself around him like a honeysuckle vine and poured so much passion into her kiss that his knees went weak. Man alive, he’d forgotten what this woman did to him.
She wasn’t a shy lover. She took what she wanted with avid, greedy hands and mouth and no apologies. She was every man’s fantasy—and he was the lucky sucker who was making love to her.
He lifted her off her feet, kissing her, strode to the bed and placed her on the satin bedspread. He yanked off his T-shirt, toed off his shoes and slid down next to her on the bed, making sure her injured side wasn’t against him.
The satin was cool against his bare skin, a sensuous contrast to the heat of Becca’s body. He wanted to feast, to map every soft, exquisite inch of her, refresh his memory of all her feminine secrets and delights. But he was damned afraid he’d lose control and forget that her body was tender in places.
“I don’t want to hurt you.”
“Well, I don’t want to hurt you, either, but I might if you don’t hurry.” She whimpered, rolled into him, pressed her hips against his.
He nearly laughed. Man, he’d missed this woman.
He swept his hand over her breast, the curve of her waist, her hips, then rolled with her until she was lying on top of him.
And all the while he kissed her.
He thought he could be content with just kissing Becca Sue. She had a mouth made for loving and she knew how to use it.
She was the only woman who could make him forget his own name. His hands cupped her bottom, pressed her harder against his groin.
“Take off your pants,” she said against his mouth, grinding her hips into him, undulating, first in slow circles, then faster and faster. “I’m burning up, Colby. I need more.”
He reversed their positions, tucked her beneath him, then slid down her body, pulling her panties down and off. Spreading her legs, he kissed her with the most intimate kiss a man could give a woman, using his lips and his tongue and the barest pressure of his teeth to bring her to a climax. Her hips bucked and she cried out, snatching at his hair, trying to pull him up her body, knocking him in the ear with her splint.
“I’m sorry,” she panted, practically crying. “Come to me. Now.”
He tore off his jeans, then sank between her legs, holding the top of his body off hers, and pressed against her femininity, feeling her wet heat surround the tip of his penis. He nearly lost it right then, like a teenager with his first girl.
Slowly, carefully, he entered her, pressing forward by inches. He gritted his teeth, felt her warmth wrap around him like a skin-tight glove, felt the immediate spasms as she shot upward into another swift climax, her body squeezing him, milking him, driving him mad.
He wanted to make it last, but the strength of her orgasm drew him right over the edge, and with a powerful thrust, he slammed into her hard and fast, again and again, feeling his seed pumping into her. Sensations shivered through him and he thought they'd never stop, didn't know this kind of pleasure could last like this, drugging him, exhausting him.
And Becca’s body was keeping right up, throbbing, pulsing around him like a lover’s heartbeat.
It was a lover’s heartbeat, he realized.
His lover’s.
As the last of his seed spilled into her, he had a single coherent thought.
Did we make a baby?
Becca was exhausted, but it was the very best kind of tired. The air-conditioning whispered over her heated body, cooling her.
So many familiar things, she thought. This man beside her, this wonderful farmhouse, the incredible lovemaking they’d just shared.
When they’d been together before, sex had been the one constant between them, the best part of their togetherness. It had been when they were out of bed that they’d butted heads. His organizational habits and her lack of them. The fact that they’d both wanted control. They’d never learned to walk beside each other. Instead, each had raced to take the lead.
Why hadn’t one of them compromised? she wondered.
Perhaps things might have been different if they’d come to the relationship as the people they were today, more mature, more sure of life and love and what they wanted.
But therein lay the biggest flaw in her reasoning. Their wants were still nearly a state apart.
She wanted children.
He wanted the job in Dallas. And very likely, a woman named Cassandra Wells. A woman who was climbing the corporate ladder just as he was, who wouldn’t have the time or interest in diapers, first steps, the tooth fairy, ballet lessons or T-ball.
In light of that, it seemed stupid that she’d even agreed to make love with him. Then again, there were no guarantees she’d get pregnant before he had to leave.
Was she perhaps, deep down, hoping that the renewed sexual intimacy between them would make him realize it was her he wanted?
“You okay, sugar pie?”
His whiskey drawl jerked her out of her musings. Darn it, she would not think about another woman while she was naked in bed with Colby.
“Mmm,” she murmured, tracing the line of his sternum with the tip of her finger, following it down his flat stomach, then back up. Goose bumps rose on his skin. “That was very nice, thank you.”
He chuckled, shifted to his side and propped himself up on one elbow so he could look down at her. “Very nice, thank you?”
She grinned. “Is it the ‘very nice,’ or the ‘thank you’ that has that little crease forming between your eyebrows?”
“Depends. What are you thanking me for?”
“The orgasm, of course.” She felt him relax—as she’d intended. This aftermath of lovemaking could easily become awkward, and she didn’t want it to.
“I seem to recall there was more than one.”
“Okay, the orgasms,” she corrected. “You’re such a stickler for details.”
“Yep.” He kissed her neck, nibbled at the lobe of her ear. “And thank you."
“Not bad for a woman with a handicap, huh?” She raised her splinted arm.
“Not bad, indeed. Though you managed to clobber me with it a couple of times.”
She laughed. “Sorry. I love a slow-talkin’ man with a slow hand, but you were being a little too slow.”
“Is that so?” He traced his tongue down her neck, over the swell of her breast, swirled it around the pebble of her nipple. “Too slow like this?”
“Urn.. .no, that’s pretty good.”
He sucked the nipple into his mouth, leisurely slid his palm down the center of her flat belly, pressing low on her abdomen. “How about this?” She arched her hips, trying to urge his hand farther down. “You’re stepping into the danger zone.”
He trailed his fingers back up her body and she nearly cursed him. “Try not to start something you don’t intend to finish,” she said, her mind already glazing over at the erotic skill of his touch.
“Oh, I intend to finish it.” He lightly stroked her arm, grazed the underside of her splint, danced the pads of his fingertips over hers. “So try to keep this weapon right where it is, because I felt a little rushed last time. I’m aiming for a stronger description than ‘very nice,’ and I’m thinking it might just take the rest of the afternoon.”
He was as good as his word, making love to her again and again clear through to the evening.
Becca ran out of praiseworthy descriptions.
A week later, on Saturday, Becca watched Colby as he bent over a shelf of journals. He was frowning as he pulled them off one by one and set them on the floor of the shop.
They hadn’t
stayed the night at Colby’s farmhouse last Sunday because Tink was home alone with Trouble—a scary prospect. As it turned out, the animals had survived each other quite well.
Although she and Colby had made love too many times to count over the past six days, Becca was glad that their first time after all these years had been at the farmhouse. She couldn’t exactly say why. It was just something she felt in her bones.
Perhaps because the incredible memory would be etched on her brain forever. When it came time for him to leave, she wouldn’t be left alone surrounded by the familiar walls of her apartment, confronted with that powerful image.
Oh, she’d have plenty of powerful memories now that he was sleeping with her in her bed.
Just not that particular one.
It was becoming clear that Colby was no longer staying with her as a protector. She’d already chalked up the break-in to a random act that she’d inadvertently interrupted. And though her hand still wasn’t up to the task of kneading bread dough, she was able to do most everything else without help.
“How come you’ve got all these journals?” Colby asked as he pulled another stack off the shelf. “Why would anyone keep these things, let alone buy them?”
“They’re pieces of history,” she said and crossed to join him. “The lives of women—and sometimes men—and what they went through. Who they were and what their dreams were.” She took a thin, leather bound book out of the stack, opened it and scanned the cursive handwriting.
“This woman’s husband is off fighting the war.” She skimmed farther down the page. “Ah, he’s fighting for the South. Good man.”
“Spoken like a true Texan,” Colby teased.
“Darn right.” She skimmed farther. “Everything is so vivid. She’s writing about the crops in the fields and the difficulty keeping them up, the pies she baked that day, and the vegetables she canned. And...oh.”
“What is it?” At her stunned tone he immediately moved closer, tucked his arm around her waist.