“Hey,” he said, and then he got his arm around Jennifer and kissed her for good measure, in case anybody needed telling. The guy who’d been hanging out at the end of his lane decided to start swimming again, which was a wise decision.
“Hi,’ she said. Her cheeks were a little flushed, her mouth a little trembly. “I did that thing you said. Owning it. Man, was that hard.”
“Yeah.” He shot a look across at the boys, and they decided to look away. “That’s a lot to own.”
Because … holy hell.
Her suit was black. Which she’d probably bought to be slimming, or something, but instead was just … whoa. The legs of the bottom piece were high-cut, but the waist was high, too. Except that she’d rolled it down, because it probably didn’t fit over that round little belly. Which was definitely rounder than two weeks ago. Her skin was still white and so translucent that you could see the blue veins at the base of her throat and on her inner arms, her waist still nipped in hard and asked for your hands around it, her ass was still juicy, and her breasts were …
That was the other thing. Probably the main thing.
The top of the suit was sort of a … straight-across deal, and there was only about half as much of it as you’d expect. It lifted her up and put her on display like that was the whole point, because it so clearly was. A little strip of black fabric did its best to cover her, but it wasn’t up to the job, and the wide straps were cut so they nearly fell off her shoulders. That strip of black, though, and the round, white swells of her breasts above it …
Well, yeah. That was a pretty devastating combo.
She said, “I know. I bought this about two years ago, and I’ve worn it about five times. The top was a little extreme before, and now it’s … Well. You can see.”
“Yep,” he said. “I sure can. Let’s slide on in here, baby, because that’s probably enough owning it for now, don’t you think?” It was sure as hell enough of every guy in the place staring at her.
She lowered herself down into her lane, and if he watched her do it, how could he help it? After that, he got in himself, enjoying the brief shiver of cold on his overheated skin.
Meanwhile, she’d hoisted herself by the elbows onto the floats of the lane divider and had her legs kicking, keeping her up. She said, “I, uh, forgot myself a little bit back there. In the lobby. I’m not supposed to kiss you. Friends. And you’re not supposed to kiss me, either. Or call me ‘baby.’”
“You drive a hard bargain,” he said.
“And yet Mark just told me today that I was a terrible negotiator.” She was smiling, looking so pretty, then sliding under the water and starting to swim. She did it slowly, almost languidly, as if she moved her body solely for the pleasure of it. She might have an outsized responsibility gene and a work ethic carved from stone, but inside, she was something entirely different. A woman born for pleasure. A woman made for sin.
He wanted two things at once. Something primal in him, something all the way in the back of his brain, wanted to put his hand on that pretty swell of belly and feel the curve of it for himself. It didn’t matter that he’d never have chosen for it to happen. It didn’t matter that it was complicating his life so badly that he couldn’t see to the end. He wanted it anyway. He wanted to feel that belly for himself, and he wanted to kiss it, too. He wanted to know all the way inside himself that his baby was growing in her, and that she was right there where he could take care of both of them. Under his hand. It wasn’t a very evolved thought, but there you were. It seemed he wasn’t a very evolved guy.
And then there was the other thing. That he wanted his hands and mouth all over her in some way that was more than primal. Some way that was nearly feral. He wanted her tumbled across his bed, her hair around her face, her hands over her head, like all she wanted was for him to kiss her and love her right. He wanted her to straddle him again and pull her dress over her head, and he wanted to watch her ride him, slow and sweet and exactly the way she wanted to, the way that felt best, while he watched her move, pulled her down so he could play with her better, and got his hand on that little ring and ground it into her until she moaned. He wanted to feel her come around him until he couldn’t stand it anymore. And then he wanted to hold her hips and pump into her until she arched her back and called out and came again, jerking and shuddering over him until his eyes rolled back in his head and he lost his mind.
Right now, though, all he got to do was swim. And be friends.
He was taking her out to dinner, though, and he was going to make sure they seated him in the darkest corner of the restaurant. He was going to hold her hand across the table, and he was going to look into those gold eyes and see if he could make her pretty mouth tremble a little more. If he could make her breath come faster.
If he could make her want him the way he wanted her. Which he wasn’t supposed to try to do, because he’d mess up her life.
He wanted to do the right thing. It was just that he wanted to do every single one of those wrong things so much more. Over and over again. Every way there was.
Face it. He was doomed.
46
Dating
She was having such a hard time.
They weren’t doing anything all that extreme. They weren’t even at the resort, with the knowledge of those dangerously convenient hotel rooms right overhead. Harlan had said, when they’d been sitting on two of those loungers, toweling off after their swim, “How about if I take you someplace else tonight? Someplace with no possible Dyma and Annabelle, and that doesn’t belong to Blake Orbison, where it’s just you and me. Seems like we don’t get the chance too often.”
“Nothing can happen between us,” she’d said. “I’m still … well, my head’s still sure of that.” Even as every single inch of her tingled with awareness that she was still in her bikini, toweling off her hair, that he could look right down the front of that bikini, and that his body was still the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen. Including in paintings. He was it. Chest. Thighs. Arms. Shoulders. Skin so golden, it glowed, and body language that said, “I’m strong enough to be in charge of all of this, and confident enough not to push it.” And maybe most of all, the look in his eyes when he talked to her. Focused. Intense. Almost … possessive. However casually he talked, he still looked at her that way. Also, the fact that he wasn’t looking down her bikini, which was worse than if he had been. He was restraining himself, and his restraint thrilled her.
“Know what I want to happen?” he asked.
“Uh …” She looked at him from under her lashes, and only realized after she’d done it that she was, yes, flirting. Maybe you just needed the right guy for that, one who knew how to tease and how to make you feel beautiful, and excited, and so desired. Almost … scared. In a good way. In a hold-your-breath way.
He smiled. It looked pained, even a little sad. “I want to see you put on a pretty dress and pretty shoes, and sit and watch the sunset with some candles burning and maybe some music playing, and let yourself enjoy being with a guy who’s willing to do whatever it takes to please you. Even if that’s just smiling at you across the table, kissing you on the cheek afterwards, smelling your perfume and having it spin his head all the way around, and telling you goodnight. Even if he wants a whole lot more than that. I want you to have the kind of night you would have wanted to tell your mom about.”
“Oh. I can’t ....” It was everything she could do not to cry.
Stupid hormones.
“And maybe,” he said, “I want to give you the kind of night I could’ve told my mom about, too. Maybe I want to be a better guy. The kind of guy who can put somebody else first.”
“Harlan. You’re already that guy. You’ve been that guy.” She had a palm on the side of his beautiful face now and was trying to smile, but her mouth kept trembling.
It was the mention of her mom that had done it. She wanted to go back to her room and pick up the phone, or better yet, most of all, she wanted to sit at her mom’
s kitchen table and tell her all about it, to have her mom listen all the way through, and then say … whatever she would have said.
To wait until she was sure? To go for it, risking everything? What?
You should get out of here, spread your wings, her mom had said. But what did that mean? Wasn’t she supposed to want to do the single thing, the free thing?
Well, as free as you could be with a new baby. Which wasn’t actually all that free. But still.
She remembered, suddenly, what her mom had said the night before she’d died, when Dyma had been clearing the table after their dinner of slow-cooker Italian chicken and peppers, and Jennifer had said, “When I win the lottery, I’m going to cook with chicken breasts instead of thighs. Boneless and skinless. Organic. Free range. Eight dollars a pound. Drop them in the slow cooker, and I’m done.”
“You know what you’ll find out?” Adele had answered. “That thighs will still taste better.” Her smile was the only part of her that hadn’t changed. Her red hair had faded, and her eyes, which were only a little darker than Jennifer’s, were lined and tired, but her smile was still warm. Still alive. “That’s the dirty secret of life. Thighs taste better, pot roast is as tender as any fancy cut of steak, you can only use one bathroom at a time, the prettiest view is the one you get after you walk up a hill, and a Ford gets you to work as fast as a Porsche does. And the right man’s not the one who buys you diamonds, he’s the one who loves you the sweetest and the dirtiest and who holds you when you cry. The rest of it’s just advertising.”
“Except health insurance,” Jennifer had said.
Her mom had laughed at that. “Yeah. Health insurance matters. And not lying in bed worrying about which bill to pay would be great, too. But you don’t need to win the lottery for that. You’ll get there. Also, my advice about men might be more worth taking if I wasn’t divorced. Your dad was pretty good at the loving part. Not so good at the steady part. I should probably think up a better list before I go around offering any more life lessons.”
“The sweetest and the dirtiest, huh?” Jennifer had asked. “Geez, I wish I’d known those were the criteria.”
“Oh, honey,” Adele had said. “You always knew that.”
Jennifer had wanted to ask, “So Mark isn’t it?” But she’d known the answer, or maybe she’d thought, I need to have a talk with her about that later, when the time was right. Except that “later” had been too late.
Which part matters more? she wanted to ask her mom now. The sweet and dirty, or the steady? How about if he feels steady, but he tells you he isn’t steady? Maya Angelou had said, “When someone shows you who they are, believe them the first time,” and Harlan had told her who he was. Loud and clear.
And yet here she was, wearing her pale-green dress again, because it was one of the only pretty things she had that still fit, and because Harlan had taken her across the long bridge to Thirty-three South. They were sitting outside on a stone terrace strung with fairy lights, watching the setting sun turn the lake, nearly glass-calm in the stillness, to glowing turquoise as the mountains reflected the pale pink of the sky. Harlan was drinking Tennessee whiskey, and she was sipping a spiced pina colada mocktail after a dinner of steelhead trout cooked to flaky perfection, roasted asparagus that she’d all but inhaled, and an absolutely sinful warm bourbon-soaked bread pudding with whipped cream that she’d shared with him. Dipping the spoon into all that rich, creamy goodness, licking it slowly clean, and watching him watch her do it. The smile in his eyes. The breadth of his shoulders in the white button-down shirt. The scruff of beard that would give you so much delicious friction as he kissed his way down your body, letting you know that he was a man, and he was here to stay. His hard hands that could touch you so gently.
Dyma was right. No alcohol, and no drugs. Just a slow, delicious, cool swim after a long, hard, hot day, and the memory of Harlan’s eyes when he’d looked at her in her bikini. Not to mention the way he’d kissed her back in the lobby before that swim. His big hand behind her head, cradling it. He made her feel wanted. He made her feel beautiful. And that was such a dangerous way to feel.
Tonight, they’d talked about Dyma, and they’d talked about Annabelle. Now, they sat, lazy in the deepening twilight, as the server lit the candles and the colors deepened around them, and she said, “Tell me about football. You said you’d been working for twenty-five years. Is that really how it is? That much pressure?”
He didn’t brush her off, and he didn’t make a joke. He got quiet instead and said, “Yes. And no.” When she didn’t say anything, just waited, he went on. “It’s pressure, but every job has pressure. With football, you’re more aware of the pressure, that’s all, and you could say that the consequences are more immediate. Although I guess if you’re a surgeon or something, or a pilot, the consequences of screwing up are pretty immediate, too. So, yeah, football’s always pressure to perform, but it’s good. It’s always been good, for me. Besides the money and all that. Having the team, for one thing. Teammates. Coaches.”
“When it was bad at home,” she guessed. “That thing you said about your coach at the Super Bowl party.”
“Coach Gunderson. He taught me how to be a man, I guess. How to own up when you screwed up. That there were no excuses, but you didn’t have to marinate in your mistakes, either, not if you learned from them and did better. My dad was big on punishment.” His face twisted. “I guess you’ve figured that out. Coach didn’t do blame. You owned up, you fixed it, and you moved on. He had this word he used. Excellence. You were always going for excellence. You might not be able to achieve perfect every time, he’d say, but you could always be excellent.” He took a sip of his bourbon. “Which is true in anything you do, right? That’s the secret of any great high-school coach, though. He’s not just building football players. He’s building men.”
“He did a great job building you.” She’d resisted touching him all evening. Now, she reached out and touched his hand. The lightest brush of fingertips, but he turned that big, scarred, sure hand over and took hers, running his thumb over her knuckles like he wanted to memorize them. Like they mattered.
His hands could pluck a spinning missile of a ball out of the air like it was a butterfly. They could shove off a charging defender, and they could tackle, too, when they had to. She’d watched him do it on TV. She’d watched obsessively, in fact. Everything she could find online, in the weeks and months since that last day on the tarmac in Wild Horse, as if she could sense the essence of him from that shadowy form in a helmet and shoulder pads, playing a game she’d never cared about with the kind of skill that made it look easy.
But now, his hands were gentle.
“Thanks,” he said. “I’ve tried to be excellent in football. Seems to me, now, that I could’ve run away sometimes from being excellent at life.”
“Hey.” Her voice was soft in the gathering dark. “Nobody gets it right all the time. I sure don’t.”
He smiled, and that smile transformed his face like it did every time. Not charming, though, not now. This smile was sweet, and it was all for her. “I don’t know. I’d say you’re pretty excellent.”
“I don’t take chances,” she said. “Since I met you, that’s what I’ve been realizing. Going to North Dakota with you that first time? That was crazy, for me. I’ve never done anything that impulsive before, not since …” She stopped, then went on. “I’ve been sort of … shut down, I realize. Thinking I was safer that way. But how safe is it never to try? How safe is it never to take a risk?” She laughed, trying to lighten the mood. “Never mind. You don’t know the answer. You always try, and you always risk. Three teams. Three towns.”
“Maybe you need balance between those things,” he said. “That’s the other thing I know from football. Wide receiver’s sort of a … star position. You do the spectacular stuff, the flashy stuff. But you know, you’re just one guy out of fifty-three. You’re not the guy who wins the game. Nobody’s the guy who wins the game, not even t
he quarterback, though don’t tell Blake I said so. All you can do is to prepare as hard as you can every single week, and every offseason, too, and try never to have a bad game. Even if you drop a pass. Which, if you saw my last playoff game …” He saluted her with his glass. “You know I did.”
“Which was overthrown,” she said. “And should’ve had pass interference called, besides.”
“Oh, baby,” he said, “now you’re just being nice.” His eyes were crinkling with his smile, but she could tell that the memory of not catching that ball would have him catching a hundred more in practice. A thousand more.
“You can’t control everything,” she said. “You can only control your preparation. You can’t control what happens once you’re out there.”
“Now, see,” he said, “that’s what we call football wisdom. I’m guessing you’re a little bit like that, too. That you don’t go into anything unprepared.”
“Other than the occasional sexual encounter,” she said, but it didn’t feel angry, even at herself.
His hand tightened on hers. Just a little, but she felt it. “Sometimes, something just hits you. The thunderbolt, Italians call it.”
“Colpo di fulmine.” When he looked surprised, she said, “My dad’s Italian. The thunderbolt? That was my parents. It didn’t stick, but it sure burned hard while it lasted.”
“Ah,” he said. “Another reason you’re cautious.”
“One of them.” She wasn’t going to say this. It was stupid. It was too raw.
Of course, she did say it. “I want to … sink into this,” she told him. “My body wants it so much. The way you touch me. The way you kiss me. The way you look at me. It makes me weak, and I want it. But I need to know if it’s just a thunderbolt, or if it’s …”
“Rain,” he said. “The kind a farmer wants. The kind that soaks the ground and makes things grow. You’re wondering if I can do that. If I even know how.”
Shame the Devil (Portland Devils Book 3) Page 36