Learning at 40 (Lakeside Cottage Book 2)

by L. B. Dunbar

  When my jaw is cupped by both his hands, his mouth crushes mine, and I have instant confirmation that I have strongly misjudged him. The force of this kiss pulls him upright, tipping over me until his tongue thrusts forward. I savor the intrusion and kiss him back with as much fervor. This kiss is firework explosions and crashing waves. It’s summer heat, rushing water, and a touch of everything I’d ever want in a kiss.

  With his hands still on my jaw, he sucks at the bottom swell of my lips. His tongue returns like another rush of sky-lighting flames and water slapping soft sand. It’s as if he can’t breathe without kissing me, and it’s more than any kiss I’ve ever experienced.

  Guiding me by his grasp on my face, he draws me toward him, and I slowly move without breaking our connection. He continues to lean backward, falling to his back and forcing me to straddle his lap to follow him down to the cushion. I’m in the cotton T-shirt dress I wear to bed, and the short length easily rides up my thighs as I cradle his lap. Our mouths are relentless, thirsty, and unquenchable. A hand shifts to fist my hair at the nape of my neck, and he lowers his lips to my jaw.

  “You’re so incredibly beautiful, angel,” he murmurs with praise and awe. His mouth moves to my neck, slowly scraping his teeth along the column of my throat before sucking at the skin. His fist relaxes, and his fingers comb through the locks at the back of my head before tangling his grasp into my hair again. He returns his mouth to mine. His hunger has me wet and squirming over the hard length straining in his khaki shorts. Slowly, he twists us until I’m on my back, and he’s partially over me. His leg slips between my thighs, and his hand lowers to the outside of my upper leg, stroking over my warm skin.

  And my hand claps over his to stop him.

  Breaking the kiss, he pulls back to look at me. His eyes search mine, and the vulnerable gaze returns. For a confident man, he almost appears frightened.

  “Am I fucking this up?” he asks.

  “I’m not really a one-night stand kind of girl,” I admit. While I’m hot, pulsing, and greedy for him, I still don’t want to sleep with him on our first night and know he’s next door for nine more without a repeat.

  “Ten-day fling,” he whispers, eyes focused on my mouth.

  “I think we should stick to one topic at a time.”

  “I’m out of practice,” he whispers, biting hard at the bottom curve of his lip while his eyes scan mine. His hand leaves my thigh, and he swipes through my hair again, combing it back from the side of my face. My hair can be wild and slightly wavy after only a wash and air dry.

  “Kissing is good. Your kissing is good.” I bite my lip to fight the anxious giggle riding up my throat.

  “Can I keep kissing you?” he asks sweetly. Sheepishly.

  “I’d like that,” I admit. I want his mouth back on mine. I want him, but one topic at a time, like I said.

  He lowers but hovers over my lips. “What else would you like?”

  So many things, I think, realizing he can’t give them to me. Only a ten-day fling.

  “Just kissing,” I whisper. I’m not opposed to continuing if he keeps kissing me like he was, and his mouth crushes mine to prove he will. His leg remains between my thighs, and I hitch mine over his. We’re as dangerously close to grinding against one another as we were when I was straddling him. My hips buck, and my core clenches. My underwear against his shorts is too much of a barrier yet not enough protection. He’s going to catapult me over the edge if we keep this up.

  My fingers delve into his hair, tugging gently at the nape, and his mouth widens, devouring mine while his tongue dances in an erotic twist. I squirm against his thigh and slip my leg farther up and over his hip, acting in opposition to halting him. His hand cups the back of my leg and slips upward to the edge of my backside.

  “Christ, you’re gonna make me come with only your mouth,” he mutters before kissing me harder and surging his hips forward. His hard length rubs at my pelvis. This is ridiculous. I should just give in. I should just sleep with him. What is one night compared to all the other nights? The question douses the flame a bit. The odds are not in my favor. For another three hundred and sixty-four nights, I’ll be exactly where I am—alone. Slowly, I pull back.

  “Where did you go?” he says, lowering his mouth to my jaw then my neck, peppering softer kisses there.

  “What do you mean? I’m right here.” But I stare up at the dark sky overhead, pinpricked with stars.

  “In your head. I’m losing you.” He kisses the dip between my collarbone before leaning back. Logic is overruling my libido. My thoughts have taken over, and I find Zack’s window next door just over his shoulder. It isn’t him; it’s me. In ten days, he’ll leave, and I’ll still be here. Alone. My eyes focus on the darkened glass, but Zack cups my jaw, forcing me to look at him.

  “We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do,” he says to my lips before meeting my eyes and repeating my words. “Kissing is good. Kissing you is good.”

  Kissing, it’s only kissing, but I already know it could be so much more than our mouths meeting. He could be so much more, and I can’t allow that to happen.

  Suddenly, his phone rings, and Zack groans, lowering his forehead for my sternum.

  “Is that ‘The Imperial March’ from Star Wars?” I laugh at the sound.

  “It’s actually from The Empire Strikes Back, and it’s my ring tone for the boys.”

  “Zack!” I choke around more laughter. “That’s a terrible theme song for your boys.” The laughter breaks all the tension filling my thoughts.

  Zack shakes his head and kneels upright, straddling my right leg while my left slips from his hip. “I need to answer this.”

  “Of course.” I softly smile at him.

  “Hello.” His short, clipped greeting reminds me of how he addresses his children. I shift to sit upright, but he places a hand on my stomach, willing me to stay in place. Instead, I balance on my elbows, glancing up at him. I should give him privacy, but the call is quick.

  Zack’s eyes close as he says, “Okay, I’ll be right over.”

  When he clicks off the phone, he tosses it on the cushion and falls forward, bracing himself with extended arms over me.

  “The stormtroopers are invading,” I tease as I drop to my back again.

  “Oliver says he has a stomachache.”

  “Poor baby,” I whimper, pouting my lower lip.

  “Poor daddy,” he huffs. “I wasn’t finished with you.” He lowers his face, running his nose along my neck before nearing my ear.

  “But you are a dad, and your boys should always come first,” I whisper to him, shivering under the drag of his nose.

  He traces the shell of my ear before whispering to me. “I like your laugh.” His voice hints at a smile. He’s sweet, and my lips curl as his nose retraces his path along my neck. My hands reach for his shoulders, coasting over them before sliding down his arms to his wrists.

  “You need to go,” I whisper, disguising my disappointment. I meant what I’ve said. His boys should always come first, and perhaps that phone call was what we needed to stop us from going further than we should in one night.

  “Are we all good here, angel?” He pulls back, staring down at my mouth, and I have no idea what he means with that question. As I don’t answer him, he places a final kiss to the side of my neck before pressing upward over me and removing himself from the chaise lounge. He stands with his back to me a second, adjusting the ache that matches mine.

  Zack rounds the lounger for the bottle of wine and the half-filled glasses. He picks up the wineglasses by slipping his fingers inside the rim and curls a fist around the bottleneck as I sit upright, straightening my sleep dress. With his side to me, I open my mouth, but I’m uncertain what to say, until he speaks.

  “Get some sleep. Have a good day at work tomorrow.” Giving me a final look, I weakly wave with a single flip of my wrist. Once he disappears around the corner of my house, I toss myself backward and stare up at the blanke
t of stars, wondering just what the heck I’m doing with one hot single dad who can only promise me ten days.

  8

  [River]

  It’s been a particularly long day. After not sleeping well because I was too keyed up from Zack’s kisses, one of my favorite patients is having a rough afternoon, and I’m emotionally exhausted. I knew things would be different when I took the position at the local hospital. The diagnosis of my patients is the same, but their age is at the opposite end of the spectrum from my previous experience. I love what I do, but some days are more difficult than others.

  As I pull into my yard, I don’t even have the energy for a run, which normally releases tension after a tough shift. I don’t even have the brainpower to struggle through thoughts of Zack and kissing him last night. All I want is a quick, hot shower and a silent, comfy bed. Instead, the ruckus of power saws and hammers rattle nearby. So near that I realize the noise is coming from behind my house.

  After I round the house for my backyard, I still in my tracks. My mouth falls open at the sight of two sweaty, shirtless men with jacked abs and intent focus on their faces—one cutting two-by-four boards and the other measuring the tree in my yard. Assisting these two wannabe lumberjacks with their loose hanging khaki shorts and construction boots are two little men, also without shirts but quite a bit skinnier, shorter, and younger by almost thirty years.

  “What the hell is going on?”

  The power saw drones to a stop as Oliver races up to me. He runs like he’s ready to tackle-hug me, and I brace myself, but he halts a foot away. A coat of sawdust covers his brow. He’s wearing child-sized workman gloves, and his excited expression falters when he glances up at me.

  “We’re rebuilding the tree fort.” His small voice should melt my fury, but this is my yard. My head pops up, and I peer at Zack across the lawn. He’s leaning over the sawhorses holding fresh-cut boards. Mason stands a few feet away, looking upward where he just finished measuring the height to the original platform from the ground.

  Slowly, Zack approaches, tipping up safety goggles while he walks. “You mentioned yesterday it might be a good project for the boys. I thought we’d get a head start.”

  “You realize this is private property, right? My property. My yard,” I snap. A shaky hand presses at my forehead, where I suddenly feel the pressure of a headache. Softer, I mutter, “You have no boundaries.” Drinking out of my wineglass. Watching me in my yard. And now this, helping himself to build a fort in a tree when I don’t even have children of my own to enjoy it. Hell, even his children will only be here for a limited number of days.

  After barking at Zack, my eyes drop to Oliver, whose stricken face twists my insides. Lowering to a squat before him, I stare up at his dirty little face and brush back hair sticking to his forehead.

  “Hey.” I soften my tone by taking a calming breath. “I thought we were going to fix it together.”

  “Dad offered to help.” Dad offered to help. My eyes leap up to Zack. Honestly, it’s more important that this man does things with his boys. Their behavior is a desperate cry for attention, and once again, I wish Zack would appreciate what he has in them—healthy, generally happy, rambunctious seven-year-olds.

  “I’m glad your dad wants to do this with you.” Glancing back at Oliver, I reach for his thin wrist and give it a little squeeze while bolstering a smile on my face. “I’m sorry I yelled at him. I’m not mad at him. I’ve just had a tough day.” I’m still wearing my purple scrubs and matching rubber clogs. All I want to do is remove this uniform and forget my shift for a little while, which feels like a betrayal to my patient. She deserves so much more.

  My eyes shift to Oliver’s father once more. Mason walks up to Zack, and the sight of both men with their low-slung shorts and sweaty abs screams August in a calendar of hot men over forty. Returning my gaze to Oliver, I tug at his delicate wrist, playfully swinging his arm.

  “Ollie, do you think Miss River could have a hug?”

  Without a thought, he opens his arms and wraps his skinny limbs around my neck, and I breathe in the scent of him—suntan lotion and sticky skin. My eyes close as I inhale for a second. Ain’t nothing a hug can’t cure, my grandfather would say. If only it were the antidote for cancer.

  “Thank you,” I whisper-choke before pressing him back by his bony shoulders. I kiss his sawdust forehead before standing upright again.

  “Rough day at the office?” Mason teases.

  “Something like that,” I say, watching Oliver run back to his brother.

  “What do you do again?” Mason asks, his eyes scanning my attire. If he envisions naughty nurse and playing patient, he can think again.

  “I’m an oncology nurse. Pediatrics.”

  “Shit,” Zack mutters and lowers his eyes. Mason drops the measuring tape he was holding.

  “I’m sorry,” Mason mumbles. I hadn’t mentioned it yesterday because of Anna. When I learned Ben died of cancer.

  Trevor walks around his dad next. His devilish face matches the hard edge of his father’s, and the resemblance is striking. He’s the tougher of the two boys, and he knows his position. He’s the top dog to Oliver’s puppy.

  “We can take it down if you don’t like it,” the child offers of the start they’ve made on a new improved, definitely safer, tree platform. His suggestion sounds genuine and not like a ploy of opposites—saying one thing and hoping for another. At seven, he recognizes the error of what they’ve done.

  Slowly, I exhale. “It’s okay,” I whisper, fighting the thickness suddenly clogging my throat at his heartfelt offer. Forcing another smile, I add, “I can’t wait to see it finished.”

  I take another deep breath and point over my shoulder. “I’m just going to shower and nap.” Zack’s brows pinch as I make brief eye contact with him, and my vision blurs a bit. I tell myself exhaustion is the reason I’m on the verge of tears. Quickly, I turn around and take steps toward the sliding glass doors, but before I reach it, my wrist is circled.

  “Hey,” Zack’s soft voice stops my retreat. Keeping my back to him, I close my eyes, letting one tear slip free. Brusquely, I brush at my cheek. I will not let him see me cry. Pediatric oncology is not for the faint of heart, and I’m typically stronger than this. I’m used to struggles and loss with the disease. Today’s just been a difficult day.

  “Won’t you turn around?” he asks, his voice remaining low and encouraging, but I shake my head.

  “I’m just tired.” My voice cracks, giving away the sob I’m struggling to contain. He drops his hold on my wrist, but his presence becomes more apparent. The heat of his warm chest seeps through the clothing on my back. His scent overwhelms me. He matches his child with the fragrance of sunshine and exercise.

  “We overstepped. I’m sorry.”

  I wave a hand at him over my shoulder. “It’s fine.”

  His hands come to my shoulders and rub down my arms. “I don’t like that you aren’t looking at me, angel.”

  The endearment turns the lump in my throat to a boulder. “Please, Zack,” I whisper. I can’t deal with him right now. Sometimes in life, there are just bigger things than kisses and wishes.

  “I should have asked permission. We’ll stop for today and let you rest.”

  “Thank you,” I choke, stepping free of his touch when what I really want is to collapse against him and absorb his strength. Visions of his naked chest and the hint of hair leading lower in those shorts will haunt my dreams. It’s just the distraction I need after I nap.

  + + +

  Later that evening, I’m sitting in my yard once more. It’s my favorite thing about this place. Off in the distance, the sun is lowering to a golden yolk while streams of yellow and orange filter through the darkening sky. I sip a glass of wine in hopes of continuing the calm I mustered after a hot shower and a decent nap.

  The late afternoon rest will screw up my sleep pattern, but I’m also used to a flip-flopping schedule. Two days on. One day off. Morning, morning, an
d then night, night . It’s a cycle I don’t mind. I typically pick up additional shifts as I’m a single woman without much more going on in my life. Still, I appreciate what I have—a steady job and a decent home that I own outright.

  My thoughts drift to Quincy. After years of adult patients, I needed a change. Labor and delivery would have been a happier position. Life versus death should have been the option, but with decades of oncology practice, I stayed within the field and just moved from elderly patients to a younger set.

  Slowly, I sip my wine and think of little Jessica. She’s a spitfire, so to see her defeated earlier today threw me off. She’d had some disturbing news after months of treatments. Her parents were understandably wrecked. Life is so unfair sometimes; death is even more unjust.

  Briefly, I think of all the people I’ve lost. Quincy. Grandfather.

  Pity parties don’t serve cake, my grandfather would say in times of self-sorrow. He didn’t live long enough for my sarcastic streak to hit, where I would have replied that those kinds of parties should serve cake along with ice cream and alcohol.

  I close my eyes, but images of Jessica’s parents’ tear-stained faces flutter behind my lids. Quickly, I open them to focus on the setting sun. Taking a deep breath, I concentrate, nearly meditate, on the lowering orb and the reflective light skittering across the momentarily calm water. I sit long enough that the evening turns black around me, and stars fill the sky like a pop of polka dots—one here, one there. My eyes drift to the beginnings of a new platform in my tree. It will be the perfect spot for stargazing.

  “Hello.” The masculine voice has me spinning in the chaise lounge. I moved its position, so it faces the dark lake and descending sun.

  “Hi,” I choke around the panic in my throat. I need to invest in a gate as these Weller boys have no boundaries.

  Sheepishly, Zack approaches me, hands buried in the pockets of a fresh pair of shorts. His hard abs are covered by another dress shirt. This one is bright blue, sleeves rolled above his elbows. He could still make a “hot men over forty” calendar, only this look might land him under September. He stops at the end of the lounger, standing near my feet.