by Elise Faber
“Thursday it is,” he said, standing. “I’ll walk you to your car.”
A shake of her head. “Oh, actually, I’m fine.”
“Okay”—a shrug, a flash of that dimple—“you can walk me to mine.”
She snorted.
He picked up his bag.
“Should I carry that for you, too?” she asked dryly.
His laughter filled the space, bouncing around happy and full and drawing the focus of Misty and the two other women who remained, the latter whose faces were all frozen in place.
Not Misty.
No, her expression was one of anticipation, of . . . expectation. Of hope.
Shit. Discomfort curled in Sophie’s stomach, had her turning for the door, the click-click of her heels very loud in the now quiet space. She was going to have to seriously reconsider whether she was willing to be short if it meant not having to so noisily declare her exit from the room.
But could she give them up?
The height, the power?
Probably not.
Either way, she pushed open the door, slipped out onto the darkened street. Several restaurants were open, diners filling their outdoor tables, but many of the other shops were locked up tight, the streets having mostly rolled up.
Rob emerged behind her then stepped to her side, shortening his long gait to match her shorter one. “You really do wear those heels all the time.”
“Yup.”
“Armor,” he said, his arm brushing hers lightly.
She kept walking, but everything inside her had arrested, stilling with the realization that he was right. That was why she couldn’t give them up. Not just because they made her five-feet-nothing frame taller, made it so she could reach the top shelf in the grocery store or not have to climb onto the counter to get a mug out of the upper cabinets at her rental. Not because she felt sexy and strong in them.
But rather because, somehow, they’d become part of this image she’d created for herself.
Long lines and slender curves. Girly and put together.
Put. Together.
Because the chaos of her teen years had been anything but.
“I know something about armor,” he said after they’d turned the corner and crossed the parking lot, pausing near her driver’s side door.
She couldn’t bring herself to ask what he knew.
Not with him so close, not with his scent surrounding her. Not with him being all . . . Rob-like.
God, she hardly knew the man, and yet she wanted him to touch her, wanted to touch him, to taste that tiny scar in the corner of his mouth, and she wanted—
Something she couldn’t have.
Well, that certainly wasn’t new.
“What is it?” he murmured, brushing his thumb over one corner of her mouth then the other, making her shiver. “What’s made you smile?”
Soph shook her head. “It’s nothing.”
He lifted a brow, kept his eyes on hers.
And . . . she lost herself in the depths, found herself confiding in him, telling him the truth when with anyone else she would have avoided and prevaricated and given a funny, chipper, and/or pat answer.
Some part of her knew he’d see right through that.
Some part of her wanted to give him parts of her she’d never given to another man.
Alarm bells blared anew.
Danger. Danger.
Yeah, yeah. She knew all that, and still, Sophie told him anyway.
“I was just thinking it wasn’t anything new to want something I couldn’t have.”
Stillness between them, every muscle in his body locking tight, freezing until he was like a statue. But only for a heartbeat. Then the statue breathed, then the man unstuck and leaned back against her car, arms crossed loosely over his chest. His hip was barely an inch from hers, his thigh perhaps even closer, though she didn’t have time to fully process that before he asked, “What is it that you want?”
A quiet question.
A seemingly innocuous one.
Except when the answer was: I want you!
Her breathing was jagged, and she shook her head. “I need to go.”
And she would have gone. Right then. Would have opened the door to her car, clambered into the driver’s seat, and peeled out of the parking lot like she was the lead actress in the newest Fast and Furious film.
But right then, the stitches on her bag gave way. The strap slid from her shoulder, shooting down her arm. She scrambled for the unbroken piece of fabric, but it dropped down to her wrist, and she caught it with her fingertips, barely saving it from crashing to the ground but at the same time managing to dump all of her belongings onto the pavement.
Her wallet went one way, along with her lip gloss. Knitting needles and yarn went another. Her keys collided with his right boot. One sheet of the pattern clung to the top of the bag, while the other flew through the air, catching on the ocean breeze like a snowflake flurrying in the wind.
“Shit,” she hissed, grabbing for it.
Rob beat her to it, snagging it out of the air and bending to carefully retrieve her knitting project, and she watched him move gently, ensuring it didn’t slide off the needles as he tucked it back into her bag.
Then, as she was frozen, watching him tenderly stow her hardly begun scarf away, he bent again and picked up her wallet and lip gloss.
Those were also placed carefully inside her bag before he tugged the tote right from her fingers, snagged her keys, and unlocked her car. A soft pop as the door opened, and her breath caught when he bent around her to stow the bag on the passenger’s seat.
She was still staring at him, watching him place it down, the canvas tote bright against the dark cloth of the seat, when he slowly straightened, ducking his head so as not to hit it on the car’s frame.
Then he was there.
In front of her, close to her. Their bodies nearly touching as they stood in the narrow opening between the door and frame.
“What was it you wanted, but you couldn’t have?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper as he stroked the backs of his knuckles over her cheek, his other hand resting on the top of her car.
But she could hardly focus on the little details. Not when he was so near.
His touch.
His smell.
His heat.
The words bubbled within her, spilling out across her tongue before her brain managed to shake off the haze of her desire.
“I want you,” she whispered.
His breath hitched, and she saw his hand that was resting on the top of the car tighten, his knuckles standing out in sharp relief, a soft curse on his lips.
Then he moved.
The knuckles lightly running along her cheek becoming a palm covering it, his body inches away became one that was flush to hers. Hard met soft, curves met muscles, and he aligned every part of hers with every part of his. But the movement that drew her focus the most intently was that of his mouth.
Drawing nearer.
Dipping closer.
Until it met hers.
Nine
When the Sun Sets
Rob
It had been a long time since he’d kissed a woman.
And he’d never kissed a woman who wasn’t Carmella.
His love story with his late wife hadn’t been riddled with breakups or on-agains/off-agains. They’d fallen, they’d stayed, they’d loved.
So, he’d never had anything to compare to.
And this . . . was different.
The same and different, and frightening and intense, and coming home and unique and . . . just fucking perfect, somehow all at the same time.
Sophie’s lips were soft, pillowing against his as he brushed his mouth against hers, once, twice, three times, his fingers lightly clenching on her cheek, her skin like silk against his palm.
Then her lips parted, and the tip of her tongue brushed the seam of his lips—
And he stopped comparing. Stopped thinking.
Fire licked at his veins. His cock went rock-hard, desire blistering through him, razing him to the ground until it was just him with this woman.
Her tongue danced with his; her fingers gripped his shoulders, her body—
But fuck was it both luscious and lean, her breasts pressing against his chest, her ass filling his palm when he cupped her there and brought her somehow even closer. His other hand slid down, slipping from her hair, tracing along the outside of her arm, along her waist, down to that luscious hip. Except, it couldn’t stay there, not with her moan vibrating along her tongue, drifting across his mouth, making his own groan of need echo through his throat. Fingers slipped under the hem of her sweater, felt the barest glimpse of silken skin, then faltered when they encountered a large, flat lump.
A scar.
Even as he was processing that and dismissing it—God knew, he had plenty of scars himself—Sophie’s hands were coming up to his chest, shoving him away hard enough that he stumbled back into the door.
“I’m sorry,” she said, eyes going wide, reaching out as if to steady him.
But not to reach for him.
No, that moment had passed.
He straightened even as she drew her hand back, clutching it to her as though she’d been burned.
Her eyes darted to the open door, to the seat inside, to her broken tote bag, to his chest, to anywhere but where he wanted—to his, so he could understand what emotion was bursting through, so he could help her, so he could—
Make her forget enough that she would kiss him again.
But she didn’t look at him, and when her gaze drew progressively more panicked, he stepped back enough that she could easily get into the driver’s seat.
Which she all but lurched into, collapsing into the seat in a heap, having to bend down and straighten one of the high heels she was always wearing. Yet, she still didn’t look at him, merely pushed the button on the dashboard to start the engine.
And waited.
Still not looking, just waiting . . . for him to leave her alone.
So, he did.
Rob stepped back and shut the door, rounded the front of his truck, and watched as she screeched out of the parking lot.
The best damned kiss of his life.
And the woman responsible for it had all but ran screaming away.
He finished nailing in the last bit of trim for the Fosters’ new floor, and he had to admit that it looked pretty damned good.
They’d gone with a gray-stained, hand-scraped product, the matte finish making for the perfect beachy feel for this oceanfront cottage, and while he had to admit that the gray wouldn’t have initially been his first choice, he’d bit his tongue—what the customer wanted and all that.
And had been proven decidedly wrong.
Bethany had clearly seen something he hadn’t, he knew, filling in the last couple of nail holes with matching putty before straightening and snapping a picture with his cell.
Besides the flooring, he’d done all of the woodwork in this job—baseboard and crown molding, door frames and new window casings. He’d even constructed a built-in reading nook and bookshelves for the Fosters. And not to pat himself on the back, but the space looked damned good. So good, in fact, that he’d already gotten permission to put pictures of this job up on his website.
Now he was done, and he’d be moving on to the next client—that being a repair job for a deck and adding a new pergola to their back yard.
It’d be outside and positively chilly in the mornings.
But Rob didn’t mind.
He liked working with his hands, loved that there was always something new to work on, even when he was dealing with subcontractors and invoices and delayed shipments of tile, like he and Misty were waiting for her bathroom remodel.
“This looks amazing,” Bethany whispered, having come up behind him. “Is it all done?”
He nodded. “With the exception of a little cleanup I need to finish, I’d say you can get your reading nook filled with books in no time at all.”
She smiled and hugged him. “Thank you,” she said, stepping back and clapping her hands together. “I love this so much!”
“You’re welcome.” A beat. “Plus, I think you might have a career in designing ahead of you.”
“Meh.” She waved a hand. “I just watch too many home decorating shows.”
He grinned as he bent and began picking up his tools. “Well, either way, everything you chose turned out great.” He detached his nail gun, unplugged the compressor, and wound the air cord. “If you want, after I sweep, I can help you roll out your rug and bring the furniture in.”
The delivery had come that morning as he was finishing up, one day late due to his birthday shenanigans.
“Oh, you don’t have to do that,” she said. “I’ll just wait until Dave gets home.”
“It’s the least I can do after they had to stow everything in the hall because I fell behind schedule.”
“Rob.” Bethany’s eyes went sad. “It’s not your fault, especially—”
And that was a particular conversational track he didn’t want to go down. “Actually, it would be doing me a favor,” he interrupted. “The pictures on my website always look better when the furniture is in the rooms. Looks more finished.”
She nibbled at her bottom lip. “Really?”
That was true. The next wasn’t, since he had a waitlist of clients ten deep. “Plus, I can use all the help I can get. It’s always hard to run a business in this economic climate.”
“I suppose so,” she said.
“Good.” He hefted the compressor and hose, carefully slipping past her and the furniture stacked haphazardly in the hall, bringing both out to his truck, before returning with a broom and dustpan, cleaner and rags. One more trip outside to stow the nail gun, et al, and he got to cleaning.
Construction dust, no matter how careful he was, always seemed to get everywhere.
That tiny crack in the corner. On top of the mantle he hadn’t even touched. Coating the doorknobs and everything in between.
So it was sometime later before everything sparkled and he was helping Bethany carry in the couch—gray cushions with peach and yellow throw pillows she arranged carefully as he went back out into the hall for the side tables. Then a mirror and he slipped out to his truck to retrieve his drill so he could hang it over the fireplace, along with a tryptic of paintings on the far wall. He plugged in lamps and rolled out a large rug while she fussed with knickknacks and stuffed the reading nook with books.
And by the time the sun was going down, the space was finished.
They both looked around the space before he smiled and nudged her lightly with his elbow. “You did good, kid.”
“I’ll have you know, I was only two years behind you in school.”
“A lifetime,” he deadpanned.
“Only in high school.” She hugged him again. “Thank you so much, Rob.” Then she snagged his cell and took a few pictures of the furnished space—which truthfully, did look better in pictures.
They talked about town gossip as she walked him to his truck. Apparently, the lacrosse team had some equipment stolen, and local businesses were stepping in to buy new items for the boys and girls.
“I didn’t tell you this to get you to open your checkbook,” Bethany said, when he’d reached into his glove box to do just that. “I’m supposed to be paying you.”
“I know.” But he wrote the check anyway.
Because this was Stoneybrook. Because they came together instead of pulling apart.
Plus, Bethany was the P.E. teacher at the high school, and he knew that if she didn’t get enough funds to purchase the equipment, she would fund it herself. She worked hard, had scrimped and saved to afford the ro
om remodel. Hell if he would allow her to scrimp and save even more, just because some asshat had stolen from innocent kids.
Yeah, no. That wasn’t happening on his watch.
Later, after he’d waved off her offer of dinner, he got in his truck and started to drive home. Except . . . something drew him to the beach, to the parking lot that he and Carmella used to drive to in high school, make out in the dark as the sun set and the moon rose, and the windows fogged up.
Today, after years of avoiding their spot, he slid into the lot and sat in his car, watching the sky darken in front of him and . . .
He didn’t feel gut-wrenching, heart-stabbing pain.
Even though he couldn’t hear Carmella’s voice, even though she wasn’t sitting next to him holding his hand, kissing his neck.
She was gone, and he was sad. He still missed her, still wanted his best friend.
But he wasn’t wrecked.
Not any longer.
The moon rose, his stomach growled, and he drove home.
Alone, but perhaps for the first time in a long time, not totally empty.
Ten
After the Kiss
Soph
Sighing, she put down the script she was reading and pushed out her front door, feeling the salt air on her face, kissing her lips, tousling her hair, making her nipples bead against the cool silk of her pajamas.
Like a lover.
Like—
“Do not think his name,” she muttered, reaching back into the house for the oversized hoodie she had taken to leaving on the hook there and slipping it over her head.
The sun was just peeking over the horizon in the distance—the sky still navy, a narrow strip of bright orange dancing along that edge, spreading upward.
She’d hardly slept the night before. Because of that man, because of . . .
The Kiss.
Yup. With capital letters.
Because she’d never been kissed like that before, never been held so gently and yet somehow still so passionately.