by Laurel Greer
Hell, should he be judging himself for feeling ready to explore life again?
Some days, it felt like Alex had been gone forever, and others, like it was only yesterday he’d stopped sitting shiva.
“You got any wisdom on dating as a widower, buddy?” he asked the dog.
Jackson harrumphed and sent him a put-upon look.
“I know. Life is so much harder when you’re a Dane, isn’t it?”
Chuckling at the dog’s expressive face and quiet ah-roo, he returned to his task, managing to get four doors up without traumatizing the canine.
He was on the verge of starting door number five when a female voice called his name.
Startling, he spun toward the voice he’d been hearing in his dreams for weeks. His face heated at his reaction. “The dog’s wearing off on me, it seems.”
“Sorry for the shock.” Maggie stood in the doorway of Lachlan’s office, the last place he’d seen her.
The last place they’d kissed.
A good moment. His heart warmed, and he held himself back from striding over and reliving the taste of her lips.
Jackson had no such hesitation, scrambling across the floor to greet Maggie. She crouched and gave him a big hug and an obligatory “oh yes, you’re the best boy,” before standing and brushing off her sweater. It was pale pink and cozy looking and wrapped around her much like Asher would enjoy doing.
Unsure if she wanted that, he leaned against the door he’d just hung. “Hey, there. Didn’t expect to see you.”
She lifted a shoulder and clutched the two sides of her sweater together with one hand. “I got home from having dinner with a friend and saw the lights on.”
“Not a burglar.”
“I knew it was you.” Her voice hinted at intent of some sort. But what kind? “You’re here late. Where’s Ruth?”
“Sleepover. And Jackson and I were just sitting at home, staring at each other after dinner, so I figured I’d be productive in some way. It was too late to make social plans.”
“Is it?” She entered the office, skirting his sawhorse table.
He cocked a brow. “Maybe I was wrong.”
But instead of coming directly to him, as she’d done the other day, she stopped a few feet away to examine the shelving. “Nice work.”
“Up to standards, I hope,” he said.
She ran a hand along the doors. “Looks level to me.” She stepped closer and traced a line across his pecs with the back of her hand. She flushed, dropping her arm to her side. “I’m terrible at this.”
Catching her hip lightly with his fingers, he drew her in, dropping a kiss at her temple. Her hair smelled of raspberries, and it took effort to lift his nose away. “I haven’t hooked up with anyone new in over a decade, Maggie. If anyone’s rusty, it’s me.”
“You just have to exist and it’s a turn-on,” she blurted, crossing her arms over her chest and turning even redder.
He chuckled. Alex had often complained that he was unfairly good-looking, but Asher had chalked that up to husband-bias. Besides, he wanted to be admired for how he treated people and for being a good father, not for his face. “You’re good for the ego, Maggie Reid.”
She squeezed her eyes shut. “Glad I could be of service.”
Even though she looked uncomfortable as hell, she still wasn’t backing away from him. That was something. He slid his palm around to the small of her back, nestling her closer to his side. Her sweater was as luscious as he’d predicted. “I’d planned on working for another hour or so, though if you had something else in mind...”
Her eyes blinked open. “I—uh—well—” She muttered something. Fudge truffles was his best guess. Then she cleared her throat. “I didn’t come over to check on how much progress you’d made.”
“No?”
Shaking her head, she said, “I was going to watch a movie, but my house was eerily empty.”
“You want to borrow Jackson back?” he asked, unable to stop his cheek from twitching in amusement.
“No, I was hoping for you. But if you need to finish what you’re doing...”
She had a point. The faster he completed the job, the sooner he could sign Ruth up for the ski team. But how many evenings would he get when he wasn’t under a watchful, ten-year-old eye?
And how often would a kid-free night coincide with an invitation from Maggie that could potentially lead to snuggling with her some more, but on a couch instead of against a half-finished wall of cabinets?
“I really should keep working.”
Her face fell. “Oh, I—”
“But I won’t.”
He kissed her. Just a quick brush. She let out another “oh,” and he captured it with a deeper press. So much softness to take in: her lips. Her hair, tangled around his fingers. Her sweater, a thin barrier between his fingers and her skin. But underneath it, she wasn’t all soft. He’d seen her strength at work, and her strength of conviction, too.
And he wanted to know more about her.
“Do you like extra butter on your popcorn?” he asked, breaking the kiss.
Her jaw dropped in clear faux offense. “I’m not a monster. And Jackson wouldn’t speak to me if I tried to feed him plain popcorn.”
“I knew he fit into my family for a reason.”
“Which, given it’s hard for him to fit anywhere...” she cracked.
They both looked over at the dog, who stared dolefully from his mat in the corner.
“Oh, I’m kidding, big guy,” Maggie said. She glanced up at Asher, eyes bright with humor. “He’ll probably insist on taking the couch. We’ll be relegated to the floor.”
He grinned. He didn’t care where he sat, so long as he got the chance to be close to this woman. Though she wouldn’t want to hear that. He felt his smile falter. He’d have to make sure he kept his true emotions off his face tonight, and more importantly, keep himself from voicing them.
Chapter Eight
Maggie couldn’t relax, and it had nothing to do with the tense political thriller they’d settled on watching. They’d relegated Jackson to the floor—sort of, his big head was draped over Asher’s knee—which gave them the couch to themselves. That could have meant freedom to spread out, except her body seemed to want to be plastered against flannel-and-denim-covered muscles.
She’d given in, tucking herself into his side.
Her heart raced from the closeness. She watched him from the corner of her eye. Light from the action on the screen flashed, casting the angles of his face in colors. They’d discarded their shared popcorn bowl a while ago. He had one hand on the dog’s head, and one on her. Arm looped around her back, he drew lazy circles in the hair at her nape. That was partly jacking up her pulse, too. His fingers felt too, too good on her neck. She wanted his hands everywhere, spreading that talent to other, more intimate places.
She shut down the thought before her libido took off down that rabbit trail. She took as deep a breath as she could without him noticing. Because as much as he seemed into snuggling, he was remarkably composed. Not sending off any “I could seriously rip your clothes off” signals. Maybe he wasn’t ready for that. And she did not need to make a fool of herself by suggesting they try Shirtless Saturday and being rebuffed.
No matter how curious she was to feel his hard muscles under her fingers without his long-sleeved T-shirt in the way.
But with the T-shirt there? That might be okay.
As the on-screen, gun-toting detective wound her way through a Manhattan back alley, Maggie settled her hand below Asher’s rib cage. The warmth of the cotton seeped into her skin, promising so much more heat underneath. She splayed her fingers, taking in the ridges of muscle as best she could without full-on groping him.
“Oh, hey!” he exclaimed. She almost pulled her hand back, but then he lifted his chin at the screen, where the dete
ctive emerged from the alley and jostled through a crowd in pursuit of her suspect. “I lived not far from that street during my starving-musician days.”
“Yeah? I haven’t been to New York since I was a teenager.”
He shot her a puzzled look. “Doesn’t your sister live there?”
“Yeah...” A lie—I don’t like traveling—sat on the tip of her tongue, but she couldn’t voice it. No matter how much the truth hurt. “She’s never invited me.”
A disapproving whistle ruffled her hair as he kissed the top of her head. “Sorry to hear that.”
“Yeah, the Reid penchant for distance runs strong in that one.”
And in me.
He was kind enough not to call her on her hypocrisy. “No desire to break the cycle?”
Okay, so maybe he was calling her on it a little bit. He hadn’t specified her sister in that challenge. So it was probably directed her way, too.
“Years ago, maybe. But a person gets tired of being turned away after a while. It’s easier not to push. Chalk it up to a Stella problem, not a me problem.” It hurt less to believe Stella was just afraid to connect after Ryan Rafferty’s rejection, that there wasn’t something fundamentally unlovable about Maggie. Desperation too readily revealed the truth—Maggie cared more than Stella did.
And Maggie would have been blind not to see that some of the fault didn’t lie inside herself. Had it just been her parents who deserted her, it would be one thing. But Stella, too... And then Jeff.
Asher’s thumb drew lazy zigzags along the first few vertebrae of her back. “Sounds like your sister’s dealing with some rejection issues.”
“One could say.” She waited for what she thought was an inevitable “and so are you,” but it never came.
He just sighed and kissed her forehead. “And it’s a shame it’s gotten in the way of you seeing New York as an adult. You have some catching up to do.”
She let her hand slide a little lower, a subtle exploration of his six-pack. “Where should I start?”
“With food. I could give you a food tour around all the boroughs that would last for months.” His voice lowered. “Unless you were referring to starting something with your hand there. In that case, higher, lower, stay where you are—I’m up for whatever.”
The sexy growl of his voice hooked her core and pulled her in until there was no possible way she could scramble back. Physically, or situationally—he’d thrown that out there, and it couldn’t be erased.
Nor did she want it to be.
“That sounds like way more fun than spending the night talking about my messed-up family.”
“I’m happy to show you that I think you’re pretty damn awesome.” His smile faltered. “But something tells me it would be good for you to open up, Maggie.”
Open up.
Yeah, not happening. She’d already said too much. “Something tells me it would be better not to talk.”
His brows knitted. “You just want to finish the movie?”
“Nope.” She kissed him. Salt lingered on his lips from the popcorn. He opened his mouth, deepening the kiss, and cola sweetness flooded her tongue. His beard rasped against her chin, and her belly heated.
A cold nose pressed to her cheek.
“Hey!” She nudged the dog’s face away. “This doesn’t involve you.”
Jackson grumbled and sat back down on the floor with a thunk.
Asher chuckled. His fingers explored her back, playing an irregular pattern of whorls and strokes over her sweater and tank top. “And here I accepted your invitation thinking it would be a rare night with no kids interrupting.”
She shook her head. “Dogs are the worst. They have no shame. And given the layout of my house—” she motioned a hand toward the archway that connected the living room to the dining area and kitchen “—I can’t exactly close the door on him. Though I could put him in the bedroom.”
“You could...” Tracing one of her collarbones with a thumb, he studied her, gaze darkening. He dipped in to kiss her again, soft nips that trailed from her lips along her jaw.
She gripped his hard biceps and let her head fall back. “Or we could go to the bedroom.”
“Could we now,” he said, the words a growl. His lips on her neck, the rasp of his beard on her tender skin, hinted he’d be good with her suggestion.
Being honest about physical need was way easier than having her emotions exposed. She’d pick stripping off clothes to stripping off her protective layers any day. Desire simmered in her veins, dancing along her limbs, pushing her to start with his shirt. Provided that’s what he wanted. With his mouth busy kissing her shoulder, she couldn’t see his expression to decipher his feelings on the matter.
“If you’re up for it,” she said casually, running a palm along the firm muscles of his back, walking his T-shirt up with her fingers until the hem bunched in her hand and her fingertips found warm, smooth skin. His muscles twitched under her touch.
He splayed his own hands on her waist and lifted his head. A mix of desire and caution swirled behind his glasses. “I am, but this is a bit odd for me, Maggie. I’m not ending your average dry spell.”
She cupped his cheek. She’d been so focused on guarding her own space that she hadn’t considered how much of a shift this would be for him. “Is it weird? Being with someone new? Rather... Being with a woman?”
A corner of his lips curved up. “Not in a bad way. Feels pretty damn good. Probably why I’m nervous. Because I know I’m into you—and I’m good with that—but you don’t share those feelings. Not beyond sleeping together, anyway.”
Nerves lodged in her throat. That was the problem with this man. Yeah, he turned her on in all the ways. Him shelving books was single-handedly the sexiest thing she’d witnessed in years. And she was desperate to see him with a guitar in his hands. To hear that low voice run up and down some melodic, mellow lyrics as his fingers coaxed out some acoustic magic. But he was so much more than the physical. His ability to make her laugh, his tenderness with his daughter and Jackson, his commitment to life—he could steal her heart if she let him.
Or maybe he’d manage to capture it anyway, even if she didn’t want him to.
He watched her, seeming to know she was mulling things over and patiently giving her the time to do that. He stroked a hand along her knee.
“If I don’t want anything beyond having my way with you tonight, is that okay?”
His hand paused in its idle path. He rubbed his other palm over his lips. “Normally, I’d say no. I’ve never been one for casual sex. But maybe that’s what I need. A training wheels situation.” He winced. “Not that a bike analogy is flattering at all—”
She cut him off by fixing her mouth to his. Swiveling on the couch, keeping her close with a hand at her nape and one at her waist, he landed on his back. She sprawled on his front, fingers buried in his soft hair. The new angle made her feel everything all at once. The warmth of his body, stretched under hers. Her breasts pressed against his sculpted chest, nipples straining to be freed from the four infernal layers of fabric preventing them from rubbing against his skin. Arousal pooled between her thighs, teased and encouraged by the hard swell of him behind the fly of his pants.
Letting her legs fall to the sides, straddling him, she rocked, centering herself over that tempting ridge.
“Training wheels are okay, then,” he murmured in her ear, his breath coming in quick bursts.
They worked for her, too. Maybe he’d be a safe place to test getting a little closer to someone. “They’re just fine.”
Canine complaints filled her ear as two giant paws landed on the couch next to Asher’s head.
She sat up, still straddling Asher’s strong hips, and glared at the dog. “You are a menace.”
Jackson cocked his head and warbled.
Asher laughed and strong-armed his
pet back to the floor. “About that bedroom?”
“Down the hall.”
Jackson tried to follow as they made their way from the living room, but Maggie made him stay put with a firm command and a hand signal. With her other hand, she pulled Asher toward her room. Her ranch-style house wasn’t overly large. Two bedrooms took up the back half. Hers was decently spacious, and had a set of patio doors that opened to the backyard. She could see having a lazy morning with Asher on her Adirondack chairs.
If he wanted to stay over.
Did he?
She’d leave that question for later. For now, she had more important things to take care of.
Pulling him into her room, she motioned around with her free hand at the king-size bed made with a plush duvet, and the rest of the shabby chic furniture. His head turned slowly as he examined the space with the intent of a university professor conducting a sociological experiment.
“Asher,” she complained, tugging him toward the bed. “You’re not here to memorize my interior design skills.”
“Except I kind of am.” He stepped into her space, all heat and solidity and good man scents. “I want to know more about you, Maggie. I’m excited to take you over to that big-ass bed of yours and discover if your skin is as soft as your sweater is, but figuring out what makes you tick is important, too.”
Her heart skipped. Half excitement, half panic. She did a quick glance around the room—was there anything he could learn about her here that she didn’t want exposed? She’d had guys over before, but none of them had been observant like Asher. They’d been here for one thing, and that’s all she’d wanted to give them. But if someone was actually looking... Would he notice how she had pictures of her siblings and grandparents, but not her parents, scattered along her dresser? Was her simple decor the same as a neon emotionally stunted sign?
Something close to shame percolated in her stomach, and she dropped her forehead to his chest.