by Laurel Greer
“I know. I looked it up. But your smile is pretty damn sunny.” When she wasn’t lost in whatever past garbage her ex-husband had tossed on her, that was.
She turned. There wasn’t anywhere for her to go, though, not in the cramped store. The pram rocked as she bumped against it. But she didn’t look upset that they were in each other’s personal space, so he didn’t take a step back.
“Mine means warlike. Or something to do with lakes,” he threw out. “Scottish, of course, given my mom’s from there.”
Her expression softened. She reached up and ran a hand down his stubble. “Didn’t know you were into anthroponomastics.”
“Say what?”
“Name meanings.”
“Such an academic, showing off your ten-dollar words.”
She blushed.
He leaned in. “I like it.”
The pretty rosiness warming her light brown cheeks deepened. Her lips parted.
Christ, it would be so easy to close the distance, taste that mouth again.
She’d been too delicious to forget.
And had felt too good in his arms to bother to try.
He mentally slapped away the thought. She was just stuck on how to reply after he’d flirted with her with all the grace of a high school freshman.
Don’t take it as an invitation. A massage could be explained away as a friendly gesture. A kiss, not so much. A kiss lay over the line she’d drawn, and he wasn’t going to violate that line without clear permission.
Thumbing the center of her lower lip, the tiniest of caresses, he waited for a response.
She lost all the color in her face and whirled around.
His hopes sank to the bottom of his stomach.
Not the answer he wanted, but at least it was clear. He stepped backward, giving her space.
She picked up the tag hanging off the pram. “Damn. Way too expensive. My parents are buying me one of those top-of-the-line mountain-going strollers, so there’s no point in splurging on a second.”
And if he was going to surprise her with that dresser, he couldn’t also justify the carriage, no matter how much it made her eyes light up.
No matter how much he hated not being able to give her the world.
Chapter Six
Clunk.
Marisol let out a squeak and gripped the wheel tighter, startled by the sudden noise coming from under the hood of her car.
Thwap, thwap, thwap.
The wheel wasn’t pulling, but even so—not a good noise. Crap. She’d really wanted to be on time this afternoon. She was supposed to be meeting Lachlan and Maggie to go to the corn-and-burger fund-raiser the search and rescue crew was hosting as part of the town’s Fourth of July celebrations. They’d both given her a hard time and pointed out that she was acting like a Canadian by not taking the day off.
But days off didn’t exist in her world right now, not until the sixth of September.
Not after it, either.
Sighing, and thankful she had roadside assistance, she pulled off onto the wide shoulder. She rolled down her windows to prevent the car from getting too hot and cut the engine. A belt was probably on the verge of snapping. Too bad she didn’t have leggings on, she could fix it.
Provided leggings worked the same as nylons did as a makeshift belt on a car engine. Actually knowing how to replace a belt on the engine of a car would be kind of key, too. One of those moments where being an academic was less than useful. Having read a random fact in a book was not the same as actually being MacGyver.
She called for a tow, but there was only one Triple-A affiliated facility in Sutter Creek, and apparently there were delays. It was going to take a good forty-five minutes for them to get to her, given it wasn’t an emergency.
Tell that to the large club soda I had at lunch.
“I’m pregnant,” she threw out. Never knew when that would help.
“Oh, been there, honey,” said the female voice who’d answered the call. “How far along?”
“Six—I mean, seven months.” Caleb had reminded her of that when she and Lachlan had gone in for her now biweekly appointment last week.
The call center woman clucked her tongue. “I’ll do what I can to get someone your way as soon as I can. But the holiday means we’re short a truck.”
Damn. Thanking the woman, she hung up and tilted her seat back a few inches. At least she had a full bottle of water. Not that drinking was going to help with the tiny baby elbow digging into her bladder, but at least she wouldn’t get dehydrated. The sun angled through the passenger window of the car, catching Marisol’s right side. Sweat dotted her temples, and she scrounged for an elastic, then twisted her rapidly curling hair into a hasty bun.
She should text Lachlan, at least, apologize for being late.
Car trouble, she typed. Probably won’t make it for the BBQ.
Three dots appeared immediately, and then Where r u?
About twenty minutes down the highway.
His reply came within two seconds. B there in 15.
She was about to tell him not to bother, but God, she had to pee.
K, thx, she replied, adding, Don’t speed.
About twelve minutes later, a dot of forest green appeared in the distance on the winding highway that hugged the Gallatin River. So much for her insistence that he not speed. He passed her, then pulled a U-turn and parked behind her.
She could have gotten out to meet him, but watching him stride toward her through the side mirror kinda had the feel of a sexy-police-officer fantasy, which, hello. Sure, he had on a gray T-shirt and navy plaid shorts. But she could pretend he was plainclothes...
Stop objectifying your child’s father.
She snorted at herself. Objectifying Lachlan was exactly what had gotten her into this mess.
“What seems to be the problem, miss?” he drawled. He braced his hands on the open window ledge and smirked.
“So I wasn’t the only one thinking officer-and-damsel-in-distress. Nice touch with the aviators,” she teased. Except it wasn’t a joke. Those sunglasses, plus his wind-mussed caramel hair and crooked grin, made him look like a fricking model. His grip on the car making his biceps bulge didn’t hurt, either.
Her mouth went dry.
I’m just thirsty.
One of his eyebrows rose above the dark frames. “You’ve got water right next to you.”
Crap, there she went thinking out loud again. “I didn’t want to risk having to use the facilities even more.”
He snorted. “Good thing I came to get you.” He opened her door and offered her a hand. “Grab what you need and leave the key under the mat. Freddy’ll call when he gets the car to the shop.”
Taking his fingers, she stood, way less gracefully than she would have liked. Her ears went hot. “I swear, I’m going to have the poise of an elephant once I’m full-term.”
Smiling softly, he kissed her cheek. “Stop it. You’re beautiful.”
“You have to say that. You’re the one who did this.”
Except, he didn’t have to say it. Nor did he have to shift closer to her and scrape his teeth along his lower lip. Or tighten his fingers on hers.
A thrill of heat coursed through her limbs. He was under no obligation at all to want her. Nor should she want him to want her. But...did he still?
She couldn’t see his eyes. His sunglasses were too mirrored.
Uh, you don’t need to see his eyes. Those predatory shoulders? They say it all.
“Lachlan?”
He shook his head slowly, amazement flirting on his lips. With his free hand, he palmed the side of her belly. “I did do this,” he said lightly. “And just when I think I’m used to it, I get reminded... And I’m thrown for a loop all over again.”
“You always throw me for a loop,” she murmured.
<
br /> Okay, why had she said that? Stupid.
But the way he was caressing her stomach, it wasn’t a bonding-with-the-kid touch like he’d done before. His jaw was too slack for that.
And the flicker of a pulse at his throat—that said I love touching your body.
Maybe a little I want to touch it some more.
She reached behind her and swung the car door shut, then leaned against it. Their linked fingers meant she brought him with her.
Lifting his sunglasses to the top of his head, she stared into his questioning eyes.
And damn it. It was hot, and she was bothered, and she was too tired to pretend it had to do with her broken-down car or the July sun or anything except the six-plus-feet of masculine perfection waiting with his head tilted slightly.
“Want me to grab your briefcase?”
“After.”
His eyes were hope and need and melted chocolate. “What’s first?”
“Kiss me.” She ran her hands up his chest. God, she’d been wanting to do that for weeks, and the hard muscles did not disappoint.
His mouth teased the skin by her ear. “Where?”
The drawled question fluttered in her hair. Anticipation shimmered along her skin.
Everywhere.
But that was impossible.
So she settled, caught his jaw with a finger and pulled his lips to hers.
Settled. Ha.
As if kissing Lachlan Reid would ever be settling.
With nips and brushes, a hand along her neck, one at her hip, he laid a mesmerizing kiss on her.
Sweet Mary, his mouth.
How could it get better?
She didn’t want to think about how much he’d practiced on his trip across continents. But who cared? She had him here, now, and he was the key to everything locked up inside her.
No.
She had critical reasons for her walls. They needed to stay intact.
No matter how blissful it was to dig her fingers into his back and press every part of her against his hard body.
“Lachlan.” She turned her face to the side.
He held her head to his chest, which rose and fell rapidly.
“Mari,” he croaked. “Forgot you taste like sunshine, too.”
She exhaled, shifted out of his embrace. She didn’t know how to reply to that. Or how to get across the reasons why any more kisses would lead them further into stupidity.
“We should go. I really—Well—I mean—The kid’s using my bladder as a trampoline.”
* * *
A couple of minutes later, Lachlan had Marisol ensconced in his air-conditioned truck. She looked marginally less pink, but entirely still flustered.
He got that. His heart sprinted, could probably keep up with the truck were it to sprout legs and run on the shoulder.
He wasn’t stupid enough to believe she’d let him kiss her again. No, her shuttered eyes blinked “permanently closed” more effectively than a damned neon sign.
Could he live off the memory of nuzzling her ear? Of the jolt of arousal that had slammed through him when she turned his face and kissed him?
Driving to Bozeman would remind him of her melting in his arms on the side of the road for the rest of his damned life.
She shifted in her seat, and he glanced at her. Her gaze focused on her hands, and she toyed with a delicate trio of gold rings on her right middle finger.
“We need to stay friends,” she muttered.
“You’re telling me friends kiss like that?”
“Hence not kissing.”
He suppressed a laugh, but it huffed out through his nose. “Kind of broke that rule.”
“That we did.” Her expression shifted, a battle between resistance and yearning.
“You look torn.”
She rolled her head along the headrest, tilting her face to look at him. “I am.”
Since when? She’d been the one to make the rules in the first place. Rubbing his mouth with a hand, he covered up the I-told-you-so that was flirting with the corners of his lips. “Sounds like a dilemma.”
“It is.” She frowned. “I...”
He waited.
“I really like kissing you, Lachlan.”
His jaw dropped. There was no covering the shock from that. Not that she enjoyed making out with him. He’d felt that in her pliable body, in her eager kiss. But that she’d admitted it? Where was the full-on, that-was-a-terrible-decision litany he’d been anticipating?
“Well, let me know when you want to do it again,” he said.
She grimaced.
“Or not.” Yeah, that was more in line with his expectations. He really needed to figure out where her head was at. Probably wrapped up in her past. He could head her off at the pass, there. “Tell me about your divorce.”
“God, why?”
Keeping his eyes on the road, he reached over with one hand to stroke her forearm. “I want to understand.”
Damn, silence could be loud sometimes. The truck rumbled and the radio played, but not loud enough to cover Marisol’s breath hitching.
“He left me in the hospital. And in a hell of a lot of debt, to boot.”
Uh, what? Money troubles, he was familiar with. And that explained all her questions about his business and her hesitance about him getting involved financially in her life. But an illness of some kind? That was a surprise. He snuck a glance at her. She was staring out the side window, face completely turned from him. “When were you in the hospital?”
“After a miscarriage.”
Tick, tick, boom. The word landed like a time-release grenade.
Heartache and clarity throbbed in his chest. “Oh, sunshine...”
She shrugged.
He almost pulled the car over—his arms clamored to hold her—but she was folded into herself, clearly needing physical space. “Sorry’s never enough, Marisol, but even so, I am.”
“Thanks.”
“Were you worried you’d miscarry our baby?”
“Uh, yeah. And not exactly past tense.”
Fear flickered behind his breastbone. Too fragile, life... But at the same time, not. He clenched the steering wheel instead of reaching over and touching her bump, confirming the solidity, the reality. “Seems like something that would have come up at a doctor’s appointment.”
“It has. Caleb and I talked about it before you arrived at my first appointment. He, like my doctor in Vancouver, isn’t worried. My previous miscarriage was just chance, not because of a recurring risk.”
“You don’t sound reassured.”
She shrugged. “You’re in the medical field. You know how things can go wrong.”
“I know how they can go right, too.” He cleared his throat. “Same thing with relationships.”
Yeah, he tended toward idealism. His sisters harassed him about being a romantic all the time. But he had no interest in being miserable like his parents, or lonely like Maggie and Stella. It wasn’t taking the risk to be with a person that caused problems, it was not being willing to put in the work, or being too selfish to be a team. He’d seen his grandparents celebrate their fifty-third wedding anniversary because of teamwork. And after Grams died, his grandfather had found love again, was happy living with his new wife under the Palm Desert sun. Love was worth it. He had to believe that.
Wanted to convince the woman currently worrying the edge of her seat belt of that, too.
He could love her so easily.
“I just want things to be platonic, Lachlan. Kissing proved me right—any physical intimacy confuses things. And parenting’s going to be confusing enough on its own.”
“You’re wrong, Maris—” The phrase stopped him. You’re wrong, Lachlan.
Christ.
The last thing he wanted was to echo his f
ather. The man had a trademark on being an overbearing jerk.
He shot her an apologetic look. “I mean, I don’t agree. But if your ex left you at such a critical time and left you in a bad place financially, I can see why you’re wary.”
That earned him a little smile of relief.
The lengths he’d go to get her to smile... Could get dangerous, really. But if she needed him to be patient, well, he could do that for her. Sometimes, being a team meant letting the other person take the lead for a while. Which, fine. He had no problem with that, and hopefully she’d one day want to kiss him again.
Sharing their lives still seemed too tall of a sell. He’d have to work up to that.
Chapter Seven
“Hello?”
The Monday after the long weekend, Marisol stood in the empty veterinary clinic waiting room at the end of the workday, hoping to bend Lachlan’s sister’s ear. The woman trained therapy dogs, and given Marisol’s proposed research surrounded canine empathy, she was curious to get a variety of perspectives. She’d scheduled a prospectus presentation date for mid-August, and the thing wasn’t written yet. Running a freshman psychology course was seriously cutting into her time. Also, napping. She felt guilty every time she passed out on the couch, but couldn’t help it. The baby demanded naps. And being exhausted had an adverse effect on her blood pressure.
“Hello? Anyone here?” she asked, peering down the hall behind the reception desk. Evan was nowhere to be seen.
Maggie’s curly blond head poked out from the staff room doorway at the end of the corridor. “Is someone out—Oh.”
Marisol smiled, despite Maggie’s dull tone. “Got a minute?”
“I guess.” She waved Marisol into the staff room, but didn’t look too pleased about it.
Nerves jangled in Marisol’s stomach. It didn’t seem right to dive into “can you help me with my research” with someone wearing a scowl worthy of the Grumpy Cat poster on the wall.
“My brother’s out back,” Maggie said, turning away to clean the coffeepot at the sink under a wide double window. Back when the building had been a house, this room must have been the kitchen. Marisol smiled at the old-school, harvest-gold appliances, nearly facsimiles of the ones still housed in her abuelita’s kitchen in the basement suite of her parents’ Whistler home.