Текст книги "Best Worst Mistake"

Автор книги: Lia Riley

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Текущая страница: 5 (всего у книги 15 страниц)

Chapter Seven

WILDER HUNCHED IN the big leather chair as the cheerful sounds of Thanksgiving preparations hummed throughout Sawyer’s cabin. Quinn hadn’t arrived and already his stomach muscles clenched. It wasn’t just her gorgeous face or that infectious laugh that set him on edge. No, it was when she said, “No use crying over baked beans.” As soon as those words left her mouth, that one bad memory, long shoved into the “never think about again” mental file sprang front and center.

A dimly lit stall. The earthy, rich smell of hay. A small hand settling on the small of his back. “Why are you crying?”

No. Impossible. That couldn’t have been her.

He glanced at his watch for the fourth time in ten minutes. Maybe she reconsidered coming. Then again, Archer had just mentioned that Kit, a second cousin and his youngest brother’s best friend, was giving her a ride out to the ranch.

Good for Kit and his two long strong legs and the SUV he could drive without any problem. What did Wilder care? He took another swig of beer. He didn’t.

Why are you crying?

He cleared his throat. Across the coffee table, Annie’s son, Atticus, making engine sounds with his mouth, drove Matchbox cars between the stacks of Astronomy Today and Vegan Life magazines. The kid kept sneaking a not-so-subtle stare at his legs.

Finally Wilder couldn’t bear it.

He didn’t feel like playing patty-cake at the moment. “Got something to say, pal?” He growled, leveling his best junkyard dog expression. “Spit it out why don’t you?”

But Atticus didn’t scamper off; instead he took the question as an invitation and crawled over. “Is it true?” The kid’s eyes were wide. “That you’re a pirate?”

Wilder snorted. “What would make you say that?”

Atticus glanced around, making sure the coast was clear before leaning in and whispering, “Mama said you had a fake leg. I thought only pirates have wooden legs but you don’t have a patch.”

“Or a ship.”

The kid grinned. “Or a parrot.”

“Guess I’m not a pirate then.”

Atticus looked crestfallen for half a second before perking back up. “Can I see it?”

“My leg?”

“Yeah.”

Everyone was busy bustling around in the kitchen. Outside came the rhythmic thud of an axe as Sawyer chopped kindling. He’d just gotten in a few minutes ago but looked strained. Something must have happened with the fire.

Atticus waited patiently. He had the look of his mother about him, sweet, kind, and a little wild with all that natural trust. The two of them were so open, always hugging, saying “I love you.”

That wasn’t Grandma Kane’s way. She held court in the kitchen like a dowager queen bee, perched in a chair beside the oven, apparently willing to let Archer take over cooking the turkey but not without her eagle eye supervision, as if her mere presence would keep the meat from getting too dry.

“Time to baste again,” she announced.

Archer had been sneaking up on his fiancée, Edie, who was halfway through frosting a very large, very delicious-looking chocolate cake. “Grandma.” His youngest brother turned with a mock exasperated sigh. “I did that five minutes ago, and five minutes before that.”

“I don’t want a dried-out bird,” she barked.

Archer advanced on her slowly, arms outstretched like a zombie, groaning in the back of his throat.

“What are you doing, boy?” Unwilling amusement creeping into her voice.

“This. Is. My. Turkey.” He did a deep monster voice. “I. Hunted. The. Turkey. I. Am. Cooking. This. Turkey.”

“Are you out of your ever-loving mind?” Grandma yelped, warding him off with two hands.

He broke from zombie mode to duck and present his cheek before her puckered expression. “I am waaaaaaiting.”

“For what?”

“Don’t you have a kiss for the cook?”

Grandma laughed, once, short, and sharp before swallowing it back down. But she did give him a quick, frosty peck. “Good lord, I’ve said it once, but I’ll say it a hundred times. Archer James, you could charm the habit off a nun.”

He gave a little bow. “Pity there’s no convent for hundreds of miles.”

“Yeah,” Edie said, giving him a mock-stern expression over one shoulder. “A national tragedy.”

“And what about you, Freckles?” Archer sprang toward her, wrapping his arms around her waist. “Surely that pretty mouth has got a kiss for the cook too?”

“Cook?” Edie stuck her finger in the frosting and swiped a dab on the tip of his nose. “Who’s a cook? You fussed over that bird all morning. Annie and I were the ones who made the salad—”

“Mashed the potatoes,” Annie said, stirring gravy on the stove. “Candied the yams. Cranned the berries.”

“Put together the icky cream-of-mushroom green bean casserole you insisted on.” Edie crinkled her nose. “Fried onions smell gross.”

“Now hold up, ladies. That dish is the best part of Thanksgiving.” Archer hooked his thumbs in his belt loops and puffed out his chest. “Except for my damn fine turkey.”

Edie wrapped her arms around his neck and gave him a short but enthusiastic kiss. “You are a damn fine turkey.”

Everyone burst out laughing as he wiped his nose clean.

Grandma caught Wilder’s watchful gaze and allowed a tight-lipped smile.

Something had happened to his family. These antics weren’t what he had known. Somehow while he was gone, laughter and lightness crept in. Even Grandma wasn’t as ornery.

It was as if everyone had moved toward a brighter future. Everyone except for him.

“So can I?” Atticus repeated. “See your leg?”

Shit, he’d forgotten the rug rat was lurking down there.

“It’s not all that interesting but sure.” He reached over and hiked up his 501s to reveal the prosthetic’s smooth plastic.

“Whoa! That’s so cool,” Atticus murmured in admiration. “You’re like half robot.”

More than half, junior. A tin man without a heart.

The door banged open as Kit barreled in with two six-packs of beer. “Happy Turkey Day,” he boomed.

And there she was, Quinn, looking a little shy and clutching a glass pan. She turned in his direction as if by instinct and another shudder of recognition ran through him.

Those big brown eyes, full of kindness and humor. She couldn’t be that long-ago girl—the one who saved him when he was on the brink.

And there he was, sitting in a chair like an invalid, with his fake leg out for the world to see.

The room fell silent except for the Bing Crosby CD warbling from the stereo, the one Annie had insisted on for holiday atmosphere.

“Hey, guys, did you know Uncle Wilder is half robot?” Atticus said, completely missing the awkwardness. “He’s like a super cool superhero.”

Everyone broke into uncertain laughter.

“Yeah, a regular Iron Man,” Archer said, suddenly fiddling with the oven setting.

Sawyer entered the room with his arms loaded with wood. “Figure this should last the night.”

“Good lord,” Annie said, wiping her hands on her calico apron, “that should keep us warm for a week.”

“What can I say, I like my fire hot.” He gave her an eyebrow waggle as she giggled and blushed.

Jesus. Wilder rocked his head against the chair. Somewhere hell was freezing over and Satan was figure skating. Even stoic, sensible Sawyer had guzzled the contentment Kool-Aid. He’d finished rolling down his jeans when a pair of green leather ankle boots came to rest on the edge of his field of vision, boots that capped off a long pair, a hell of a long and lovely pair, of legs.

That connected to a most interesting set of hips.

An hourglass waist.

Leading to . . .

Shit, he stared like an idiot.

Quinn peered over the top of her glasses. The modern frames suited her, bold and colorful. “So I brought your favorite.”

His mouth dried. Her jacket was unzipped and the t-shirt inside said, “Reading Is Awesome.” He couldn’t disagree, but even more awesome was the way the fitted cotton hugged her—

“I’m referring to the Rice Krispies . . .” Her lip quirked in one corner as he went red. “Jeez, you should really see your expression right now.”

He couldn’t believe it, but a damn blush had crept up the back of his neck, marched toward his ears. He scratched the scruff on his jaw, painfully aware his hand had a slight tremble.

“You made these?”

“Just for you. I didn’t bring a spoon for you to lick but hopefully it passes muster.” She waved the pan under his nose. “It was supposed to be easy, recipe.com said. A foolproof recipe. Except apparently I am a fool with a talent for burning butter and scalding marshmallows. But I got there in the end. Barely.”

“Thank you,” he said gruffly. He didn’t know how else to convey how much this simple gesture meant to him. “I haven’t had one of these since . . . well . . . in a long time.”

“I’ll go set them in the kitchen,” she said gently, as if sensing he was fraying down to some sort of invisible breaking point. “Oh, hey, I also forgot my purse at your cabin. I realized when I got home. Can I swing by after dinner? I feel naked without it.”

He gave a nod, watching her walk away. Don’t think about her naked.

Something, or someone, tugged his jeans. The rug rat again.

“She likes you,” Atticus said.

“No one likes me,” he replied. “I’m scary.”

Atticus blinked before shaking his head. “Nah. You’re not scary. Just sad.”

“I WON’T BE able to eat another bite for the rest of the year,” Annie said, nudging the yams toward Quinn. “Can you finish off this last little bit?”

Quinn shook her head with a rueful laugh. “My mouth says yes, but my stomach says, ‘Hey, what about all those pies and cakes over there?’ ” She pushed back her seat. “Let me give you a hand washing up.” The table groaned under the weight of the biggest Thanksgiving meal she’d ever seen.

“No way.” Annie held up a hand, looking surprisingly intimidating for a tiny, blond-haired woman. “Kit Kane is the dish dog. He lost a bet and this is his punishment.”

“Woof,” Kit said good-humoredly, rising to collect the dirty plates.

“You’re gambling? Looks like we Kanes are rubbing off on you yet, Annie Carson,” Archer said, sliding his arm over the back of Edie’s chair and giving his flat stomach a contented pat.

“If Kit is so foolish as to stake dozens of dirty dishes on a taste test and lose, far be it from me to stop him.” Annie shot back.

“What’s this all about?” Edie asked with a giggle.

“You’ll read about it next week. It’s part of an article I wrote for the Brightwater Bugle comparing vegetarian meat products to the real thing. Kit volunteered as my tough-talking taste tester. He assured me he’d pick the “real” meat dish every time. Bet Thanksgiving-dinner dishes on the outcome. Let’s just say he failed. Miserably.”

Kit threw up his hands. “Turns out I like Fakin’ Bacon.”

Archer mock gagged as Annie smugly set her hands on her hips. “Looks like Carson won this round, Cowboy.”

Good-natured banter flew around the table except in one corner, down at the end where Grandma (Quinn tried to call her Mrs. Kane but that went down like a lead balloon. The older woman frostily claimed that she’d earned the title along with her grey hair.) and Wilder watched in silence. Quinn’s heart gave a little pang. They both had the air of people who wanted to join in, to laugh and joke around, but didn’t quite know how to start. And what was going on between them?

Quinn dabbed her mouth and resmoothed Annie’s sweet hand-embroidered napkin back across her lap. This was a far cry from her earlier meal. The one at Mountain View Village where Dad barely touched his plate. He had been less responsive than usual, probably tired and out of sorts from yesterday’s misadventure. She’d had a few lukewarm invites to go around to dinner at different Higsby homes tonight, but this was better, even with the strangeness that existed between her and Wilder.

Her relatives would be full of questions about Dad, about his prognosis and whether or not she’d take that test.

Somehow it leaked that Dad’s condition was genetic, traced from his mother’s side. Grandma married into the Higsby clan but had died too young, in her early fifties. People muttered that she’d been acting strangely before she had the car accident. Testing had confirmed the genetic Alzheimer’s.

Now Quinn had a choice—to test or not. The trouble was, she didn’t know which was worse . . . confirming that a terrible fate awaited you, or not knowing and hoping for the best.

It was a fifty-fifty chance. Maybe the gene was heads and she was tails.

But she didn’t want to think about it. Not now.

Annie and Edie couldn’t convince her to stay seated when it came time to serve dessert. Annie had baked a pumpkin pie from an heirloom Sugar Pie variety that grew in her garden, plus oatmeal cookies. Edie made pecan pie, the chocolate cherry cake, and a snickerdoodle cobbler that made Quinn’s eyes bug out of her head. Her own Rice Krispies Treats looked elementary in comparison.

“Oh, great choice. So classic,” Edie said with an encouraging smile.

“I . . .” Quinn wasn’t sure what to say. It seemed strange to say Wilder mentioned them.

“Your ma used to make those,” Grandma said, her voice unreadable.

Everyone paused for a moment.

“Did she?” Archer said, midway to snagging a cookie. “I can’t remember.”

“I do,” Wilder said shortly.

“Well, I just want to take the opportunity to thank everyone for making me feel so welcome.” Quinn finished cutting a Rice Krispies Treat, set it on a plate, and walked it down to Wilder.

“Can I get you one?” she asked Grandma.

“Not me.” Grandma sniffed. “Too sweet for my taste.”

“You’re full of sugar is why,” Archer said, breaking the tension, and everyone returned to the serious business of eating dessert.

Edie’s snickerdoodle cobbler was absolutely delicious but it was hard to chew under Sawyer’s continued scrutiny. He kept watching her. But why? It was like she’d done something illegal. Having lusty thoughts about his big brother wasn’t a crime, right?

Right?

“Fire get sorted out?” Wilder asked abruptly, wiping his mouth.

“Fire?” Grandma’s fork clattered next to the pumpkin pie.

“Yes,” Sawyer said, speaking carefully. “One of the volunteer firemen was nearby, saw the flames early and called it in. House is pretty damn well destroyed. They had to put lots of wet stuff on the red stuff. Looks like it started in the garage, which is strange because it was empty. The owners hadn’t moved in yet. Must have been electrical.”

Wilder frowned, eyes narrowed. “But it’s a new house, right?”

“Yep.” Sawyer nodded. “Just finished the permitting process. Electrician is going to have a lot to answer for.”

“Nothing was recovered?” Wilder pressed.

“Only part of a dirty old sock.” Sawyer shrugged. “Probably left by one of the builders.”

“Well, all’s well that ends well,” Grandma interjected with uncharacteristic shakiness.

“That’s right,” Edie said. “And I just want to say how happy I am to spend this Thanksgiving with all of you. I’ve dreamt of having a holiday like this for a long time. I am so thankful you are making my dreams come true.” She wiped her bright shining eyes and turned to beam at Archer.

“Aw, hell,” Archer said softly. “I’m thankful for each of those freckles.”

“Get a room, you two,” Kit hollered from the sink. “I’m thankful for the game tonight. Enough of all this hugging and kissing.”

“We like hugs and kisses,” Atticus piped up. “I’m thankful for my puppy, Orion. And for my mom. And Sawyer.”

“Oh, honey, me too.” Annie pressed a hand over her heart.

“I’m thankful for both of you,” Sawyer said, rumpling Atticus’s hair with one hand while tightening his grip on Annie’s hand with the other. “My life is better with you in it.”

“What about you, Grandma?” Atticus asked. “What are you thankful for?”

“Well . . . I’m, let’s see now . . .” She fiddled with her dessert plate.

“How about having your three handsome and most favorite grandsons back together under one roof?” Archer’s smile was easy but his eyes seemed to ask for something.

“Yes,” she muttered. “Took the words right out of my mouth.”

“What about you, Wilder?” Quinn asked right when it looked like conversation would resume. How was it that they were all so frightened of him? It was as if they hosted a wild bear in the corner and no one wanted to poke it with a stick.

His head snapped up and he stared at her impassively. “Books. I’m thankful for books.”

“Good answer.” She smiled. “I hope from now on you come down each week and place your order with me directly.”

“What’s that all about? You’ve been reading, brother?” Sawyer asked curiously, glancing between them.

“Yep.” Wilder’s one word answer hung across the table for a moment.

“He’s one of the most well-read people I’ve come across,” Quinn said.

Kit burst out laughing at the sink. “Now that’s a surprise.”

“Why?” Quinn asked.

“You weren’t exactly valedictorian material in school, were you, cuz?”

“Nope.” Wilder responded, not looking at anyone.

“What sort of material were you?” Quinn asked, determined to keep him engaged in the conversation. “Athlete?”

“That was Sawyer.” Wilder’s lips turned into an uneven smile.

“Oh. It must have been all that charm. Prom King for sure.”

Archer covered up a laugh with a mock cough.

“That would have been Archer,” Wilder said tightly.

“What was your skill then?” she asked.

“Suspensions,” Grandma snapped. “He was gifted in getting kicked out of school.”

“Kicked out of school.” Atticus’s eyes grew wide. “By the principal? For what?”

“Being bad.” Wilder tipped an invisible hat at Quinn. “For being a real bad guy.”

Chapter Eight

IT WAS QUIET on the drive home. The truck lights shined over high packed snowbanks and an empty road. Kit listened to talk radio and Quinn was acutely aware of Wilder’s silent presence in the backseat. Why did he have such a rift with his lovely family? Despite being in the center of a warm and affectionate crowd, he’d looked alone all through dinner and then during the football game. And no one seemed to know how to bridge the gulf. The loneliness that surrounded him made her throat tighten.

“Don’t forget to go by Wilder’s place first.” She cleared her throat as Kit turned onto Main Street.

“Yep, got the memo.” Kit shot her a quick sideways glance. “Not a problem.”

She looked out the window at the closed storefronts. “It’s nice living in such a small place. While my truck is getting fixed I can walk everywhere. That would never happen in L.A.”

Kit coughed into his fist. “You like your place?”

“It’s a cute rental, bright and cheerful. Looks like the flowerbeds will be amazing come spring. I think the owner is traveling overseas.”

“Yeah. Marigold.” Kit said the name like it cost him something. “Goldie is off gallivanting around the world. Finding herself or something, probably doing yoga in India as we speak.”

“I’d love to go to Europe someday. Her adventures sound great.”

“Peachy keen,” he muttered, turning down the narrow steep grade of Castle Lane while Wilder said nothing at all.

Kit parked the truck in front of the cabin and Quinn jumped out, grateful to escape the sudden awkward silence. She’d put her foot in it with Kit but wasn’t sure what “it” was. She waited for Wilder to emerge and followed him toward the porch. Even though they walked a foot apart, their shadows merged in the high beams. There was a quiet jingle as he dug his keychain out of his coat pocket.

She kicked the snow off her boots. “I had a nice time tonight.”

He froze, holding the door open. “I did too, surprisingly.”

She stepped into the dark, narrow hall. He flicked the overhead light on and she turned, gasping, not expecting to find him near enough that she could make an in-depth study on why his irises were such a perfect green.

“What are you lookin’ at?” he asked hoarsely.

“I think your eyes are the same shade as my ring.” He flinched when she set her palm against his scruffy cheek, comparing. “Yep. A near perfect match.” This nervous inner jumpy feeling was going to give her a stomachache. “My birth stone is a peridot. I was born at the end of August. Virgo alert, sorry.”

His thick brows knit. “What’s that mean?”

“Apparently I should be a clean-freak perfectionist.” She shrugged. “Except I’m an outlier because ew sums up my feelings on the subject of chores. I hate doing dishes and forget about folding laundry. But then again I do like to color code and alphabetize my bookshelves and arrange my comic collection by year so maybe there’s something to it after all.”

He shrugged out of his jacket and hung it on a chair. “Didn’t peg you for a comic fan.”

He wasn’t cute or charming, just bluntly honest. After all those bullshit years in Hollywood, it was refreshing to speak plainly. “I wouldn’t say I’m your average fan, more like a champion of the underdog. See, my collection consists solely of failed superheroes.”

He was silent. If he breathed she couldn’t see the physical evidence.

“Everyone loves Batman, Spider-Man, Superman, The Avengers. But what about Ashtray, who kills villains with second-hand smoke?”

He dipped his chin, peering at her. “Ashtray?”

Her cheeks flushed. The only way to end this conversation was to cease talking but the brakes were off. “There’s also Echo Boy, the skilled mime, and the Incredible Spork, and don’t forget Captain Canada. He fought for truth and justice, but also socialized medicine and—”

There was a sound of a truck engine starting, wheels backing up.

They both exchanged surprised glances.

“Where the hell is he going?” Wilder’s thick hand-knit wool sweater made a scratching sound as he slid past her down jacket. He yanked open the door and the cold air was welcome relief against her hot cheeks. “Kit’s gone.”

“Oh no.” She hugged herself. “I wasn’t taking too long, was I? I know I have a tendency to talk a lot but—”

He shut the door, keeping his hand pressed against the wood. “My guess? This was a con job between him and my brother.”

“I’m not following.”

Wilder turned, pushing a hand through his hair. “He and Archer probably got it into their thick heads to play matchmaker. It’s exactly the kind of stunt they’d pull.”

She straightened her glasses. “You think Kit purposefully left me to . . .”

His Adam’s apple bobbed. “Force us to spend the night together.”

A zap of electricity coursed through the valley between her breasts. There wasn’t room in this tight space to think or inhale or do anything but stand here with this crazy desire to reach out and splay her hands across his broad chest, clutch his sweater and drag him closer.

Apparently she wasn’t as into funny wisecracking hipsters as big brooding alphas. For years she’d been doing it all wrong.

“I’ll call Sawyer and he’ll come fetch you.” He made a low frustrated grumble deep in his throat. “I hate being so fucking useless.”

“Stop that right now,” she said quickly. “First, I don’t want Sawyer to drive all the way out here—his cabin is miles away. Second, you are far from fucking useless.”

“I can’t drive.”

“Neither can I tonight and I’m not unusable.” His gaze shot to her face and she had to work for her next breath. “But walking in the dark is a little scary. Do you mind if we build up the fire, make tea and figure out what to do?”

“You think I’d let you set foot outside by yourself tonight? But I don’t have tea, Trouble.” His eyes gleamed and, God help her, she liked it. She was like a rabbit prancing under a hungry wolf’s snout with a placard that read, “Eat me! I’m delicious!”

She exhaled lightly. “Well, you have a pot that can boil water, right? My purse just so happens to contain my backup tea stash.” She sensed his question before he had a chance to ask. “Never know when a girl might need a quick cup of Egyptian licorice or peppermint or chamomile—but you seem like you might be a rooibos type of guy—”

His mouth covered hers. There wasn’t a warning. The rest of her babble hummed into his mouth, turning into a soft sigh. Oh, thank the lord, he felt it too then, this inexplicable connection between them.

“I should push you away, but can’t seem to get close enough.” He had her up against the wall, bracing his weight against either side of her head and she grabbed two handfuls of sweater and the thick wool felt as thick, masculine, and sexy as she hoped. As for the muscles beneath it . . . oh . . .

Oh yeah.

He slid his tongue against hers again with a husky moan. “This is a bad idea.”

“Stopping would be a worse one.” She broke the kiss to fasten her lips to the side of his powerful neck between thick cords of tendon, his stubble rough on her lips. He tasted like soap, salt, and man. His pulse increased when she reached to tangle her fingers in the bristly waves dusting his collar.

“What the fuck are we doing?” His fingers found her jacket’s zipper, grinding it open.

“What feels good?” She arched her back. “I want to forget everything for a night, don’t you?”

“I need more, that okay?”

“Yes. More.” She pressed her hips closer. “Good idea.”

His big hands slipped under the hem of her shirt, unapologetic and forthright, the warm calloused pads of his fingers rough against her cool stomach, as if his body temperature ran a few degrees higher than normal.

He took his time, exhibiting absolute control while all she could do was hang on for dear life, her face buried in his neck, writhing while his hands moved over her ribs, one at a time, as if climbing a ladder. She wanted to be against him in bed, to take his hand and slide it where her nipples were peaked, aching to be rolled between his thumb and forefinger. She wanted it rough and fast and urgent. But then, as much as it made her twist and moan, it was nice for him to take his time.

He was there soon enough, at the base of her bra, tracing the outline to her underwire, teasing the satin.

She bucked a little, urging him on. She needed to be in this moment, jam-pack every second with life. Tomorrow she took the test and soon her world might spin off its axis. Everyone had a clock, but hers might be ticking faster.

She took his face between her hands and his jaw flexed against her palms. “You are being too careful. If we do this, I don’t want to think. I want to feel.” This was a night to forget fear, to live without regret, to let go, be in the moment.

He didn’t answer.

“Wilder. Please, I want it rough.” To heck with being coy or flirtatious. She desperately needed this man to take her.

He leaned close, his hands sliding to the top of her bra, over the soft swell of sensitive flesh. “And you think that’s what I am?” His whisper was a challenge, spreading a tantalizing heat through the shell of her ear, a heat that ignited another flame, lower and brighter between her legs.

“I want to find out.” She shifted her weight, the seam of her jeans pressing through the thin lace of her panties, not quite relief, but a subtle caress.

He reached her bra straps, holding her steady with an authoritative grasp. In the shadows he looked enormous. He sucked her lobe with just enough pressure to make her eyes roll back in her head.

“Then we do it my way.” His voice was strained. “Get on my bed. Now.”

One of her least favorite parts about her Hollywood job was being bossed around. Told what to do as if she were some sort of robot that lived only to serve at her master’s pleasure. It wasn’t her thing.

Apparently unless she wanted the order.

Unless she craved the order.

There was a scrape of wood on the floorboards. The cane. She had forgotten his injury. His leg. Even his scarred hands. All she knew was the core of the man awoke something in her, primal, wild as his name.

Tomorrow the world could burn. Tonight was theirs.

She slid free, feeling him release her with tangible regret. Walking to the bedroom, she climbed on the mattress, running her hand up a bedpost. Soon she’d run her hand up him and the idea of his shaft against her palm made her clamp her knees together—the anticipation almost too intense to bear.

He took his time approaching. When he was close enough, he set the cane against the wall and limped closer, covering her hand on the post for a moment before reaching out to grab her wrist. There was a sense he marked his territory, staked his claim before reaching down to shove open his jeans.

“Want you to kneel.”

Goose bumps broke out along the base of her spine. This was happening fast, but that’s what she wanted, right? What she asked for. Rough anonymous sex. Or mostly anonymous. Except for the fact she had just spent the night with his whole family. That she knew the intimate details of his bookshelf. That she’d slept in his bed last night and could still remember the scent on the pillowcase. Clouds must have moved because moonlight appeared—suddenly she could see a little more, she could see . . . him.

He froze as if sensing her hesitancy.

It was like her body split into two, one part urging, “Go on, hurry up and do it already,” while the other took a step backward, whispering, “Hang on, what if there is more going on here? More than sex, more than tonight?”

The two opposing parts broke into a furious wrestling match, clawing, gnawing, biting, and generally rattling her brain loose.

“Something changed,” he said gently.

She flinched. “I’m not sure if I’m a one-night-stand sort of person after all.” The “do it” part of her brain shook a fist, howling, “Good God, woman, we’d be getting pleasured by a hot-as-hell badass if it wasn’t for you and your meddling morals.”

She pressed her knees to her chest, setting her chin down at the place they met. “I’m sorry.” Her heart pounded in her ears. “I’m not sure what I want to do here.”

“No.” He fixed himself, zipping his pants with a wince. “I should be the one to apologize. It’s been . . . a while. Guess I got carried away.”

Her gaze jerked to his. “No, really, I pushed.”

“I started it.”

She closed her eyes briefly. “Are we having some sort of guilt-off competition?”

He grunted, not without a trace of humor. “It’s a specialty of mine.”

“Well, consider yourself up against a grand master,” she said with a rueful laugh. “I will meet your apology with a shirt-wrenching, teeth-gnashing plea for forgiveness.”

“You don’t strike me as the kind of person who lives with a lot of regret.”

“Really, that’s your impression of me?”

He ran a hand up her arm in a light, gentle touch. “A bright spark. Beautiful. Happy. Confident.”

Maybe she picked the wrong job in Hollywood. “Smoke and mirrors.”

“Hrumph. Maybe I should borrow a little for myself.”