Just What I Needed

by Lorelei James

  you go off on a tangent.”

  “Okay with me.”

  “So I have to ask. Have you heard from Ramon?”

  I rubbed my cheek against Walker’s. I couldn’t get enough of feeling that beard on my skin. “I haven’t returned his calls or his texts. If I engage him at all, he’ll think I’ve reached the ‘forgive and forget’ stage and that’s not a possibility.” I paused. “Do you think that’s harsh?”

  “Sweetheart, before we showed up at his place, you talked about friendship cycles, so I suspect you knew the end of the cycle was near with Ramon.”

  “It’s still not easy. It’s not like I have a ton of friends.” I nestled my face in the crook of his neck and breathed him in, trying not to act like I’d just embarrassed myself with that admission.

  After a bit, he said, “What else is on your mind?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I can tell you’re restless.”

  “How?”

  “I’ve had my hand on your ass like three times and you haven’t batted it away and told me to behave.”

  “Maybe I want to see how sexy you are when you misbehave.”

  “You sure about that?”

  “Try me.”

  Walker slid his hands over my shoulders and up my neck. He tilted my head back so he could look at me. “Stay still.”

  My belly swooped at seeing the fire in his eyes. And that commanding tone . . . so hot.

  He kept his left hand at the base of my throat and our eyes locked as he moved in closer.

  I felt the heat of his breath as he feathered his lips across mine. Back and forth. Again and again. Soft and fleeting. I craved his kiss, wanting his tongue deep in my mouth as I threaded my fingers into his hair. But I remained still, letting him tease and torment me.

  When his tongue darted out and he slowly licked the inner rim of my bottom lip, I whimpered and closed my eyes.

  A sharp nip from his teeth had my eyes flying back open.

  “Watch me.”

  I was helpless to do anything else.

  The buttons on my blouse were no match for his deft fingers.

  His gaze roamed my face as he trailed the back of his hand down my jawline, then follow the column of my throat to the cleavage peeping out from the edges of my shirt. He teased that soft flesh with his rough-skinned knuckle, watching as I sucked in a quick breath and unconsciously bowed into his touch.

  Then he adjusted the angle of his wrist and palmed my left breast. “Perfect fit for my hand,” he said huskily.

  “Walker.”

  “You want my mouth here?” He swept the pad of his thumb across my nipple, his nostrils flaring as he watched the tip harden beneath my thin shirt and bra. “With you straddling my lap this way, I could feast on these luscious tits.”

  “Do it,” I urged.

  “Soon.” He lowered his face to my chest and ran that beard over every inch of my bare skin, like he was marking me. I almost had a tiny O just from that.

  Our mouths met and while hunger clawed at us both we kept the kiss on simmer, but it was tempting to crank it up and see how long it’d take to boil over.

  When I couldn’t take the teasing anymore, I said, “You’re being a serious distraction right now.”

  “Sorry.”

  “No, you’re not.”

  “Okay. I’m not. But I do understand you have a major project to finish. I’ll keep my distractions to a minimum until you tell me to do otherwise.”

  “Thank you for being so understanding.” I allowed one more kiss before I disentangled myself from him.

  He helped me out of his truck and we walked hand in hand to my car. “What’s your schedule like the rest of the week?”

  “Taking it day by day. But with three weeks to finish this textile piece, I’ll log a lot of studio hours. What’s yours like?”

  “No late nights on the job site.” He tugged my ponytail. “And there’s this sexy artist who’s offered to show me her etchings so I’ll make time for that.”

  I laughed.

  “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  “I just have to warn you that if my studio time is going well, it might be a while before you hear back from me.”

  “I’m a patient man.”

  “Happy to hear that, Walker. Chances are good I’ll test that.”

  Eleven

  WALKER

  I’d managed to be patient on Tuesday when I’d gotten a sweet but cryptic text from Trinity telling me the piece was going well and she planned an all-nighter.

  I left a voice mail midafternoon on Wednesday asking about her dinner plans. I sent her a brief text message too, knowing not everyone listened to their cell phone voice messages. In fact, in the fifteen years my mother owned a cell phone, she’d never set up voice mail, deeming it “too Technicolor,” and I hadn’t asked again.

  After no word from Trinity on Wednesday night, I woke Thursday morning to seven text messages, sent between three and five a.m., each more rambling than the last. The texts had both amused and concerned me. Especially the comment about her sucking at flirty sexts but being ready to flirt her butt off in person because she needed an activity to shrink the size of her buns.

  The cracks she made about her appearance annoyed me. The “I’ll insult myself first so you don’t have to bother” reflex had to have come from somewhere, and if I ever got my hands on that person I’d . . .

  Crack.

  I glanced down to see the plastic pen in my hand had snapped under my death grip. I let it fall to the desk and leaned back in my chair.

  During our conversation Monday night, Trinity had been more forthcoming than I’d expected, and yet I’d hated watching her struggle to explain herself. She hadn’t been looking for sympathy; she’d just wanted me to understand that being with her would be a challenge. She hadn’t tossed it out there as a dare to prove I was a man that could handle it, but I knew she wouldn’t have shared her vulnerability if she suspected that I couldn’t deal with it.

  So what was it about this woman who had me digging in my heels instead of sprinting far, far away from her?

  Granted, she was beautiful. But the glow that came from within called to me more than just her looks.

  She had a quirky sense of humor. From the first night I recognized that it matched mine, so I understood when she confessed a lot of people didn’t “get” her.

  She had a brain and she used it. Her hot, curvy body was just a side benefit.

  She was comfortable giving—and receiving—physical displays of affection. I couldn’t be with a woman who wouldn’t let me show that side of myself whenever I needed to.

  She was independent. She didn’t need me, but she wanted me. Me as a man, not as a Lund heir. As much as that relieved me, I wanted her to need me a little.

  Are you getting what you need from her? You aren’t sleeping with her, so there is no physical release. She hasn’t cooked you a meal, or let you cook one for her. She hasn’t even seen where you work.

  Even when my subconscious compiled a breakdown of all the things she didn’t do for me, I didn’t feel like I was giving and she was taking. Relationships were supposed to ebb and flow; they’d never be fifty-fifty. But I also knew if we didn’t specifically carve out time for each other from the start, we never would.

  Three fast raps sounded on my door before Betsy opened it. “Jase wants to know if you’re coming out for drinks with us.”

  “Thanks, but I have other plans.”

  Betsy considered me. “You are welcome to bring her.”

  “I know. Another time, okay?”

  “All right. But I do have one piece of advice.” She paused. “Flowers.”

  “Flowers. Meaning . . . ?”

  “Women like to get flowers from their man when it’s not a holiday, or a special occasion, or a bribe for sex, or an apology. ‘Just because I was missing you’ is always a welcome reason.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “You think I’m that clueless abou
t women, Bets?”

  “Walker, all men are clueless about women.” She grinned. “Until they find the one that matters. Then they start to pay attention.”

  She got that right. “Why are you here so late harassing me?” I said gruffly. “Don’t you have a drummer to bang or something?”

  “He’s a bassist,” she said with a sniff. “See what I mean about men not paying attention?”

  “I know he’s a bassist. I just couldn’t think of a better analogy. Except maybe if he was a string player and then ‘fiddle around with’ would work.”

  “Stick to sports analogies.”

  “’Night, Bets.”

  “’Night, boss.”

  —

  Armed with summer rolls and pad thai from Sawatdee—my favorite Thai place—I juggled the bunch of daisies and knocked loudly on the door to Trinity’s studio. I hadn’t shown up unannounced; I’d texted her I was coming over.

  While I waited for Trinity to answer, I noticed a security camera in the corner.

  The door opened as far as the chain; then a sliver of Trinity’s face appeared in the crack. “Walker? What are you doing here?”

  I held up the bags of food. “I texted that I was bringing you dinner. Didn’t you get it?”

  She shook her head. “I leave my phone in the house so I’m not distracted.”

  We stared at each other for a moment.

  “Is that your way of telling me to leave?”

  “No!”

  I lifted a brow. “So are you going to let me in?”

  She bit her lip. “Okay, here’s the thing. I spilled quick-set glue all over my pants. So I . . . umm . . . took them off.”

  “You’re not wearing pants.” Christ. Was she trying to kill me?

  “My shirt is long enough so it’ll probably be okay,” she said more to herself than to me. “Come into my lair, my sweet.”

  “Telling a man you’re not wearing pants will lure him in every time, babe. Where should I put this stuff?”

  “Take a left.”

  I found myself in a small closet that’d been turned into a mini-kitchen.

  “There’s not really room for two in here.”

  Not to mention it was hot as hell. I set the bags of food on the table and faced her with the flowers.

  “For me?” Trinity grinned and grabbed the cellophane-wrapped bundle. “Thank you. What made you choose them?”

  “I told the florist I wanted daisies—”

  “But these are gerbera daisies, not just any plain old daisy. You knew that, right?”

  I mumbled, “No, I didn’t think there’d be a test.”

  She laughed. “These are my favorite because they’re simple and sturdy. They have just one row of petals, see?” She ran her finger along the outer edge. “Which makes them simple. The stem is thick, and yet graceful, which makes them sturdy. They also hold their own as a lone bloom in a single vase or as part of a bouquet.”

  The way she described the blooms sounded a lot like how I’d describe her. No wonder I’d been drawn to the flowers.

  She ducked her head. “Sorry. I’ll just shut up now and put them in water.”

  After she’d set the vase on a catchall table by the door, she said, “Maybe we should eat outside.”

  “Why’s it so hot in here?”

  “Something’s wrong with the air conditioner.”

  “How long hasn’t it been working?”

  “Since Monday. It was actually quite freeing to ditch my pants today.”

  My gaze dropped to her pink-tipped toenails and moved up her shins, over her dimpled knees to the ragged hem of her shirt that started midthigh. “I’m not complaining.”

  “Grab the food.”

  I swear she put an extra wiggle in her ass just to see if I was a freakin’ saint.

  “This smells delicious,” she said, scooping noodles onto her plate. “And it’s really sweet that you brought me dinner. Thank you.”

  “My pleasure. How late did you work last night?”

  “Until six or so. Then I got up at nine because I’m at that stage where it’s eat-sleep-breathe-live the piece.”

  “Sounds exhausting.”

  “It is.” She covered a yawn. “When it’s not exhilarating.”

  We didn’t talk much until we finished eating.

  Trinity looked at her empty take-out carton as I started picking up garbage. “Guess I was hungry.”

  “I’m glad you liked it.”

  “I’m so full now.” She slumped back in her chair and closed her eyes. “And sleepy.”

  I stood. “I’ll take a quick look at that air conditioner.”

  “That would be awesome. I’ll just wait here for you.”

  I returned inside. After a quick inspection of the window-unit air conditioner and seeing no mechanical issues, I tracked down the electrical box and saw that she’d blown a fuse. After replacing it, I turned the unit on and it immediately started putting out cold air. I poked my head outside to see that Trinity had fallen asleep.

  That gave me time to kill, so I wandered through her studio. She had quite the setup, everything from an industrial sewing machine to a welder. Her tool bench would’ve caused envy in most men; she had more metalworking tools than I did. And her studio had more square footage than my garage.

  Maybe it surprised me a little—okay, a lot—that everything was incredibly organized. Her huge cabinet full of oil-based paint was categorized by brand of paint first, then by color. Her paintbrushes were labeled by type—natural or synthetic—then by size. She had a separate section for watercolor paints and brushes. Another cabinet for her airbrushing supplies and yet another for varnishes, oils and paint thinners.

  In the far corner of the room I found carving tools and lumps of raw clay covered in plastic. Next to that was an impressive set of woodworking instruments, including a lathe and a chunk of soft wood. An open storage unit at the far back of the room contained rolls of canvas and various lengths of kiln-fired wood. So in addition to creating the art on the canvas, she crafted her own canvases. She’d repurposed a filing cabinet for maps to hold paper of all sizes and finishes.

  As I moved around the perimeter, I realized she’d divided up her work spaces. Easels were positioned by the windows. A large drafting table was nestled in the opposite corner, next to a cabinet filled with pens and ink, charcoal, chalk, colored pencils and the biggest array of markers I’d ever seen. Above the table were a multitude of lighting options, including adjustable umbrella lights and reflective panels I’d seen professional photographers use. That drew my gaze to the ceiling. She’d kept the entire structure open, adding pulley-and-chain systems for bigger pieces that she could stabilize with hooks and cables she’d embedded into the concrete floor.

  But as I silently marveled at the amazing work space, it was