Slow Dancing at Sunrise

by Jo McNally

  She’d never been one for cuddling after sex. What was the point? Other than in college, none of her relationships had been serious. She’d been too focused on making partner to think about the distraction of a serious relationship, and guys rarely wanted to compete with her career. Her last relationship had been with Pete, a bartender at the Omni Hotel. Pete was funny, outgoing, easy on the eyes. She’d always slipped away from his place as soon as she could. No morning coffee and Danish to complicate things. Pete was looking for more, though, so they’d gone their separate ways. Pete had been inventive in bed and could make her laugh. But he’d never made her scream.

  Luke sighed behind her, then pressed his lips on the back of her neck, mumbling against her skin.

  “What time is it?”

  She stretched to look at the bright blue digital clock. “Oh, it’s only one o’clock.”

  His arms tightened around her as he did a shuddering stretch. “Why do you sound surprised?”

  “It feels like I’ve been asleep for hours.” She rarely slept for more than a few hours without waking to check her emails or watch some mindless cooking show on TV to slow her brain down. She had no desire for that tonight.

  “Mmm-hmm. We may have invented a new way for people to get eight hours’ worth of sleep in a single hour. Just have stellar sex with someone amazing. Twice. You’ll be out like a light.”

  She chuckled, doing her best to ignore the warm feeling she got at the someone amazing part. “We do have a tendency to bring out the narcoleptic in each other, don’t we?”

  He tugged her back against him, and he was hard and ready.

  “Here’s an idea.” He turned her on her back and brushed his fingers gently through her hair, kneading her scalp and making her want to purr like a contented cat. “Let’s do a little experiment. If two rounds of sex give a full night’s sleep, imagine what could happen if we go for three? I bet we could get a full week’s worth of rest after, then we can figure out how to sell it and solve all the productivity problems of the world.”

  “But if we do that, morning will come more quickly,” she pouted. The thought of the sun rising made her sad. Tears-burning-in-her-eyes sad, which made no sense. A shudder went through her.

  “Hey, you’re shivering.” He ran his hands up and down her arms briskly, then sat up. “Let me grab the blanket—”

  “No!” She grabbed at him, panicked at the idea of him not touching her. “You’re all the heat I need.”

  Whitney couldn’t believe the thought manifested itself into words so quickly. The corner of Luke’s mouth tipped up into an arrogant grin. She had to derail this.

  “I mean... I mean... Um... I’m not cold. There’s no A/C up here, and it’s warm. That’s what I meant. There’s enough heat already. I mean, this bed is hot enough with you in it... Ugh!”

  “You make this bed pretty hot yourself.” He tried to keep a serious face, but she could see the laughter in his eyes. “If you don’t want any more sex with me, just say so.”

  “No! I mean...yes! I do want more sex. With you.” She covered her face with her arm, but he gently lifted it up.

  “But?”

  “Look, I’m barely forming coherent sentences. I need a little more time to get my brain cells back into formation. At the risk of overinflating your ego, that really was...something. I need to get myself back in one piece emotionally, okay?”

  “Okay.” He slid back onto his side, head propped on one arm, while the other arm draped across her stomach, fingers tracing circles on her skin. This was definitely not helping put her thoughts in order. But it was oh, so good. Her eyes slid closed, all of her focus on those fingers.

  “You don’t like losing control, do you?”

  Her heart skipped a beat. “Where did that come from?”

  His shoulder lifted and fell. “Just an observation. Am I wrong?”

  She chewed on her lower lip. Her mind was already blown to bits from having sex with Luke. That was scary enough. Sharing intimacies while lying naked in the soft shadows of his apartment could be far more dangerous. Sexual vulnerability was one thing. Personal vulnerability? Whitney avoided that at all costs. That’s how her mom always got into trouble—letting passion rule and waltzing men into her life with open arms. Uh-uh. No reason to open that locked and bolted door. Tear down that stone wall. Cross that well-marked line.

  Luke waited, watching her without saying a word. His fingers kept moving on her skin, in looping circles that flirted with her breasts, then dove toward her hips, then back again. And again. The action must have hypnotized her, because she heard herself speaking words she didn’t intend to say at all.

  “I’ve been in control of my life since I was eleven.”

  And just like that, the locks fell off the door, the wall tumbled to earth and the line blew away like dust. In their place was...no protection. Just a frightening void. Luke’s fingers splayed across her stomach and stilled.

  “Tell me what that means.”

  “That was the age I became the parent. I was a child being raised by a child—a woman who never grew up. My mom is...a dreamer.” That put a gentle spin on the truth. Better than saying her mother was an irresponsible, impulsive, borderline manic-depressive allergic to maturity. “She’s been chasing fame as a singer all her life. And she falls for every scheme and promise she hears. All a guy has to do is say he’s in ‘the industry’ and she’s his. Her money’s his. Her home is his. Her bed is his.”

  Luke’s hand pressed down, then released and curled into a fist against her before flattening against her skin. His voice was low and barely controlled.

  “Where did that leave you?”

  “Answering the phone, mostly.” She sighed. “The bill collectors were having a field day. The bank was calling about the mortgage. Her car was repossessed. Mom had a closet full of fancy outfits, but our refrigerator had no food. One day I realized it was up to me. I took over the checkbook and learned to sound older than my age while begging some adult on the phone not to shut our power off. She was actually making decent money waitressing and doing the occasional singing gig. She was spending it like water, though—giving it to some loser to reserve ‘studio time’ that never materialized, investing in crazy schemes, singing lessons, new ‘costumes’ that would get her that job she wanted. So I put her on an allowance.”

  “You put your mom on an allowance when you were eleven?”

  “Someone had to do it.”

  He chuckled, and his fingers started their delicious patterns again.

  “You’ve always been good with numbers?”

  “Again, someone had to do it. With all the chaos of living in my mom’s orbit, controlling numbers was a pretty heady feeling for a kid.” When was the last time she’d felt that way about crunching numbers as an adult? She shook it off. That was enough soul baring for one night. Time to shift the focus.

  “Okay, I’ve shared my deep, dark family secret—my mom’s an impulsive, overtrusting spendthrift, which is why I’m not any of those things.” She pushed on his shoulder, sending him on his back so she could be the one leaning over. Running her fingers across his skin. Chasing his happy trail... No. If they had more sex they’d sleep all night. “How about you? Are you rebelling against overachiever parents who made you put your clothes away one too many times?”

  His sharp laugh didn’t hold a lot of humor. “Not exactly.”

  “Oh, that’s right. You’re ‘a Rutledge.’ Maybe it’s time to finally tell me what that means now that we’ve—”

  “Bed privileges don’t automatically lead to sharing childhood nightmares.”

  Whitney started to protest. “Mine wasn’t exactly a nightmare...”

  Her face went hot. That’s not what he was saying. Your daddy’s still in prison, ain’t he? Luke was saying his childhood had been a nightmare. His jaw was rigid, his eyes staring up a
t the ceiling. They still had hours before dawn, and she didn’t want the magic derailed yet.

  “You got any food up here?”

  His gaze snapped to meet hers, his brows bunched together.

  “I’m sorry...what?”

  “My so-called ‘date’ ended before any food was ordered.” It wasn’t a lie. “I could use a little midnight snack if you have anything around.”

  “Well, I live here, so yes, I have food.” He sat up, the previous dark conversational direction forgotten. Mission accomplished. “I’ve got a turkey breast in the fridge. How about a sandwich? On a brioche roll? With a little cranberry spread?”

  First, that sounded delicious. Second...

  “You have brioche rolls?”

  Luke stood, apparently comfortable walking around naked. Lucky her. He glanced back, one brow raised. “You don’t like them? I’m out of croissants, but I have some Amish bread that toasts up nice.”

  Her mouth dropped open. “You’re out of croissants? You’re a sloppy single guy living in a sloppy studio apartment.” She glanced at the pile of folded clothes on the floor. “I figured you’d offer me a bag of chips, or a frozen pizza. Now you’re offering to make me a deli sandwich on my choice of fancy breads? Who are you?”

  He stood facing her, making it difficult to keep her eyes on his face. And he knew it. She saw the arrogant smirk.

  “I’m a guy who likes good food. Do you want the brioche or not?”

  Two could play this game. She sat up on the bed, crossing her legs and cupping her chin in her hand. His eyes narrowed, and a vein pulsed at the base of his neck. Something else pulsed, too, but she somehow managed to keep her gaze up on his face. She flashed him a bright smile.

  “I’d love the brioche, but I can’t eat a whole sandwich at this hour.”

  He nodded, turning away to open the refrigerator. “I’ll split it with you.” He leaned over, exposing his very nice butt as he pulled out the food. Sneaky bastard.

  As Luke prepared the sandwich, they both became a little more aware of their states of undress. Walking around naked wasn’t bad, but eating naked? Whitney grabbed a T-shirt from what she hoped was the clean pile of clothes. When Luke saw her pulling it over her head, he took a dark red bath towel and wrapped it around his hips. It looked like a kilt, and Whitney’s romance novel fantasies took flight.

  They sat at the small table where he’d dressed the cut on her foot a few weeks ago. Luke set two glasses of white wine on the table with the sandwich. She lifted her glass in a toast. “Cheers. And thanks—this looks amazing.”

  He took a bite, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He glanced at her, then flushed and grabbed a paper napkin. He tossed her one, too. It was kind of adorable that he suddenly wanted to have good table manners for her. They ate in comfortable silence, which was...odd. He was Luke Rutledge. The man she’d been butting heads with from the moment she got to Rendezvous Falls. They were still mostly naked. The only light in the room was from a small table lamp that looked like a yard sale find from the seventies. The sandwich he’d made tasted like it should be on the menu at the Four Seasons. It was the understatement of the century to say she’d never expected to be sitting here. Like this. With him.

  She washed down the last bite with her wine.

  “That was delicious. Did you make that cranberry spread? It had a kick to it.”

  Luke nodded. “There’s a little bit of horseradish in there. Offsets the sweetness of the cream cheese.” He held up the wine bottle and gave her a questioning look, but she waved it off. When he set it down, she reached out to take his hand. His knuckles were red and starting to bruise and there was a tiny cut on one. From punching Doug. It was a sobering reminder of how the evening had started.

  “I don’t think I’ve thanked you for what you did.”

  He stared at her fingers as she touched his reddened knuckles, swallowing hard. His jaw went rigid again, and so did his voice.

  “No big deal. Beating people up is a Rutledge family tradition.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  LUKE PULLED HIS hand away from Whitney’s tender touch. Damn it, the woman had a way of getting him to say and do things he never intended. Like making a sandwich at one o’clock in the morning. With no clothes on. And liking it. But he never liked talking about his family history.

  Everyone in Rendezvous Falls seemed to have an opinion about his family, and most of those opinions were based on rumors that barely flirted with the truth. He’d given up on setting things straight. People enjoyed perpetuating the myth of the violent Rutledge family from the wrong side of the tracks. Impoverished trailer park losers doomed to a life of crime and failure. It was a tidy box he and his siblings had been shoved into, and he’d long ago stopped giving a damn what people thought. Until he met Whitney. He backtracked on his comment.

  “At least, that’s what folks in town will tell you.”

  She stared hard into his eyes. “I only care about what you tell me.”

  When Luke was a child, he’d foolishly leaped off one of the docks at the marina. The day was hot and the water was cool. It seemed like a good idea, even if he’d never been in the lake before. People naturally knew how to swim, right? Before someone dove in to save his stupid ass, he thought he was going to sink down and down forever, surrounded by all that soft, warm water, with the sun shining up above. It was beautiful, even though he was sinking and doomed. That’s how he felt now, as Whitney Foster looked deep into his soul and told him she wanted to hear his words about his story. Inviting. Safe. Treacherous.

  He lifted one shoulder, trying to play it casual, but her expression said she wasn’t buying it. Of course not. He still wasn’t going to go there. But his mouth didn’t get the memo.

  “My parents lived a hard life, and we got sucked into it, no matter how much we tried not to.” Her hand reached for his again. He almost pulled away, but found he couldn’t. Her fingers had intertwined with his. He was trapped. “Neither one of my parents ever caught a damn break in their lives. Second or third generation poverty, with no idea how to change it.” He glanced up and gave her a crooked grin. “Well, I’m sure the idea of going out and getting actual paying jobs crossed their minds, but they didn’t want to sacrifice their lifestyle.”

  “And what lifestyle was that?”

  “The one where Dad got shitfaced every night, and Mom tried to hide us kids from him.” He could still smell the stale cigarette smoke that darkened the walls and ceilings of the single-wide trailer. “Her efforts didn’t seem that noble as I got older, since she was the one who sold our food stamps so she could buy Dad’s beer every week.” The refrigerator was always empty, other than rows of shiny metal cans. Those never seemed to run out.

  “Why didn’t your mom just leave him?”

  Luke’s head dropped. He’d hoped Whitney would do more than spout the same answerless questions everyone else asked. Who the hell knew why Joanie Rutledge stayed with a creep like Cliff? He stared out the window, watching clouds scuttle across the face of the nearly full moon. For the first time in a long time, Luke saw some of the answers.

  “Like I said, third generation. Her granddaddy beat her grandmomma. Her daddy beat her momma. Mom thought it was just the way of the world. It was her job to do the impossible—try to keep a perpetually angry man from blowing up.” The weight of his memories pressed down on him. “But Dad was raised in even worse circumstances than she was, and he spent all his energy raging at the world for the unfairness of it all. The five people sharing a three-bedroom trailer with him were the easiest targets, and Dad loved easy targets.”

  He swallowed hard. He hadn’t wandered down memory lane in a long time. Confronting the hopeless truth behind his parents’ choices didn’t make him feel any better about what had happened. Understanding didn’t always lead to forgiveness.

  “But you broke the pattern, Luke.”<
br />
  He’d almost forgotten she was there.

  “What?”

  Whitney squeezed his hand. “You said your parents were the third generation of a dysfunctional spiral. But you’re a strong, decent, hardworking man who’s nothing like that.”

  Luke wasn’t accustomed to receiving compliments. He pulled his hand away, holding it up and clenching the fingers tightly to show her the bruised knuckles. “This says otherwise. You want to know what it means when people called me ‘a Rutledge’? Well, this is exactly what it means. Trouble.”

  She pulled his fist across the table toward her, and he didn’t resist. Couldn’t. That’s the kind of power she had over him. His heart started thudding against his ribs when she lifted his still-clenched hand to her lips.

  “This...” She...damn, she kissed his knuckle, her voice calm and sure. “This means you are a gentleman willing to defend a woman’s honor. My knight in shining armor.”

  He had a hard time drawing in his next breath. She saw him as some kind of hero? That was a first. She looked up through her long dark lashes, and his heart joined the strike his lungs were on. He felt...exposed...in a way he’d never been before. In danger, but not afraid. She kissed another knuckle. Son of a...

  “This? This means you’re the kind of guy who doesn’t sit around and hope everything turns out okay. You’re the kind of guy who gets off his ass and walks into trouble to make things right.”

  No. He avoided trouble, if only to confuse all the people who expected it of him. But he wasn’t afraid of it. Whitney wasn’t finished messing with his head. She kissed the bloodied knuckle. “This says you’re strong.”

  She studied his hand some more and planted a kiss on an old scar. It was from pruning vines last year, when he dropped the clippers and tried to juggle them to keep them from landing in the mud. The result was a slice across the back of his hand. And muddy clippers.

  “This says you’re not afraid of hard work. You’re a do-it-yourselfer who probably could have worked at some other vineyard for a lot more money, but stayed here because Helen needed you.”