Return to Eagle Cove

by M. L. Buchman

  At the end of the last circle, he stepped between her spread feet, leaned in and kissed her.

  Fifty-fifty he was going to earn a slap. Forty out of the remaining fifty he was going to get shoved back hard. Ten percent odds seemed pretty good for a chance to finally kiss Jessica Baxter.

  He caught her mid-laugh.

  She felt better in his arms than he’d ever dreamed. Her slender frame let him wrap his arms right around her back. Her lips tasted of salt sweat and sweet orange juice, and her laugh continued for a moment as a vibration that shifted into a thoughtful, Hmmm.

  Greg didn’t feel thoughtful at all. He was wholly focused on the way the length of their bodies pressed together, of her arms slipping around his neck as the kiss deepened. Unable to resist, he pressed himself against her. His hands slid up and down her back appreciating the curves and shapes. No bra strap obstructed his investigation, not that Jessica’s build particularly called for one. She was sleekly perfect.

  Her kiss was shredding his recipe for how this might possibly go. The blood pounded in his head as he held her closer.

  Then he felt a cold trickle, almost icy cold.

  Right on the top of his head.

  He tried to pull back to see what it was, but Jessica had her arm locked tightly about his neck…one arm. She even wrapped one of those infinitely long legs around his waist which was very distracting.

  But the cold trickle continued. Then the first ice cube bounced into his hair as chilly orange juice spilled down his forehead and stung his eyes.

  “Hey!” (which came out more as “Mgrph!”) He tried again to escape and she held him even tighter.

  That laugh was back in her kiss, but she didn’t release him.

  Well, two could play that game.

  No they couldn’t. His glass was over on the opposite counter.

  Fine. Then he’d play it for all it was worth.

  He tipped her back against the counter just enough that the juice was trickling down both their cheeks and spilling between them rather than running down his back.

  The laughter slipped back out of her kiss—there’d never been anything like kissing Jessica Baxter. Once the flow of orange juice and ice cubes stopped, she fumbled for a moment to set the empty glass on the counter and then both hands grabbed onto him.

  He brushed a hand upward, appreciating every muscle. Relishing the softness of her hair and the curve of her ear. Then, as casually as he could, he collected the ice cubes that had perched in his hair rather than tumbling to the floor. With just as smooth a move, he ran his knuckles down her cheek, her neck, and managed to slip the ice cubes inside her shirt collar.

  This time it was her turn to struggle and squirm and his to laugh into their kiss. He kept their bodies close enough that the ice cubes couldn’t slip down her chest.

  When she finally freed a fist and pounded its side against his shoulder, he backed off. With a judicious grab on his retreat, he managed to yank forward her shorts just as the remainder of the ice cubes slithered out the bottom of her t-shirt.

  Jessica yelped as the ice cubes slipped into her underwear.

  Life was so good. “Paybacks are just the best, aren’t they, Ms. Baxter?” He dropped back to lean against the counter—where he’d been standing before all of this had started—and admire the view. Orange juice dripped from her bangs and face. It plastered her already clinging t-shirt tightly to her figure, now forming little more than a sheer overlay. Very admirable.

  She reached down, pulling aside the legs of her shorts and shaking a leg. The slender ice chips that remained, shattered with soft pops as they hit the kitchen floor.

  “You have no idea about paybacks, Mr. Slater.” Jessica glared across the kitchen at him, “You have no idea at all…yet.”

  “Nope!” he agreed as pleasantly as possible. “No idea at all. But I can’t wait to find out.”

  She headed toward him, her sneakers splashing a little on the few puddles of orange juice that hadn’t soaked into their clothes. Jessica was moving like a cat on the prowl, swinging hips, eyes locked on his. He didn’t know if he could move, but he didn’t want to so it didn’t matter; this was far too much fun.

  But he wasn’t paying close enough attention to what else was going on and realized it too late.

  She leaned up against him and for a brief moment he once more tasted the orange juice on her lips. But before he could cradle her back against him, she was easing away.

  Easing away and—

  She’d grabbed his own glass of iced orange juice from where he’d set it on the counter behind him. She didn’t trickle it atop his head this time…she dumped it! The cold was breathtaking.

  He managed to grab her as she danced back—her bright laugh filling the room—but lost his balance, his sneakers turned to ice skates on the suddenly slick hardwood floor.

  In moments he was down, but he didn’t lose his grip…not until she landed atop him.

  His breath escaped him in a whoosh as her hip crashed into his gut.

  Straddled over him, she looked down at him with a puzzled expression.

  Any thoughts about what it might mean were washed from his brain as she lay down upon him and kissed them away.

  She was right. Paybacks were just the best.

  Once they’d cleaned up the kitchen, and they’d showered—separately—Jessica sent Greg trotting home in his rinsed-out clothes and squishy sneakers. He could have stayed in a towel while his clothes tumble-dried, but she didn’t mention that option. He’d be right back, as she’d promised to make brunch for him, but she wasn’t ready to face a naked Greg clothed only in a bath towel.

  During the run, she’d worked on her mental man-list a bit. She wasn’t an intentional tally-keeper and it definitely wasn’t well thought out, but every now and then she’d run into something and add it to her list. Most items she learned about men landed solidly in her no-way-ever category. Some fell into her wouldn’t-that-be-nice-even-if-she-was-never-gonna-find-it category. Very few items fell into the required category.

  She started the bacon and scrounged some smoked salmon, then thin sliced a local white cheddar and found some crumbly gorgonzola to balance it.

  Greg had added “fellow runner” to her preferred list. A good sense of humor had been on the required short-list since forever, but she nudged it up a few notches in his honor. And fun! When had she lost sight of the importance of fun? Dad had a decent sense of the ridiculous but Mom’s first divorce had demolished Jessica’s taking joy in it. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had as much fun as wrestling with Greg among the orange juice. Had she ever? There was another thought she wasn’t ready for.

  Some flour tortillas and she mashed an avocado—making poor man’s guacamole with a scoop of store-bought salsa and a sprinkle of cayenne.

  Someone to hold her as if she was more special than she knew she actually was would be a great bonus. And the way that man could kiss…

  “You’re awfully intense when you cook.”

  Jessica yelped in surprise. Greg stood mere inches off her elbow.

  “I like that in a woman.” He looked just as good in jeans and a button-down shirt as he had in running shorts and a t-shirt.

  “I bet you’re one of those guys who likes anything that’s female.” She cracked four eggs into a bowl, added a splash of cream, some shaved cilantro, and salt and pepper, then began beating it while the pan heated.

  “Give me some credit,” Greg complained.

  “Like what?”

  “Well, having a preference for beautiful ones who are cooking for me. I’m a chef; cooking women are a major turn on.”

  Jessica dumped the beaten mixture into the pan and intentionally nearly rammed him with the fork and bowl as she turned to put it in the sink. She definitely needed a few more feet of space. Greg Slater was a major turn on, even if she didn’t want him to be.

  She stirred the eggs with a spatula, crumbling in the bacon and smoked salmon. It was going to en
d up tasting very smoky. Jessica spotted a lime in a bowl on the table and squeezed it to drizzle through her fingers to catch any seeds. Then she folded in the cheese. She zapped the tortillas for twenty seconds in the microwave, spread a line of guacamole then sour cream down their centers, and dumped the egg-cheese-salmon-bacon mixture in. With a quick flip it folded into a breakfast burrito.

  She dropped a tub of yogurt and a bowl of blueberries on the breakfast nook counter that faced toward the woods then sat on one of the stools.

  “Brunch!” She announced.

  “Where’s the orange juice?” Greg complained rather than complimenting her food.

  “Careful, or you’ll be wearing what little is left.” She made a fake shudder, could still feel the stickiness that hadn’t seemed to come out of her hair in the shower. “Not sure I could face it right now.”

  “Me either now that you mention it. Two glasses of milk coming up,” he went to the refrigerator and served them both.

  He bit down on the burrito and looked at her strangely.

  “What? You’re supposed to compliment your hostess’ food, even when it doesn’t deserve it. Where are you manners, Slater?”

  “My manners—”

  “Clearly don’t include not talking with your mouth full.”

  “—are being blown away by your cooking. I figured you’d turned into some helpless city girl whose idea of cooking is choosing which takeout to get.”

  “Trust me, I wish I was. But I’m broke,” and she sure hadn’t meant to let that slip out.

  “I…hmmm,” Greg thought while he chewed, thankfully swallowing before continuing. “Last night. You mentioned that, but it didn’t make sense. I read your writing, you’re really good. And you’re in a half dozen markets which…” he tapered off and then concentrated on his breakfast burrito.

  “You’ve read my writing.”

  He nodded.

  “But I write mostly for the Chicago market.”

  He nodded again, spooning up a small bowl of yogurt and blueberries as if it was the most important thing in the world.

  “The Chicago Tribune has a paywall.”

  “Maybe I subscribe,” he was adding more yogurt, building such a mound that she finally stopped him by resting her hand on his.

  He froze in mid-scoop, but his hands were warm and strong beneath her fingertips. She pulled back but the sensation didn’t go away.

  “Maybe I subscribe to every market that an online search turns up with you in it.” He dished half of what he’d served himself over into her bowl.

  Jessica rested her chin on her palm and her elbow on the counter. It put her closer to Greg than she’d anticipated, but she felt no need to pull back. “I’m going to repeat a question, but try not to be mad.”

  He shrugged an easy acceptance.

  “What the heck, Slater?”

  “I know,” at least he had the decency to grimace. “Kind of cyberstalkerish.”

  “Kind of,” she was torn between agreeing and being touched.

  “It’s become almost a joke, a joke on myself. Look, Jessica,” he turned those dark brown eyes on her, “I know I’m an odd person. I know that I’m at least as bizarre as Vincent or Dawn or the twins will be some day. I’m holding a torch for someone I never expected to see again. And all those fantasies?”

  “What?” she asked despite her better instincts.

  “They aren’t a touch on the real woman who can write the way you do, cook a fine breakfast burrito, or feel so amazing in my arms.” No matter how odd he might have thought he was, Greg didn’t look aside for a single moment of his confession.

  Jessica knew it was a mistake even as she reached out to take his hand.

  “I’m implying nothing beyond now,” she managed a whisper.

  His brow furrowed briefly as she rose and gently tugged him to his feet. Feeling more overeager seventeen than her usual coastal twelve or Chicagoan thirty-two, she led him away from their half-eaten meal and up the carpeted, creaking stairs. She closed and latched the door behind them.

  Jessica ignored Xena the Warrior Princess’ smile of approval from her place on the back of the door.

  When Greg laid her down on the bed, the only sound in the room was the ocean surf moving the sand infinitely back and forth far below the open window streaming with sunlight. Sometimes clichés—something she assiduously avoided in her writing—had their place. Jessica decided this was one of those as she gave herself to the moment.

  Chapter 5

  (Saturday afternoon)

  “Well,” Jessica’s voice was pleasantly husky and smooth as a slow-pouring honey, “that was fun.”

  Fun? “Sure was.” She was the queen of understatement.

  Greg now knew what heaven felt like. It felt exactly like this. The warm ocean breeze rippling over the woman wrapped against him. Only a thin sheet and a glow of well-earned satisfaction covered them. If kissing Jessica while swimming in orange juice had been merely wonderful, making love to her had been fantastic. It hadn’t been a merry wrestle like the kitchen. Instead it had been a surprisingly tender voyage of discovery.

  Not that there was a coy bone in her body. She’d given herself thoroughly, abandoning herself to the act. He had done his best to return the favor and between them there hadn’t been a single word, but there’d been no mistaking the pleasure that had passed between them. His pulse had long since recovered, but his head was still spinning pleasantly at the wonder of it all.

  Her fingers traced lightly back and forth over his chest and he allowed his own fingertips to linger on her arm. This he could get used to, very used to. And one way to make sure that happened, was by being considerate.

  “We need calories. Someone, brilliantly I might add, interrupted our breakfast. I’m feeling seriously depleted.”

  “Me too,” was her happy sigh.

  “So,” he managed, “I shall sally forth and recover the rest of our breakfast.”

  “Sally? Like in a shining knight?”

  “C’est moi! Breakfast in bed sound good?”

  “Mmm,” she agreed, but she didn’t release him. Instead she burrowed her face into his chest and they started all over again. Thank heavens he’d taken the risk and brought a strip of protection back with him. Next time he’s bring several strips, long ones.

  When they were finally finished, again, she lay back and groaned. “Food. I need food.”

  Food? He lay fully upon her with his face buried in the pillow beside her head. He needed to never move again. And what kind of a shining knight does that make you?

  He forced himself to action until he was standing, a feat he’d thought beyond him. Reluctantly, he pulled the sheet over Jessica, but her soft sigh made him feel noble and he’d return in moments.

  Jessica did manage to force an eye open to watch Greg’s naked behind heading out the door. It was a very nice one that went just fine with the rest of his body. The muscles she’d dug her hands into as she’d struggled to pull him closer, gave way to a strong back and nice shoulders. They weren’t broad and powerful, they were just very, very nice.

  No, the powerful part of Greg Slater was his hands. They had the finesse of a chef and the strength of one as well. He’d found ways to make her—

  She heard a microwave cycle on in the distance.

  He was even reheating their breakfast.

  Then in quick succession she heard: the slap of the screen door, a very male yelp, and feet pounding up the stairs.

  Greg burst through the door in a state of wild panic, slammed it behind him, and leaned back against it. Xena looked over his shoulder, apparently approving of this as well. Greg now offered her a very nice chance to admire the front view, if she hadn’t been laughing quite so hard.

  “Who?” She choked out.

  His eyes merely bulged in panic.

  He spotted his clothes and dove for them as somewhere in the background a microwave beeped four times calling for attention.

  He was mostly
dressed by the time steps sounded up the stairs.

  At the soft knock, he grabbed a stray sock, one of hers, and bolted into the bathroom.

  “Yes?” Jessica managed to call out without choking herself. She sat up and pulled the sheet up under her arms so that she was decent.

  “I was coming by to see if you wanted to go out for lunch, dear.” Her mother spoke through the still-closed door. “Apparently not. But someone left your tray in the kitchen, dear. I brought it up for you.”

  “Come on in.”

  There was a brief hesitation before she did. After a quick glance around the room she smiled, a little more wickedly than Jessica would have credited Monica Baxter being capable of.

  Jessica pointed at the bathroom door, and Mom’s smile only grew bigger. She didn’t react at all to Jessica’s complete dishabille nor the stray clothes scattered across the floor that showed she had been a little distracted by other concerns on her arrival.

  Her mother set the tray on Natalya’s bed, winked, and headed back out the door.

  Jessica really needed to rethink her relationship with Mom. No lectures. No scowl. Quite the opposite in fact.

  With the door almost closed, Mom stuck her head back into the room and called out, “It’s safe to come out now, Greg.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Baxter,” sounded through the bathroom door.

  Then she was gone. Jessica could get to really like her mom in addition to loving her. To avoid laughing again at poor Greg, Jessica reached out and snagged her burrito. She had time for several bites and some leisurely chewing before a very red-faced Greg Slater emerged from his bolthole.

  “Some shining knight you are.” He still held her sock.

  “Give me a break, Baxter,” he sat on Natalya’s bed and picked up his own burrito, still uncertain quite what to do with the sock in his other hand.

  “Of course, you did moon my mom,” hopefully he’d been facing the microwave which was on the opposite side of the kitchen from the door. “I suppose that counts for something.” Jessica didn’t like the fact that she didn’t like Greg sitting so far away, as if two feet of difference should matter. Normally she liked her men to keep their distance; it made casual sex so much more…casual.