Blue Skies

by Catherine Anderson

  To Carly’s delight, it actually was easy. By following his lead, she was spared the difficulty of navigating on her own.

  He trailed his gaze over her face again. “Where have you been hiding all my life? When I spotted you a while ago, my heart damned near stopped beating. You looked like an angel, sitting there.”

  An angel? Carly knew better, but it was a lovely compliment, anyway. “I just moved to the area. I’ll be starting grad school here in Crystal Falls this September.”

  “Ah. That explains why I haven’t seen you before. Where you from?”

  “Portland.”

  “Uh-oh, a city gal. No wonder we speak a different language. Right turn,” he inserted, cuing her with his body before executing the swing. Then, “You’ve got the most gorgeous blue eyes I’ve ever seen. I swear, they were shining at me like beacons from clear across the room. Tinted contacts, right? No eyes that blue can be natural.”

  While pursuing her bachelor degree, Carly had heard men in college campus bars say things like this to her friends. Pick-up lines, nothing more. He was hitting on her. And, oh, God, it felt wonderful. All her adult life, she’d sat on the sidelines, listening to life happening all around her and wishing that someone would notice her. Now, at long last, someone finally had. Even better, he was handsome and charming. She felt like a princess in one of the fairy tales her mother had read to her years ago.

  “Nope, no contacts,” she assured him with a tinkling laugh. She fluttered her lashes. “These are the real McCoy.”

  “You’re kidding. Damn. Is this my lucky night, or what? You’re the most beautiful woman in the place.”

  Carly knew he was only telling her what he thought she wanted to hear. And he was right. It was what she wanted to hear. My turn. A reckless, dizzying excitement coursed through her. Just this once, she wouldn’t analyze or question or worry about getting hurt. She had waited a lifetime for this moment, and she meant to enjoy every delicious millisecond.

  “My name’s Hank Coulter,” he told her, his voice deep and raspy, yet oddly soft, like the sound of raw silk rubbed against the grain.

  “Carly Adams.”

  He bent his head toward hers. “Come again?” After she repeated her name, he said, “Glad to meet you, Charlie. Boy, howdy, am I ever glad.”

  “Carly,” she corrected.

  He nodded and smiled. Carly let it go at that. When the song ended, he would escort her back to her table, and she’d probably never see him again.

  He moved with an impressive grace for so large a man, lean muscle and bone working in a harmony of motion as he guided her through the steps, the tendons in his thighs bunching under the faded denim of his jeans, his lean hips shifting in time to the music. Before Carly knew quite how it happened, he had her twirling away from him, then shuffling back to spin on her toes under his arm.

  “Hoo-yah!” he said with a laugh after she executed a perfect swing step. He winked, hooked an arm around her waist, and drew her snuggly against his hard thigh to circle at a dizzying speed in a two-step shuffle. “Cut a rug, darlin’.”

  The press of his leg against the apex of her own made Carly’s heart leap, and her whole body felt as if it were humming. It was the strangest thing. Every part of her tingled, inside and out. When he suddenly moved away, sliding his big hand down her arm to grab her hand, he tipped his hat to her. Then he shuffled back, his intense blue eyes holding hers, his dark, chiseled features oddly taut.

  Sensory overload. All the instincts Carly had honed to sharpness as a blind person were still in fine working order, making her aware of him in every pore of her skin, and her eyes added visual delights she’d never before experienced. Having a man make love to her with his eyes. Seeing his broad shoulders dip toward her. Feeling the firm yet gentle grip of his big hands. His scent—a blend of musky maleness, woodsy cologne, leather, and sun-dried cotton—working on her olfactory nerves like an intoxicant.

  Much too soon to suit Carly, the music faded. She drew away from his embrace and smiled. “Thank you for asking me to dance. It was fun, after all.”

  He caught her hand, his fingers so long they curled over her wrist bone, his palm warm and slightly rough, yet another indication that the cowboy attire wasn’t just for looks. At her questioning expression, he grinned and tightened his grip. “Don’t go. Please. Spend the evening with me.”

  Before Carly could reply, the band broke into “Be My Baby Tonight.” Hank threw back his dark head and laughed. “Is that perfect timing, or what?” He caught her in his arms again and started singing along. By the time he reached the “could ya, would ya, ain’t-cha” part of the song and asked if she’d be his baby tonight, Carly was laughing too hard to feel self-conscious. He swung her in a wide arc that set her head to spinning. “Please, darlin’, don’t say no,” he murmured near her ear. “You’ll break my heart.”

  Carly leaned back to look up at him. She felt like a candle sitting on a sunny windowsill, her body warm and suddenly boneless. She knew she should end this before she waded in too deep. But somehow, knowing that and doing it were two different things. Would she ever get this chance again?

  “I’m here with a friend,” she reluctantly reminded him.

  “Ditch her.”

  “I can’t do that.”

  He wrapped both arms around her, pressed his face against her hair, and fell into a simple two-step. “Maybe she’ll hook up with somebody and ditch you,” he said with a hopeful note lacing his deep voice.

  Carly knew Bess would never do that. “Maybe,” she settled for saying.

  “Meanwhile, stay with me,” he urged softly.

  Carly nodded her assent. She felt his lips curve in a smile. When the song ended, he led her from the floor. At the edge of the crowd, the redhead he’d danced with earlier stepped in front of them to ask Hank to dance.

  Carly tried to pull her hand free. “I don’t mind, Hank.” It was easy to sound convincing. She’d been taking a second seat to other women all her life. “Really, I don’t. Go and have fun.”

  He tightened his grip on her fingers. “Sorry,” he told the redhead with an apologetic smile. “I’m bushed. We’re going to sit this one out.”

  The woman shrugged and moved on. Carly glanced after her. “Really, Hank, I wouldn’t mind. She’s a good dancer, and I’m—well, not.”

  “You’re fabulous, and there’s no way I’m leaving you. All my buddies would be after you like bees for honey.”

  He fell into a walk, leading her to a back corner. The blue haze of cigarette smoke that hung over the table burned her sensitive eyes, and the smell of beer was strong. “Maybe we can talk here,” he said as he drew out a chair for her. “Normally, I don’t mind the noise, but tonight, it’s a pain in the neck. I want to know everything about you.”

  Carly was relieved to lower herself onto the chair and escape the smoke. He sat next to her, turning his seat so they were facing each other.

  “Tell me about yourself, Charlie.”

  “Carly,” she corrected again.

  He nodded. “Gotcha. So tell me about yourself.”

  “There’s nothing much to tell.”

  “Age?”

  “I’ll be twenty-eight in August.”

  “I’ll turn thirty-two in December.” He arched a dark eyebrow. “What are you going to grad school for?”

  “I’m a teacher. I taught visually disabled elementary kids for two years. Now I want to get my master’s in special education.”

  “No kidding?” Amusement warmed in his eyes. “I love teachers.”

  “You do?”

  “Absolutely. They make a man do it until he gets it right.”

  Carly gave a startled laugh. The waitress appeared at their table just then. Hank ordered them each a beer. While they waited for their refreshments, he told Carly that he was a rancher. After their beers arrived, he explained that he was partners with his brother. They ran a few hundred head of cattle and bred and trained quarter horses for a living.


  “So you’re a real-life cowboy, not the dime store variety.”

  “Or a buckaroo. Not as romantic sounding, is it? Buckaroos work with horses, cowboys with cattle. Jake and I still run cows, so either term fits.” He inclined his head at her mug. “I’m already on empty, and you’ve barely started.” He signaled for the waitress. “You need to get busy over there.”

  Carly obediently took another sip of beer. He reached over to smooth away the foam mustache on her upper lip. His touch was gentle, his expression tender. “I am so glad I spotted you. Talk about a great cure for a gloomy mood.”

  “Why were you in a gloomy mood?”

  The second round of beers came just then. He paid the barmaid and took several hearty slugs before answering the question. “I had words with my brother Jake right before I came to town. My sister’s husband’s brother’s wife’s birthday is today.”

  “Say that again?”

  “Exactly, a shirttail relative. Maggie Kendrick’s a sweetheart, but her birthday party isn’t my idea of a great way to spend Friday night. Jake objects to my lifestyle. Says I’m on a one-way path to nowhere and that I’ll never meet a nice woman in a bar.” He lifted his mug to her and grinned. “Wrong.”

  Carly was flattered. “That’s a lovely compliment. Thank you.”

  He finished off the second beer, gave her a thoughtful study, and said, “At this rate, you’re never gonna get a buzz on, darlin’. How about a mixed drink?”

  Carly almost declined. She was still on painkillers and the doctor had told her to have no more than two drinks. But she’d had only a few sips of beer, she reminded herself, and she was tired of always being cautious. Hank ordered them each a slammer. By the time the drinks arrived, Carly had skirted a dozen personal questions, telling Hank just enough to satisfy his curiosity. She hesitantly tasted the drink he’d ordered and asked what was in it.

  “A love potion. After taking one sip, a woman falls madly in love with the first man she sees. I guess that means this is my lucky night.”

  Carly thought it was just the reverse, that it was her lucky night. She could scarcely believe she was sitting there with him—or that he seemed to have eyes only for her. “It’s very good,” she said after tasting the drink again.

  He flashed another of those lazy grins that she had admired earlier. It was far more potent at close range. “Go easy, darlin’. A slammer is almost straight booze, cut with a little citrus juice. You used to the hard stuff?”

  She was no teetotaler. “I’m as used to it as the next person, I guess.”

  “Good. My aim is to loosen you up, not knock you on your butt.”

  She eyed him over the rim of the glass. “Trying to ply me with liquor?”

  “Damn straight.”

  She laughed and took another sip of the drink.

  Hank tried to decide what it was about her that he found so appealing. He’d met a lot of gorgeous women in bars and never wanted any of them the way he wanted her. Maybe it was her sweet face. She had an innocent look in her eyes that he hadn’t encountered in a good long while. What an illusion. No woman her age was still innocent, and if, by some weird chance, she were, she sure as hell wouldn’t be hanging out in a place like Chaps.

  Even so, there was a lack of artifice about her that he found attractive. As near as he could tell, she wore no cosmetics. Her hair fell to her shoulders in a rippling curtain of curls that made him yearn to run his hands through it.

  Later. When she had a little more liquor under her belt, he’d herd her back onto the dance floor. Nothing like a cozy two-step to warm a lady up.

  The seductive images that drifted through Hank’s mind had him reaching for his drink. He took a hefty swallow. When he moved to put the glass back on the table, he lost his grip and almost dropped it. It occurred to him in that moment that he might be a little drunker than he thought.

  “Are you okay?”

  Hank dried his hand on his jeans. “Fine as a frog’s hair. Just a little tipsy. But, hey, that’s why we’re here. Right? To have a good time.”

  “Right.” She lifted her drink in a mock toast. “To having a good time.” She took a dainty swallow. “Yum. The more I drink, the better this tastes.”

  Hank sat back to study her. It wasn’t often he hit on a woman and actually meant it when he said she was beautiful. Usually his motto was, Whatever Works. Aside from telling a woman he loved her, he’d say almost anything to score. The gals who frequented places like Chaps normally came for the same reasons men did and understood the unspoken rules. They pretended that the tired old lines were fresh and clever—and possibly even true. It was fun, meaningless, and in the morning, no one looked back.

  Hank liked it that way. He wasn’t ready to get locked down. If he had been, he sure as hell wouldn’t shop for a wife in a bar where all the prospects had been ridden hard and put away wet by countless other men.

  “Have I told you how absolutely gorgeous you are?”

  She dimpled a cheek at him. “Nope. Gorgeous is a word I’d remember.”

  “Forgive the oversight. You’re gorgeous. I can’t believe I’m the lucky fellow who spotted you first. Their loss, my gain.”

  She rolled the glass between her hands, then caught a drop of condensation with a fingertip. When she glanced back up, her eyes had a dreamy, unfocused look. “You’re right. This slammer is strong.”

  Hank was feeling no pain himself. “Don’t drink too much.” He wanted to loosen her up, not make her sick. “It packs a punch.” As he lifted his tumbler, he wondered if he shouldn’t heed his own advice. Somehow, though, the glass reached his lips. What the hell. Alcohol had never affected his performance in bed. No sense in wasting perfectly good booze.

  After a few more minutes of meaningless conversation—the usual prelude to sex, with both parties pretending they’d just stumbled upon the find of a lifetime—the band started a new number. It was a slow song. Hank drew Charlie up from her chair. She lost her balance and staggered into him. Clamping his hands over her shoulders, he somehow managed to catch her from falling even though he was none too steady on his feet himself. They both laughed, acknowledging without words that they’d had too much.

  Curling an arm around her waist, he led her to the dance floor. When he drew her close, she melted sweetly against him. He imagined holding her like this in a horizontal position. Skin to skin, her slender limbs intertwined with his. He ran his hands lightly over her back. Then he dipped his head to nuzzle her curls and nibble below her ear. She moaned softly and made fists on his shirt, clearly as aroused as he was. Oh, yeah.

  He glanced toward the front door and began dancing in that direction. Sweet, beautiful Charlie. She gave a startled squeak when they reached the exit and Hank pushed the door open. As he swirled her outside, a cool rush of May evening air enhanced the feeling of heat building between their bodies.

  “My friend Bess,” she murmured halfheartedly. “I can’t—”

  Hank cut her off with a deep, searing kiss. Sweet Lord. She tasted even better than he had imagined, her mouth soft and vulnerable. She met the searching thrust of his tongue with a hesitant flick of her own. Then she retreated. Hank thought he saw uncertainty reflected in her big blue eyes.

  “Are you okay with this?” he asked in a voice gone husky with desire. “If it’s a problem, just say so.”

  “No, no. I’m just—” She broke off and smiled. “I’m fine with it.”

  That was all Hank needed to hear. He grasped her wrists and drew up her arms to hug his neck. With a throaty sigh that inflamed his senses, she stepped onto his boots to lessen the difference in their heights and pressed her softness against him.

  Hank’s head swam. Holy shit. For a split second, he likened the feeling to touching a hot electrical wire. Then his brain blanked out, and he was riding on a current of pure need. He turned—smoothly, he thought, considering how drunk he was—to sandwich her slender body between his and the cement wall of the building. He ran his hands up fro
m her waist to cup her breasts. Through the layers of her clothing, he felt her nipples harden to the passes of his thumbs. She jerked when he rolled the tips between his fingers.

  Dimly, Hank registered her reaction, only he couldn’t put his finger on what was bothering him. She felt so good. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been this turned on. His body was afire with needs he couldn’t satisfy in a public parking lot, that was for damned sure.

  Continuing to kiss her, he hooked an arm about her waist and hurried her across the asphalt to his new Ford pickup. When he opened the front passenger door, he came up for air long enough to say, “There’s a motel two blocks away. Will you come with me?”

  She cast a worried glance at the nightclub. “If Bess can’t find me, she’ll get worried.”

  Hank almost argued the point, but before he could articulate the thought, he was kissing her again, and he promptly forgot what he meant to say. He settled for opening the rear passenger door. The full-sized back seat wasn’t the most romantic place to make love, but if she wouldn’t go to the motel, he had no other choice. He grasped her at the waist and lifted her inside, then quickly joined her. He was kissing her again before he got the doors closed.

  All his visions of holding her nude body against him went out the window. Some levels of intimacy couldn’t be attained in a parking lot. Hank settled for touching her through her clothing. She sobbed into his mouth, heightening his own arousal. When they were both so hot and hungry that he could hold off no longer, he unsnapped her jeans and lowered the zipper. Her skin felt like sun-warmed velvet.

  “Wh-what are you doing?” she asked in a tremulous voice.

  Hank thought she was worried about protection. “Hold tight.”

  He angled his body over the front seat, fumbling for the glove box where he kept a carton of prophylactics. When he finally got the compartment opened and found the damned box, his fingers caught on the uplifted lid, and the entire container fell to the front floorboard. Hank cursed under his breath. He almost climbed over the seat to retrieve a foil packet. Only somehow, between thinking and doing, he found himself kissing Charlie again.