by Tessa Layne
"Thinking about all those orgasms?" a deep voice said from the doorway.
Cecilia rolled her eyes, smile widening. "It just never stops, does it?" And why should it when he looked so damned delicious lounging barefoot in the doorway with his jeans slung low over his hips, chest bare. She zeroed in on the treasure line of dark hair that disappeared into his pants, adding that to her list of places to lick.
His eyes slowly raked over her, lingering in all the right places. "Thinking about last night?" he teased, the corner of his mouth hitching up.
"As if," she sassed back, unable to keep her own mouth from mirroring his. "Coffee mugs are in the cupboard right above the pot," she said, turning on the stove. "Cream's in the fridge, if you like."
"Black for me." He filled his mug, then came to stand next to her, leaning one hip on the counter. "You've been busy."
Cecilia's face heated. "I was inspired."
"Ah... something to do with last night?"
His voice warmed her insides in all the right ways. She shook her head with another eye roll. "Okay, maybe. But don't let it go to your head."
"Never," he answered solemnly, but with a sparkle in his eye. "Can I help?"
"Sure. There's a jar of green chile in the cupboard. I don't have potatoes, so it's pancakes this morning instead."
"Green chile pancakes?"
"No, silly. Cheesy green chile eggs, pancakes and bacon." She ladled the batter onto the cast iron griddle.
"So what's going on in the other room?"
"In the living room? Just a project I'm doing for my mom and grandma. My mom always wanted to fix the room and never had time. And since I'm home, I thought why not?"
"Why don't you hire someone to do it?"
Cecilia flipped the pancakes and poured the eggs into a separate pan. "You're kidding, right?"
"No?" He looked so confused it was comical. "Why would I be?"
"Okay, sure." She waved a hand. "I'll just head down to Main and pop into that cute interior decorator's shop," she retorted with more than a little sarcasm. She flipped the pancakes onto the plates she'd set out then glanced over, biting back a frustrated laugh. His face was utterly blank. "There isn't one, Trace. In case you haven't noticed, we're on the edge of civilization. Not like-" She cocked her head. "Where are you from, exactly?"
Trace froze, his eyes going wide, a guilty expression briefly stealing across his face. "Uhh... Southern California?"
What the fuckity fuck? Warning bells sounded. Was he playing her after all? "Uhh, you don't know?"
He flashed her a smile, the odd expression gone. "I've moved around a lot."
She couldn't help it. The journalist in her kicked into high gear. "So where'd you live last?"
Again, the merest flicker of panic, but there and gone so fast she had to have imagined it. "Most recently, Malibu."
"Mmm, fancy." Sometimes the best way to get information wasn't to grill, but to make small talk. Even though she hated it in her personal life.
He grimaced and shrugged. "Overly pretentious is more like it."
"Is that why you left?"
"Yeah. You could say that."
"Will you go back there when you're done here?" That was as much journalistic curiosity as it was personal. Part of her hated to think of him leaving.
Trace eyed her, jaw tight like he was debating telling her something. "D'you ever feel like you don't belong someplace?"
Cecilia turned back to the stove, giving the scrambled eggs a final stir, then adding the green chile. "Sure," she said, reaching for the shredded cheese. "Most everywhere." Come to think of it, the only place she'd ever felt truly at home was right here. This house was her haven, her lighthouse in a storm.
"So I sold my house before I left."
She risked a glance over her shoulder. "Because you didn't belong?"
"Something like that. It was time for a fresh start." His face twisted bitterly.
"What is it? What happened?"
Trace came to stand behind her, wrapping his arms across her waist, and kissing the base of her neck. His beard tickled the sensitive spot below her ear, setting off a telling cascade of goosebumps. "Have dinner with me this week, and I'll spill my guts."
"Why not spill your guts over breakfast?" She spooned the eggs onto their plates, then set three pieces of bacon on top.
His mouth was warm against her skin, unfurling a lick of desire that shot straight to her center. "Because I don't want to ruin this perfect breakfast with ancient history."
"So we're just going to eat in silence?"
He nipped her neck, then stepped back to grab the plates. "Nope. You're going to tell me more about your decorating project."
"There's not much to tell," she answered with an embarrassed shrug while bringing the coffee pot to the table. "More coffee?"
"Only if you don't sidestep." He held out his mug. "What are you doing in there?"
"Nothing, really. Just tearing off wallpaper and ripping out carpet. The room will be transformed next week."
"That fast?" He looked stunned. "I'd think it would take months."
"I don't know what planet you live on, buster. But DIY is cheaper and faster," she said, nibbling on a piece of bacon.
"I don't believe it."
"Are you baiting me into demanding you help? Because I will."
Trace held up a hand. "I could in the evenings, after I work out at the arena. Flint Hills Rodeo next weekend."
"Right." Silly Cecilia. For a hot second, she'd hopped on the "Let's redecorate together" train. But Trace was a busy man. Of course he'd have no time for her modest attempts at renovation. That was a couples thing, and while they might be a couple in the sense that they weren't going to be seeing other people, they weren't the kind of couple that did homey things together.
"Are you planning on going?"
"To what? The rodeo?" She shook her head. "Not really my thing."
"If I asked, would you go?"
It was on the tip of her tongue to say no. Rodeos really weren't her thing, and she'd be third wheeling it with Izzie and Jeanine who'd inevitably pair off with a couple of cowboys and spend the whole night on the dance floor. A quiet night at home sounded so much nicer. But her insides thawed a little bit more at the earnest look on Trace's face. Like he wanted to hope but was afraid to. Like he'd secretly be crushed if she declined. A part of her soul leaped in recognition. She understood that look. Intimately. How could she deny him? "I'd love to," she said, cheeks heating.
He reached across the table and grabbed her hand, giving it a squeeze. "It's my first rodeo. I'd be... glad for the company."
And now her heart had just turned to goo. How did he do that? Go from cocky one second to sweet and sincere in the next? She polished off the last of her eggs then stood abruptly, grabbing the empty plates and rinsing them in the sink. When he looked at her like that, it... scared her to death. He made her feel way too much for something that had an inevitable deadline.
"Hey, what's this?" he asked, grabbing the stack of paper at the end of the table.
Shit.
Shit, shit, shit.
"Oh it's nothing," she said breezily, trying not to panic. Why had she even taken the article out of the folder yesterday? Right. Self-pity. "Just a project from my old job. Hand it over? I can take it upstairs."
"Wait," he said, flipping through the pages.
She extended her hand. "Really, it's nothing." Even Izzie wasn't allowed to read her work. It was a superstitious luck thing with her. People could read it in the paper. "Please?" Her pulse began to hammer as he started to read in earnest.
Trace glanced up at her. "Is this true?"
"What do you mean, is this true? Of course it's true. I'm a journalist." His face darkened as he flipped to the second page. "Please, Trace. Just give it to me? It's nothing." It was everything, and that was the problem. Her biggest triumph and her greatest failure, all wrapped into one ten-thousand word multi-part article. She moved to take the pa
pers, but he raised his hand out of reach, eyes burning into her. He shouldn't look at her that way. Like he believed in her. It did dangerous things to her insides. "Besides, I have a thing about people reading my work before it's published. Bad luck. Very bad luck."
"This is good," he said, glancing at the papers still in his hand. "Really good."
In spite of herself, she thrilled at his words. "Yeah, well it also got me sacked." She snatched the papers back as soon as his hand dropped and she tossed them in the recycle under the sink.
"You're kidding."
"I wish I was."
"Why?"
His confusion was sweet. "Why do you think? You read the first page. Until You is a high dollar escort service with a client list that if revealed, could bring down giants. Turns out I was a little too close to some of the giants."
Trace made a face. "Then fuck 'em. They deserve what they get."
"Well not everyone has your sense of justice," she said, bitterness washing over her. "Look. What's done is done. I've moved on." She waved a hand in the direction of the hall. "To remodeling." Trace tried to step around her to get to the sink, but she blocked him with a hand on his chest. "Leave it. Please?"
"But that story." He shook his head, a determined set to his jaw. "That story needs to be told."
"Not by me."
"You could send it to someone else. If it's as big as you say it is, someone else will want it. News outlets are always looking for the next scoop."
The bitterness in his voice was so sweet it hurt. She cupped his cheek and stood on tiptoe to press her lips to the patch of skin just above his beard. "I'm so flattered you want to help. But some things you just have to let go." A wave of regret hit her in the belly. There would be no awards or recognition for journalistic integrity in her future. Maybe after Christmas she'd sign up to be a war correspondent after all.
He covered her hand with his, turning his face to kiss her palm. "You're a good writer, Cecilia. I may have only read the first page, but I can tell. If it's your dream, don't give up on it."
Cecilia's chest pulled tight and her throat felt like she'd swallowed a hot coal. No male she'd ever dated had encouraged her like this. It felt weird and awkward, and strangely wonderful. "Well, maybe it's just a hiatus, then."
Trace's voice turned to gravel. "I know one hiatus that's ended." He pulled her close, his hand coming to rest on her ass. "We've got one more condom to use."
Chapter Twenty
The week flew by. Between early morning chores, late afternoon rodeo practice, and sneaking over to see Cecilia in the off-hours, Trace was beat. Tomorrow they'd head to Strong City, and he'd ride his first bull in front of an audience. The knot in his stomach grew. He'd improved significantly, staying on until the horn more often than not, but would it be enough? Knowing Cecilia would be in the stands was a double-edged sword. On the one hand, knowing her eyes were on him made him feel damn near invincible. On the other, the need to impress her was so strong, that fear of failing knotted his belly, throwing acid up this throat. There was a certain look she gave him, a look that said she wanted to believe in him against all odds, that made him want to prove himself, even move mountains for her. And more and more, he found himself wanting to be that hero he'd played in the movies, the one still left standing amid the destruction, and who walked into the sunset with the girl on his arm. But not for himself - for her. She'd caught a number of bad breaks, and if he could help her catch a good one, he would.
He glanced over to the stack of somewhat wrinkled papers taunting him from the corner of the counter. Maybe he'd crossed a line by rescuing her writing from the recycle bin, but the little he'd read? Granted, it was only the intro but holy smokes. He'd read enough winning screenplays to recognize great writing, and there was something magic in her style that instantly grabbed his attention. It was tempting to read on. His curiosity was piqued, but if Cecilia believed it was bad luck, he could resist. A thought that had been hovering at the edge of his consciousness all week, lodged in his brain. This was his chance to put a little good back in the world without anyone being the wiser. There was only one person he trusted with a story as precious as Cecilia's, who would make sure it got into the right hands, and keep her mouth shut about the whole thing, although Portia would be livid if she ever found out. She'd just have to not find out, then.
Trace grabbed his phone, sucking in a breath. This call wasn't without risk. But in the end, the risk was worth the payoff for Cecilia's sake. He dialed, stomach fluttering. He hadn't talked to Ophelia in three years. The phone rang. Maybe she was in the studio or on-air. Voicemail would be preferable to the ass kicking he knew he deserved.
"No. Way."
He flashed a smile, hoping it reached his voice. "Hi Ophelia."
"If I was smart, I'd hang up and block you," Portia's older sister said darkly.
He was counting on the fact she wasn't. She'd always had a soft spot for him. "I know, I know. I have no excuse for my behavior the last time we saw each other." The time when he'd been banned from her news studio permanently.
"So you're finally calling to apologize? After three years?"
Trace swallowed, chest pinching. "Among other things?"
"Tell me more." Her voice dripped with sarcasm. "Actually, don't. I don't want to know. I really don't have time for this, Trace."
"I know, I know. I promise when I'm back in California I'll buy you dinner and grovel properly. I just... I have a favor to ask."
"Excuse me?"
"Look, you're the only person I could turn to, and honestly, Portia would kick my ass if she found out I was calling."
A heavy sigh came through the line. "She would, and your secret's safe with me. This once. And only because I hope this latest round of public humiliation has finally made an impact."
"It has, I swear. I've changed... I'm changing," he amended.
"What do you want Trace?" her voice turned exasperated. "Are you in jail? Please god, tell me you're not in jail. Portia and Sandy would be devastated. I'd have to disown you on principle."
"No, no. Nothing like that." He raked a hand through his hair. "I know a reporter with a big story about an escort service in Chicago."
"Oh?"
That was all it took. He could hear the hunger for a scoop in her voice. The cynical part of himself reflected that reporters were all the same. Didn't matter whose life got turned upside down, as long as they broke the story first.
"It's for print. The writer got too close to some of the subjects and was sacked and the story was killed. But it's good. Really good." He exhaled roughly. "I was hoping you could help get it into the right hands."
"How do you know the writer?"
"She's a friend." He said it with as much neutrality as he could muster.
"Hmph." He could hear her tapping a fingernail on her desk. "No woman is your friend, Trace."
Her words cut to the quick. But they were true. Portia had crossed the friend line into family when they'd been young and by default, Ophelia had too. But Cecilia... was different. So much more than a fling, definitely more than a fuck. And they'd shared things. Real things. And feelings. Surely she counted as a friend? Regardless of the fact they burned white-hot between the sheets? "We're friends," he repeated, voice catching. "But that's not the point. When you read it, you'll understand why. The writing is... would you at least read it? If you want to toss it after, fine. She doesn't even know I'm calling you." He was met with what could only be stunned silence. "Fi?"
"Wait... you're doing this out of the goodness of your heart?"
"Don't act so surprised," he snapped. "I'm a nice guy."
"Depends on your version of nice. Polite? Sure. Self-centered? Absolutely. Selfless? Definitely not."
He was stung by her words, but she wasn't wrong. "I'm not that way anymore," he mumbled, face flaming. "At least, I'm trying not to be," he finished.
"Well, that's a start," she acceded. "And I'm proud of you for trying. Most people wouldn
't bother." Ophelia's voice softened. "And if you're doing this for her, well, frankly it gives me hope. Send it over. If it's as good as you say it is, I'll make sure it gets the proper treatment."
Trace pumped a fist into the air. This was the break Cecilia needed. He was sure of it. "Text me your address, I'll put it in the mail today."
"You're late," Colton scolded when Trace arrived at the rodeo arena a half-hour late. "If you're late for check-in tomorrow, it'll throw off your entire rhythm."
"I know, I'm sorry. Something came up."
Colton smirked as his eyes slid to the bleachers. "Well it wasn't because of your girlfriend. She arrived early."
Oh? He slowly turned, seeking out the snapping brown eyes that made his heart trip, and lifted his hand. Cecilia broke into a smile, returning his wave. "Just a little business I had to take care of," he said quietly. "But I'm ready now."
Colton clapped him on the shoulder. "Go get your gear."
Tony met Trace in the barn on his way out. "I see your girlfriend is out there," he said with a knowing smile.
Of course Tony would know. It was like a game of telephone. Cecilia would have confided in Izzie, who naturally would have mentioned something to her brother, Robbie, who was best friends with Tony, so of course Tony knew everything. Not that he cared, he liked Cecilia. And this wasn't some kind of big secret. The only secret he was keeping was the one that he no longer felt comfortable with.
Tony paused, hand landing a little too heavily on his shoulder. "I'm sure your cousin has already mentioned this-" he paused giving him a meaningful look.
"Cousin?"
"Sterling?"
"Oh yeah, right." He nodded, silently cursing his minor slip. No one had asked even one follow-up question about the story he'd fabricated with Sterling, but of course this would have gone through the telephone gossip treatment too.
"I know you like her, man. And she's great. I've known CiCi my whole life."
Trace didn't miss the subtext in his voice. "And?"
Tony squeezed his shoulder. Hard. "There's a saying we have here in these parts." His eyes narrowed to dark points. "Fuck with her, fuck with her happiness... you cause her distress in any way, we'll be waiting for you in the tall grass."
