The Giving Heart

by Toni Blake

  “Her reaction,” she told Beck, “let me know I’d made the right decision—horrible as it was and still is. Because if your best friend doesn’t believe you, it’s hard to think anyone else will.

  “And you know what?” she continued, on a roll now. “There was another girl, named Mariah—she held my position before me, and after she’d quit, I heard rumors that she’d claimed Simon came on to her. But I didn’t believe it. I didn’t believe her. Because...he was Simon Alexis, all-around powerful do-gooder. I didn’t want to believe her. I wanted to work for him. I wanted to do something meaningful like Whitney was. And if I didn’t believe her then, well, of course I can’t expect anyone to believe me now.”

  “But I believe you,” Beck reminded her, and even though she already knew that, it was still nice to hear it again. To be reminded again. “And one thing I know, from experience, is that just because someone gives a lot to others doesn’t mean everything about them is good. And this guy...” He stopped, appearing angry once more. “This guy is a piece of shit. He needs to be taught a lesson.” And then his voice went back to being softer. “I’m so sorry you had to go through that, honey.”

  She lifted her gaze squarely to his, pressed her lips tight together, and told him one more thing she felt guilty about. “You don’t think it’s awful I didn’t speak out?”

  He just looked at her, let out a heavy sigh. “What I think is that it’s tragic shit like this is still happening. Bad enough that it ever happened, but still? Now? Even with the whole #MeToo movement?” He shook his head. “I think the guy should be drawn and quartered, but...hell, I can’t blame you for not wanting to go down that road. Because it seems like it can be a dark one.”

  It comforted her to know he realized that. Speaking out sounded so easy when you were on the outside of a situation, but from the inside, not so much. “I went on social media,” she told him, “and looked up accusers of high-powered men—and no matter how credible they are, no matter how many of them there are, they still get attacked and blamed. Sometimes by men and sometimes by other women. Always by total strangers. Other people who don’t want to let their heroes fall off the pedestal. And that...that just felt too ugly to me. I mean, I already had enough ugliness weighing me down. The attack. Whitney. Getting fired. I knew even as I was reading the agreement that I couldn’t take any more. I just wanted to put it behind me. Somehow.”

  “No one can blame you for that, Lila. No one can say what’s right for you. Only you can make that decision. Sometimes we just want to find the peace.”

  Oh. He got that—because of his dad. He knew about just wanting to leave the bad stuff and go someplace better—because of the way his father had hurt him. Very different situations, but ones that had clearly left them both seeking some serenity, instead of more theatrics or blame or criticism.

  Despite his understanding, though, she heard herself say, “The thing is, I somehow thought signing that piece of paper and walking away would put it behind me—but it didn’t. It’s still with me—in so many ways. And I feel bad, guilty, about just running away, not trying to do something about it. In the same way I feel guilty about being a bad sister. Like I’m always just running away from the bad stuff.” She stopped, shook her head, blew out a sigh. “I really have been trying...to give more. To Meg, to the world. But I keep failing.”

  “Hey,” he said, pointing his fork at her, “you’re not failing at anything. What you gave to your job and to helping people there isn’t diminished by what happened. And look how much you care about this place, for Meg and your family.”

  At this, however, she only shrugged. Trying to feel it, but not really getting there.

  “You seem to feel guilty a lot,” he gently pointed out. “Over things you haven’t done wrong.”

  She took that in, along with a deep breath, turning it over in her mind. Maybe he was right. “Goes back a long way, I guess. To Meg’s cancer.”

  “Honey, you gotta let that go. Seriously.”

  “Easier said than done,” she told him. Knowing something logically wasn’t the same as feeling it. “And now I have to feel guilty about not protecting the inn while she’s away.”

  Did another tiny hint of guilt flash through his eyes? She’d probably just imagined that, though, since he stayed pragmatic as ever. “Again, not your fault, nothing to feel guilty about.” He tilted his head, giving her a long look that reached to her core. “I don’t like knowing you feel guilty about things. Makes me sad.”

  She blinked, surprised, met his gaze. “Why?”

  “Just not how I see you,” he said.

  “How do you see me?”

  “Tough. Feisty.”

  Lila whooshed out another sigh. “Whitney always said I hid a lot with my sass.”

  “Why did you quit? Hiding all that? With me, I mean,” he asked.

  She shrugged. “You kept asking me why I was angry.”

  It surprised her when he let out a light laugh. “You don’t strike me as a woman who does anything she doesn’t want to, no matter how many times she’s asked.”

  “Good point,” she agreed matter-of-factly, “because I’m usually not.”

  “Then...” He leaned forward slightly. “Why?”

  Lila narrowed her gaze on the man in front of her, taking him in, thinking about the question. She had no real, solid answers. All she had was... “This makes no sense, but something about you...makes me feel safe. Maybe it’s because no matter how mean I am, you don’t get offended, or mad, or go away.”

  “Because I like you,” he told her. “Even when you’re mean. Even when you’re fighting me tooth and nail. Even when you’re demanding the key to my bulldozer.”

  “I hate that you like me,” she said.

  He drew back slightly, clearly confused. “Why?”

  “Because it makes it so damn easy to like you back.”

  The whole time they’d talked, their sock-covered feet had been near each other at the center of the sofa, and now Beck moved one warm foot gently over hers. The rush of sensation it created caught her so much by surprise that she gasped, arched her back, and said, “Oh,” the word coming out with an undeniably sexual lilt.

  “Really?” Beck asked, dark and seductive eyes widening slightly. “Just from that?”

  She bit her lip. “Never underestimate the power of playing footsie on a cold winter’s night after a massive confession.”

  At this, he slid his cozily socked foot upward, over her ankle and up her calf. She slid her other foot over his other foot in a warm caress. Their gazes locked, issuing mutual invitations, and he reached for her hand.

  He stroked his thumb over her skin as they both rose to their knees to move closer to each other, but even as his palm curved over her hip—he stopped, pulled back slightly. “Wait,” he said. “Is this okay? I mean, last time I had no idea, but...after what you’ve been through...”

  “It’s okay,” she was quick to assure him. “I wanted you then. And I want you again now.” And to make sure he believed her about this, too, she lifted both hands to his face and kissed him like there was no tomorrow.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  THE LAST TIME she’d kissed Beck, she’d been a little intoxicated, a little angry, a little confused—about so many things. Tonight, suddenly, she wasn’t any of those things. Tonight she kissed him with clarity, a clarity that allowed pure joy and desire to rush through her veins.

  And so it threw her when he drew back yet again. He appeared slightly tortured, and his voice sounded strained as he asked, “Are you sure? Because...”

  Oh God, he was that concerned for her well-being! No wonder she was so drawn to this man.

  And so she told him the whole truth about this part of it, too. “Beck, when we had sex the other night, it...made me feel whole again. Because I was afraid what had happened would ruin it for me—maybe forever. And
then you came along and, much sooner than I ever could have imagined, it suddenly felt okay to be with someone that way. Because you made everything feel safe. Good. Right. And that’s how it feels now, too. So will you please just shut up and kiss me before I change my mind and kick you out into the snow again.”

  She saw something in him relax as he finally said, “Okay—you convinced me. Get ready for some serious kissing, girl.”

  “I’m ready,” she promised.

  And oh—he wasn’t kidding. Every commanding movement of his mouth over hers, every slide of his tongue between her lips, glided through her like liquid heat, settling in her core. Pressing her palms to his chest, she pushed him to his back on the couch.

  And after that, it was all about instinct and rhythm and primal urges and two bodies in perfect concert with each other. His hands molded her breasts as she pressed the juncture of her thighs against the enticingly rigid length behind his zipper in a slow grind. They separated just long enough to peel off each other’s clothes, then came together again.

  “I want you inside me,” she murmured against his lips.

  And the position they were already in made the next obvious move to straddle him, sink onto him, let him fill her, let the sensation wash away thoughts of everything else but him. Pleasure, power, comfort, protection—Beck gave her all those things, almost in equal measure, as he moved inside her. And then he added...bliss.

  It came quickly, breaking over her like a tumultuous Great Lakes storm. She hadn’t felt this good with a man in...well, had she ever truly felt this remarkable with a guy? Had she ever found someone who was the whole package—strong, caring, funny, and oh-so-sexy and good in bed? Stop. Thinking. Just be in the moment.

  And the moment—along with those that followed—were a fine place to be. Soon he was on top of her, driving deep, rocking her world in a different way, a way not about orgasm but simply about the connection, the unabated knowledge that their bodies had been made to fit together, to move and meet this way. She cried out at each deep plunge, vaguely aware of the fire, vaguely aware of the glow of the Christmas tree as darkness began to fall around them—inside the house and out—but mostly she focused on the man. And when he came, it left her nearly as replete as her own climax had.

  The room went quiet, feeling suddenly cozier and more aglow with Christmas lights now that the sun had set—and as she snuggled against him on the couch, he reached around her to pull the same throw blanket over them as before. Then he asked, “Are you gonna make me leave again?”

  She bit her lip, searched her heart. There was a lot going on in there to search, but the answer came simply. “No,” she whispered.

  “Even if I suggest moving to a bed,” he said cautiously.

  She let out a soft, self-deprecating laugh, remembering how last time that particular notion had indeed been the tipping point, the thing that had somehow brought her back to all the reasons this was a bad idea. Maybe it had been about...taking him deeper into Meg’s home, into what was truly the heart of her family’s legacy. Still, she said, “Even if.”

  “Just because... I like beds,” he told her lightly. “I’m kind of a big guy, and...”

  Oh—she supposed the couch was kind of cramped for someone considerably taller and broader than her. “We can go upstairs,” she offered.

  And after they rose from the couch, both of them grabbing up clothes, he tossed her a sideways glance to say, “I like this you.”

  “This me?” she questioned as they headed naked across the hardwood toward the staircase.

  “This you who isn’t yelling at me and doesn’t seem...well, so mad anymore.”

  She looked back at him. “Maybe... I just needed to talk about things. Maybe I needed someone to believe me and make it...not my fault.”

  “So you haven’t told Meg? About what happened?”

  With another quick glance over her shoulder as they climbed the stairs, she shook her head.

  “Why not?”

  Drawing in a deep breath as they reached the second floor, she spoke aloud the awful thoughts just now becoming clear to her. “It was all so new and fresh at Thanksgiving. And...maybe I was afraid she wouldn’t believe me, either. Or maybe that she’d believe me, but judge me for signing the non-disclosure, not doing something more.”

  He slanted a look in her direction. “I don’t know Meg well, but...she’s your sister. She loves you. I’m sure she’d be in your corner.”

  Lila nodded, albeit weakly. “I know you’re right. Only... I guess I don’t want it to seem like I just took the easiest way out. Since that’s what I’ve always done. With everything.”

  Next to her, Beck simply shook his head. “You’re so damn hard on yourself. Stop it. Come lie down with me. Point me to the right room.”

  A moment later, they crawled beneath the covers in the yellow room, where after a few false starts, she’d eventually settled. Her grandmother had always felt it was a cheerful room, and even if Lila hadn’t slept any better there than in any of the others, cheerful had seemed a good enough reason to stay when she’d grown tired of moving and realized her poor sleep had nothing to do with her surroundings.

  Snuggling up with Beck in bed, she listened to his even breathing and realized he’d fallen asleep almost instantly. It was a nice, solid, steady sound. A white noise that came with a delicious hint of masculinity.

  I could stay like this. Cuddled with this man. Laughing with this man. Strengthened by this man. I could stay like this.

  It seemed a dangerous line of thought, though. For many reasons. So it was a blessing in more ways than one when she soon felt herself drifting into slumber, as well.

  * * *

  WHEN SHE AWOKE to the sun shining in the window the next morning, Beck still beside her, she confessed one more truth to herself. He had indeed restored to her the gift of sleep. Simon had stolen it from her, stolen her peace, stolen her ability to truly relax and find real rest—but somehow Beck brought it back to her.

  Not that they’d slept the whole time they’d been in bed. At one point she’d been awakened with kisses. Kisses that she’d eagerly returned—until they’d drifted from her mouth down over her neck, breasts, tummy, and below. They’d had sex twice more.

  When he opened warm, sleepy eyes on her in the sunlit room, she smiled gently. “Morning,” she said. “How’d you sleep?”

  “Like a baby,” he said. “You?”

  “Same.”

  Under the covers, he ran fingertips gently up her arm. “Good.”

  All of this was good. She almost hated to end it. But she was hungry. And God knew they’d done enough to work up an appetite. “Want breakfast?”

  His eyes widened. “God, yes. I’m starving.”

  “Me, too.”

  “Waffles or pancakes?”

  “Either sound great. What’s easiest?”

  “Pancakes probably. But...” She stopped, scrunched her nose slightly. “They’re kind of Meg’s specialty. She makes amazing pancakes. Mine are kind of average in comparison.”

  Next to her in bed, Beck’s mouth straightened into a thin line, his brows pressing down on his eyes. “You should stop comparing yourself to your sister, honey. I’ve never had her pancakes, so you’re safe on that count. And I’m sure yours will be amazing, too.”

  She eyed the man next to her appreciatively. She didn’t mean to be self-deprecating when it came to Meg. And it wasn’t Meg’s fault or anyone else’s—just a lifelong habit. But maybe one she should try to break. “You’re a good man, Indiana Jones.”

  He grinned, then leaned over to drop a quick kiss on her nose. “Need help in the kitchen?”

  She shook her head. “I’ve got it.”

  “In that case, mind if I take a quick shower?”

  “Not at all,” she told him, pointing to the bathroom. Every bedroom had been fitted with
one when Gran had transformed the house into the Summerbrook Inn. “I’ll be downstairs whipping up amazing pancakes when you’re done.”

  Ten minutes later, she was moving around the kitchen, heating a griddle plus a separate skillet for brown-and-serve sausage links she’d found in the freezer, and mixing up pancake batter in Meg’s robe. This was the earliest she’d risen since arriving on the island—probably because she felt better rested than she had in weeks.

  Sleep—a thing she’d never thought much about until she couldn’t get any. She remained grateful to Beck for helping her attain some good slumber, for making her feel safe enough to surrender to that mysterious place we go each night. She bit her lip, stirring the batter with a big wooden spoon like Gran used to use. What was it about him? How could she feel so safe with a man intent on hurting—killing—something she cared about?

  She stopped stirring, shut her eyes. She didn’t want to think about that. She was so tired of thinking about it.

  But not thinking about something didn’t make it go away.

  Still, just have a nice breakfast. Everything else about him is wonderful. And don’t forget, he believes you about Simon! He believes you! That counted for a lot. Surely it made up—at least in some ways—for the one thing wrong with this situation.

  When he entered the kitchen a few minutes later, fully dressed in the clothes he’d worn yesterday, the sausage sizzled and a batch of pancakes were ready to come off the griddle. “This all smells great! My stomach is growling. Sure I can’t help?”

  She glanced over her shoulder at the handsome man she now felt profoundly connected to. “Um, you can grab some drinks from the fridge since I forgot to put coffee on.” She sneered her personal disappointment. “But there’s OJ and milk.” Then focused on flipping pancakes with a wide spatula.

  “I’m a milk guy at breakfast anyway, so that works for me. What’s your pleasure?” She looked back over to see him at the fridge, door open, holding up half-gallon containers of both drinks.