Rumor Has It

by Jill Shalvis

  She closed her eyes. “You know what it is.”

  Yeah, he knew. He leaned into her. “Say it.”

  “Chemistry,” she whispered, and blushed. “I happen to be a bit of an expert on the subject.”

  Christ, she made him smile. She made him a lot of things, too many things, and suddenly, he couldn’t walk away. “So, as an expert,” he said, “what do you suggest we do?”

  * * *

  Kate’s heart was pounding, and she had to lick her suddenly dry lips. Anything she might have suggested certainly couldn’t be discussed in a family restaurant.

  But she could think it. In fact she would be thinking about it, and what they’d done last night, for a long time to come. “I’m not sure what we can do.” She held her breath and met his gaze. “You can’t exactly fight the laws of science.”

  His eyes heated and focused right on hers. “No, you can’t,” he said, low and slightly rough.

  She closed her eyes. He’d spoken in that voice last night, right in her ear, and remembering gave her a shiver. The really good kind of shiver, and she stepped closer.

  His big, capable hands immediately went to her hips, his long fingers making themselves at home on her body like it was his. Like she was his.

  She shivered again, and their gazes met just as she slid her arms around his neck and pulled his head down.

  He was already bending to meet her halfway.

  Incredibly aware of the chaos around them and how anyone could come upon them, she let her eyes drift closed. Just a taste, just one more taste, she thought as his mouth touched hers.

  Threading his hand through her hair, he tilted her head farther back until apparently he had her right where he wanted her. Then he parted her lips and slowly and completely ravished her. The man could kiss, he was the kisser of all kissers, and the longer it went on the more insistent it became. She melted into him, completely, until at a sound behind them, she broke away with unsure steps, her breathing anywhere but under control.

  “Excuse me,” a waitress said, skirting around them with a knowing smile.

  Holy.

  Smokes.

  Kate stared up at the man still sharing air with her. He was a sight standing tall in front of her with his usual cool calm gone, replaced by something dangerous, alluring, and hotter than sin.

  “That’s some science problem,” he said. “I don’t think we’ve solved it yet.”

  She put a hand on her chest to keep her heart from leaping out. “I concur. So . . . what do we do?”

  “Solve it,” he said firmly.

  She paused. “How?”

  He gave a slow shake of his head. “You’re the expert.”

  “It’s possible the attraction will just wane and die a natural death,” she said.

  His gaze was on her mouth. “Doubt it.”

  So did she. “Did you know that most people make a decision regarding whether they are attracted to a person within three seconds of meeting?”

  “How many seconds within meeting me did you decide?” he asked.

  “Maybe I still haven’t decided.”

  He laughed softly. “You’ve decided.”

  Dammit, she really hated that he could read her so effectively. “Well, it took you longer than three seconds,” she pointed out. “I had to throw myself at you to get your attention.”

  His smile faded. “Don’t mistake restraint for disinterest, Kate.”

  Her breath caught on that, and she didn’t know how to respond. Hell, she didn’t know what to think. What was he saying exactly?

  Tracing a finger along her temple, he tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “We going to solve our problem?” he asked softly.

  There was no air in her lungs. None. “I thought this was a one-night thing,” she said. “Just a fun adventure.”

  His lips curved. “A naked adventure.”

  “Yeah.” She couldn’t ask for more. She couldn’t because she wasn’t sure that she’d be able to have another night and not fall for him harder than she already had.

  Sixteen

  The next day Kate got up at the crack of dawn against the wishes of every single bone in her body. She wanted to lie in bed for another half an hour but that wasn’t going to burn calories.

  She could think of a way to burn at least 112 calories, but Griffin wasn’t in her bed. Which was her own doing.

  We going to solve our problem?

  He’d asked her that in the diner, and she’d resisted getting serious about the question. In hindsight, she had no idea how. Maybe because of the envelope still keeping her company everywhere she went. This was her year, everything within her told her it was. She wanted to go to San Diego, needed to go, and yet . . . she was afraid. There. The pathetic truth. She was afraid. If she went, would her family be okay without her?

  And then there was the real fear. If they were okay without her . . . did that mean no one needed her?

  Tired of herself, she got up and ran.

  Since she was still a little spooked from the last time and not quite up for the woods, she altered her route, taking the streets to the park instead. The fog hadn’t lifted yet, and she slowed to a halt in the middle of the park, realizing that taking the streets hadn’t helped all that much.

  She still felt like a sitting duck.

  With every horror film she’d ever seen running through her mind, she slipped her hand in her pocket and came up with the Mace.

  Some men brought flowers.

  Griffin had brought her Mace.

  She loved that about him.

  Larry was asleep on his bench, and she tiptoed past him. The concession stand was closed, of course. Which kind of sucked since popcorn for breakfast sounded pretty good about now.

  Turning to go back, she nearly plowed into . . . Larry.

  He was large and built like a bull in a china shop. A gentle giant. His long black and silver hair was thick and wild, his eyes sleepy. “You woke me,” he said.

  She glanced at the bench and saw his bags of stuff scattered around. “I’m sorry.”

  “You buy me popcorn?”

  “They’re not open yet.”

  Larry sighed. He might look like a retired linebacker, but his eyes were sweet, and he hunched a little bit, like he was trying to be more her size than his. She couldn’t imagine he’d been the one to chase her last time. For one thing, he moved like a tortoise. And for another, he wore only socks on his feet, as usual. People brought him hand-me-down shoes all the time; he just didn’t like them.

  “Are you hungry?” she asked. “The diner’s offered to feed you breakfast, remember? You just have to show up.”

  “The diner,” he repeated, his brow wrinkling.

  “Yes,” she said. “Downtown. They’ll feed you if you’re hungry.”

  He smiled sleepily at her, reaching out with his big, beefy hand to pat her on the top of her head. And then he turned and gathered all his stuff and walked slowly off, limping slightly in his sock-covered feet.

  Watching him go, Kate relaxed her grip on the Mace in her pocket.

  * * *

  Grif found his dad in the barn saddling up his horse.

  Donald watched him approach, no expression on his face. “Still here, huh?”

  Grif shrugged and crouched down to greet an enthusiastic Thing One and Thing Two when they bounded over. “Seems like.” He gave each dog a full belly rub, which had them writhing in ecstasy. “Going out?” he asked his dad.

  “I run a ranching empire. What else would I be doing?”

  Grif bit back his defensive retort. “Want some company?”

  Donald gave him a once-over. “You remember how to ride?”

  Grif knew a challenge when he heard one. He saddled up, the motions as familiar as when riding had been a routine part of his life.

  They rode in silence. Well, Grif and his dad were silent. Thing One and Thing Two, not so much. Donald had a Chuckit, a plastic stick that allowed him to scoop a tennis ball and throw i
t for the dogs from horseback.

  He made his first toss for Thing One, and the dog leaped into the air, catching the ball with beauty and grace. Thing Two didn’t have the same grace or anything close to it. She couldn’t jump as high either. So she caught the ball—square in the center of her forehead.

  This dimmed her enthusiasm not one little bit, even when it happened for the third time in a row, and Grif couldn’t help but laugh.

  “Every single time,” his dad said, and shook his head, though a small smile cracked his usually grim mouth as well.

  Though there was still snow on the upper-elevation peaks, the valley floor was working on a spring bloom. A rainbow of flowers rocked in the wind alongside thigh-high wild grass. An hour later they stopped at the far northern pasture. Griffin took in the quiet beauty and wondered how in the hell he’d ever come to resent it so much in his youth.

  “Your ass sore yet?” his dad asked. “I don’t imagine you did a lot of riding over there.”

  “Over there” being anywhere off the continental US, which of course was another planet as far as his father was concerned. “Not on a horse,” he said, resisting the urge to shift his weight in the saddle, because the truth was, he was getting sore—a fact he was never going to admit. “I’m fine. What’re your plans for this place?”

  His father craned his neck and stared at him.

  Yeah. Grif had no idea where that sentence had come from either. Except . . . he did. Holly’s wedding had made him realize how precious home was, and even though things still weren’t great with his dad, Idaho was home. It was where he belonged.

  “What are my plans for the ranch,” his dad repeated slowly. “Why?”

  Grif shrugged.

  His dad stared at him some more. “Thought you had job options.”

  Grif shrugged again. “It’s just a question.”

  “You’re thinking of staying here in Idaho?”

  “No. I don’t know,” Grif said. “I’m just thinking out loud.” But yeah, he was thinking of staying.

  Wanting to stay . . .

  And if that wasn’t the most asinine thing he’d ever thought, he didn’t know what was. He and his dad would kill each other in less than a day.

  “You think we could work together,” his dad said. And then let out a loud guffaw that pissed Grif off.

  “It was just a thought,” he said, hating feeling like a stupid, defensive teenager all over again.

  Donald Reid took off his cowboy hat and ran his fingers through his still thick but entirely gray hair. “You can’t just become a damn rancher. It takes years and a heart for it.” He slid Grif a look. “A heart that you’ve never shown here, not once.”

  Grif bit back the urge to argue in his own defense, to say, what about all the times he’d taken care of Holly when she’d gotten herself into trouble or how many hours he’d put into this ranch as a kid and teenager, sweat and blood and agony, hours that apparently had gotten erased somehow in the past decade of service to his country. “I’m not saying I want to step in and run this place, Dad.” Jesus. “I’m just asking what your plans are.”

  “And how you might fit into them.”

  “You just won’t let us get along, will you?” Grif let out his own mirthless laugh. “You know, this whole time I thought it was me. For years, I’ve thought that. But in fourteen years of military service, I managed to get along just fine with everyone, which told me that you’re the only person who has a problem with me.”

  “I don’t have a problem with you. I have a problem with your attitude.”

  “You don’t know my attitude now,” Grif responded. “You’re going off my teenage attitude.”

  “Which sucked.”

  “Yeah. And I can’t change that. Or apologize for it.”

  “Why not?”

  Grif stared at his dad. “You want me to apologize for being a stupid punk-ass kid?”

  “Maybe.”

  Grif shook his head. “Fine. I’m sorry I was such a pain in your ass. But every kid is a pain in the ass. Parents are supposed to get over it.”

  Donald Reid was silent at that. He was silent through riding fences and checking on cattle.

  And then, two hours later, out of the blue, he spoke. “Wouldn’t hurt to put you to work, see how you do.”

  Not exactly blowing Grif’s hair back with praise, but it was all he was going to get. And it was good enough. He wasn’t seeking the old man’s approval, though it would have been nice. He was seeking . . . his place, he supposed. He still wasn’t sure he’d found it, but he’d taken a step anyway.

  * * *

  At the end of the day, Grif was heading back to the house when a figure at the creek caught his attention.

  Kate.

  “I’m just checking on the seedlings,” she said when he changed course and walked over to her. She gave him a long once over. “Headache?”

  He rubbed his temple. “A little.” He’d not yet even noticed.

  “I keep meaning to ask you,” she said. “Are you in physical therapy?”

  “Was. Until I got here.”

  “What were you doing in PT?” she asked.

  “A little of everything.”

  She stood and brushed her hands off on her jeans. “How about yoga?”

  “Yoga?”

  “Yes,” she said. “It’s been proven to be very effective against migraines. Have you ever tried it?”

  “Hell no.”

  She smiled. “You’re chicken.”

  His gaze slid to hers, and she laughed. “You are,” she said, smiling wide. “You’re afraid of the word yoga.”

  “No. I’m afraid of yoga clothes.”

  “Do you have basketball shorts?”

  “Yeah. Why?” he asked warily.

  “Put them on, and I’ll show you a few yoga moves to ease a migraine. No leggings required,” she promised.

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Please?” she asked. “Just consider it.”

  He studied her a moment, ostensibly to do his considering. Instead he was considering how much fun it might be to watch her do yoga. “There should be naked yoga,” he said. “If there was naked yoga, I’d be all over it.”

  She laughed. “Let’s start with basketball-shorts yoga.”

  He had zero interest in yoga, but hell, if she wanted to maneuver him around on a little pad with her hands all over him, who was he to hold back? “If I agree, I’ll need something from you in return.”

  She nibbled on her lower lip as her gaze slid to his mouth.

  Yeah, babe. That. Later. “You have to let me show you how to protect yourself,” he said.