by Arianna Hart
His harsh breathing was the only sound he could hear in the room. Sweat trickled down his face and back. The music was back. And it was better than sex.
He reached for his phone. Please have caught that, dear God, please don’t let me have shut off the recorder by accident. He hit the playback button and listened, trying to be as objective as possible. But it wasn’t easy. He so badly wanted it to be as good as he thought it was.
And it was. Hell, it was fucking awesome for a first run. He needed to add a bridge, and there were parts that needed tightening—a lot of tightening—but for a new creation, it was pretty fucking great.
Almost in a frenzy, he grabbed a pencil and some staff paper and put the chords down, tweaking things as he listened to the recording. No, it wasn’t his usual material, but it had feeling. Maybe he’d never write another song like it again, but at least he had something worthwhile down on paper. It was gritty and sexy and he could feel lyrics percolating in his brain. They teased him with their nearness, but he couldn’t quite get them focused.
They’d come, he knew this feeling. He’d be sleeping or taking a shower or something, and the song would pop into his brain almost fully formed. The less he thought about it, the quicker it would come, so he mentally pushed the half-formed lyrics away and concentrated on cleaning up the melody.
He already knew what he’d call the song, though, “Pint-sized Aphrodite.”
Hours later, he stood and stretched. His fingers were sore, his body stiff, but he felt energized beyond belief. He practically ran up the stairs to change into shorts so he could go for a run. Three miles? Shit, he could run a marathon right now.
As he pulled on his running clothes, he realized he was going to have to find a way to do laundry. He’d run out of boxer-briefs, recycling his socks was no longer an option, and the only T-shirt that wasn’t so dirty it could practically stand by itself was the one he was wearing.
Fuck it, he’d worry about that after his run. Right now, he needed to move. His feet thundered down the stairs as he burst outside and he ran to where the trail started. A radio played in the distance, a classic rock station, and the grind of AC/DC’s “Back in Black” suited his mood perfectly.
His muse was back, and she was horny.
He actually laughed out loud as he ran, something that would have been inconceivable two weeks ago. The three miles had gotten progressively more tolerable, not easy, but tolerable, and he could do a few push-ups and sit-ups now without gasping for air and collapsing afterward.
Maybe when he went back on tour, he’d have Dave build some gym time into the schedule. The fancy hotels he stayed in had to have killer workout facilities, right?
At the idea of touring again, he immediately wanted a drink. That thought made him stop in his tracks.
Move, move, move! Get those feet up! His father’s voice barked in his memory.
He picked up the pace and ran, but the laughter was gone. What the fuck? Why did the thought of touring make him long for a drink? He’d been performing in front of crowds for twelve years, it wasn’t like he had stage fright.
No, not stage fright, stage ambivalence. There was no connection with his audience anymore. He wasn’t sharing his songs, his music with people, he was just performing like a trained monkey. Back when he’d first started out, he and his band played in local bars with the band’s friends and family right up front. But when was the last time he’d looked out into a crowd and spotted someone he knew? Sure, there were the people who worked for him, like Dave and his agent, but they were usually backstage, not in the audience.
Was that the real issue? He no longer felt the connection with his fans? How pathetic was that? He’d worked his ass off to reach the level of success where he sold out arenas all over the world, and he was whining because none of his friends were in the audience for him?
Boo-fucking-hoo. So what if he didn’t have someone special sitting front row center? There were thousands of people who paid a shit load of money to see him. Christ, people actually slept out to get tickets to his shows. He remembered doing that when he was a kid, and now people were doing that for him. It was time to get over himself. He’d wanted the fame, worked night and day for it, he couldn’t cry that it wasn’t what he’d expected now that he’d gotten it.
Of course, all that fame would go down the toilet in a hot second if he didn’t produce another album. He only had six more weeks before he had to go back to L.A., and so far he had one song, and only a melody at that.
But it was a damn good one.
He focused on the rhythm of his feet hitting the ground, let the ache of his muscles and the burn in his lungs push the negative thoughts away. The more he worried about not creating anything, the harder it would be to actually come up with something.
As he rounded the bend that brought the green cottage into focus, he heard the radio playing again. This time it was Guns N’ Roses, “Sweet Child of Mine.” Instead of heading back to his cabin, he followed the music to a beat-down cabin.
Faith had the door propped open and a portable radio sitting on a rotted out step. She was doing something to the walls, washing them maybe, and wiggling her luscious hips to the music. As she bent over to rewet the sponge in a bucket, he felt a familiar pull in his gut.
He’d always been an ass man, and he could get lost in Faith’s curves, spend hours worshiping her ass and breasts and never get bored.
Thinking about stroking that soft flesh was doing nothing to stop the tenting action going on in his shorts. As quietly as he could, he backed up, hoping to get away unseen. Normally, he’d stop and talk with her while she was working, but his libido was in overdrive, and he didn’t think he could hide how much he wanted her right now. He was almost back to the path trying to get another look at her through the window as she danced and sang he didn’t pay attention to the trail and caught his heel on a root.
“Shit!”
Any hope of jumping up and getting away unnoticed was shot when Sadie the Attack Bear came out of the cabin, barking up a storm. Crap. Nothing to do but brazen it out. He tugged at his shirt, hoping it was long enough to hide what was left of his erection. A whiff of sweat and body odor wafted up and damn near dropped him.
“Hello?” Faith called out from the open door of the cabin. She had her hand on her forehead, shielding her eyes from the sun.
“It’s just me. I heard the radio and came over.” He brushed himself off and moved into the clearing.
“Oh. Sorry, I didn’t mean to disturb you.”
“You didn’t, I was out for a run.”
“Was there something you needed?”
He scrambled for something to say. He couldn’t admit to spying on her when he’d thrown a fit about her daughter doing the very same thing that morning. “Ah, I need to do laundry. Is there a Laundromat around here?”
“The closest one is in Canton, which is about an hour and a half away. But I can throw a load in for you, no problem. Your sheets should be changed anyway. If you put your dirty clothes in a pile, I can gather them up when I put new sheets on the bed.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“Actually, I do. That’s part of the whole bed-and-breakfast thing. I usually change them more often, but your manager said to leave you alone unless you asked for something, so I haven’t done any housekeeping on your place.”
“I can pick up after myself, it’s no big deal.” Lord knew, his father had insisted on regular room inspections.
“You’re paying a lot of money for me not to cook or clean for you. It makes me feel guilty.”
“I’m paying for peace and quiet, and it’s been worth every cent.” But she was a good cook, and he did need clean clothes. “Maybe we can work something out. I’d hate to be responsible for a guilty conscience.”
“What did you have in mind?”
“I’m running low on supplies, and I’m really sick of my own cooking.”
“I could make you dinner tonight while I’m
doing your laundry,” she offered.
He’d been thinking about taking her out to the town she mentioned and going to dinner while his clothes were at the Laundromat, but this wasn’t a bad alternative. “That could work.”
“And I need to do a warehouse run this week. If you give me a list, I can pick up what you need at the store.”
“That also works.”
“Great, so why don’t you come over around six? That’ll give me time to clean up here and get dinner started. By the time you’re done with dessert, I’ll have your clothes washed, dried, and folded.”
That wasn’t quite what he had in mind, but he couldn’t think of how to work the situation around to her spread out on his bed as he nibbled every inch of her body. “Great. See you at six.”
“I’ll come by in a little bit with clean bedding,” she called out as he walked toward the path.
“Okay,” he answered over his shoulder. He picked up his pace as he realized he had wads of paper everywhere in the cabin and still needed to shower.
…
Faith watched Sam walk down the path with that loose-hipped stride of his. Something about that swagger had tingles fizzing through her system like soda pop. Even dripping sweat in running clothes, he looked darn fine. His legs were tanned and muscular and his shoulders filled out his T-shirt nicely. How would it feel to have those legs between her own? To hold on to those strong shoulders while he drove into her welcoming body?
Heat suffused her body, making her sweat from more than just the temperature and humidity. “He’s only here temporarily, remember?” she scolded herself. The last thing she needed was to get involved with a guest who would be leaving in a month and a half. Mary Ellen could talk all she wanted about Victoria’s Secret stashes and jumping hotties, but Faith wasn’t wired that way.
Matthew was the only man she’d ever slept with, and she hadn’t even done that until they were engaged. While the girls in her dorm were hooking up and breaking up, she’d remained true to her upbringing.
If he had lived, things might have been different, especially after she’d found the video on his phone of him with Lydia Klein after he had died.
Would having more experience make these feelings any less intense or more so? Would it be less awkward if she knew how to go about attracting him?
Who was she kidding? Here she stood in cut-off shorts, a ratty T-shirt, and flip-flops, her hair in a bun on the top of her head with sweaty straggles stuck to her face. He’d be more interested in sleeping with Sadie than with her.
Which is a good thing, she told herself sternly. It was hard enough being a single parent and running the bed and breakfast, she didn’t need the added complication of romance in her life. Someday, when she wasn’t so overwhelmed with parenting and building her business, maybe she’d think about finding another man. It’d be nice to have some companionship, someone to snuggle with. And, okay, maybe it would be good to have sex again. It had been six years since she’d had an orgasm that involved someone other than herself. Just the thought had those tingles concentrating between her legs.
All right, enough of that train of thought. Right now, she had to clean up the wallpaper she’d managed to peel off the wall—one freaking inch at a time—and figure out what she could make for dinner tonight. With Piper gone, she’d figured she’d just have salad or a grilled cheese. Now she needed a plan. And a shower. Jeez, she’d sweat right through her underwear.
When was the last time she’d brought clean towels to the cottage? Had she replaced them in the weeks Sam had been there? When his manager had told her to leave him alone and that he didn’t need or want housekeeping, she’d left a stack of towels, but that had to be depleted by now.
Crud, she needed to get moving if she was going to change those sheets, do his laundry, and make dinner. Faith swept the scraped off wallpaper, gathered her bucket and tools, and snagged the radio on the way out the door.
She had some chili in the freezer, she could defrost that and put it in the slow cooker to simmer while she showered. That would give her time to go to the cottage and change the sheets. While the laundry was running, she could make some cornbread and a salad.
It wasn’t fancy. But if he’d wanted haute cuisine, he could go somewhere else. Sadie padded along behind her, whining a bit when she passed the empty swing set.
“I know. I miss her, too. Better get used to it, Sadie girl, she starts kindergarten next month.”
God, how had that happened so fast? It felt like just yesterday she was in diapers and taking her first steps. Before Faith knew it, Piper would be learning to drive and going to prom.
“Slow your roll, sister. Don’t rush it.” It would come soon enough, there was no sense getting upset about things far in the future. Jeez, Piper hadn’t even started school and Faith was already teary-eyed at the thought of her going off to prom.
What was it her mom used to say? Something about letting tomorrow take care of itself, there was enough to worry about today without borrowing trouble from tomorrow or something like that. Her mom was a pretty smart lady.
Not that Faith had listened to anything she’d said when she was a teenager, but that was part of growing up and learning from her mistakes.
And if Faith hadn’t ignored her parents’ advice and married Matthew, she’d never have had Piper, who was the very best part of her life.
Thinking about Matthew and Piper reminded her of the paternity test. She’d been trying to keep it out of her mind since there was nothing she could do about it anyway, but every once in a while, she’d think about it and worry. Why were his parents so interested in Piper now? What were they hoping to accomplish? Could they really want visitation? They lived in Savannah, for heaven’s sake.
If they thought she’d let them take Piper all the way down there, they had another think coming.
“Focus. Chili, shower, laundry. There’s nothing you can do about the Prentices, so don’t worry about them.” She popped the frozen container of chili in the microwave and then hurried to the shower. Maybe she should use some of the fancy shower gel her mom had gotten her for Christmas, and even put on a little mascara and lipstick. It wouldn’t hurt to look halfway decent for a change.
Get a grip. She was making dinner for a guest, something she did on a regular basis, not going on a date. When she’d made dinner for Mr. Dickerson, the bird-watcher, she sure hadn’t worried about putting on makeup or using fancy-smelling soap.
Of course, Mr. Dickerson was seventy-five years old, balding, and had a pot belly that made him as wide around as he was tall.
She was being an idiot. A little lipstick wasn’t going to turn her into a super model or hide her stretch marks, so what was the point?
Still, Faith spritzed herself with some perfume. Just because she wasn’t a super model didn’t mean she couldn’t smell good while she did Sam’s laundry. He might not appreciate it, but she would.
…
“Knock-knock. Sam?” Faith called in through the door as she opened it. It was the first time she’d been in the blue cottage since the night she’d shown it to him. The flowers she’d left for him were dead, and he had two full bags of garbage tied up and set near the door, but other than that, the place didn’t look half bad. Clean dishes rested on a drying board next to the sink, some pencils and paper were on the coffee table, and a half-full bottle of Gatorade was on the kitchen counter. Considering she hadn’t been in to tidy up, it was a pleasant surprise.
“I’ll be down in a second,” he answered from the loft.
She could smell soap and steam and figured he must have just taken a shower. Don’t think about him walking around up there naked.
“I can leave the laundry basket and come back if you’d like.”
“No, it’s—shit—fine.”
“Is something wrong?”
“Not wrong, just irritating. I waited too long to do laundry and now I only have one pair of clean jeans left.”
“I can take care of th
at in no time.”
“I mean, that’s all I have left. One pair of jeans. All my shirts and stuff are nasty.”
“Oh.” Faith’s face got hot as she realized what he wasn’t saying. His bare feet appeared on the steps and she tried not to look at the front of his jeans and imagine him going commando underneath.
Thank God, the pile of laundry he carried blocked his view of her, because she was sure she was staring. A thin line of dark hair trailed from his belly button down to the waistband of his low slung jeans and a few drops of water sparkled in the light.
For the last two weeks, every time she’d seen Sam, he’d been in running shorts and a T-shirt. Seeing him shirtless sent her blood pressure through the roof. Her mouth watered and she imagined capturing those droplets with her tongue as she followed the path to what waited behind the fly.
“I think this is all of it,” he said, dropping the pile of laundry on the couch.
“Did you remember your towels? I brought you some new ones.” Her voice was thick and raspy, and she tried to discreetly clear her throat while looking anywhere but at his naked chest.
“Yeah, they’re in the pile.”
“Good. Great. I’ll just strip the…ah, the bed and put on the new sheets.” She scooped the clean linen out of the laundry basket and bolted for the stairs. “Just put your laundry in the basket, and I’ll bring it with me when I go back to the house.”
If her face got any hotter, she’d burst into flames.
With practiced movements, she stripped the sheets and tried not to think about him lying there night after night. She was pleasantly surprised to see how clean the room was. It was nice not to have to make a path through dirty clothes and junk to make the bed.
Faith smoothed down the freshly washed sheets and fluffed the pillows before spreading the quilt. The whole process probably took five minutes, but it gave her enough time to get her hormones under control. Dear God, she’d outright ogled the man.
