“Quick, get me out of here before they change their minds and start sticking me with needles again,” she said, her voice hoarse and unsteady.
Chase spun around, and Nolie’s eyes doubled in size. “Oh my God . . . you came into town. I can’t believe . . .”
“What? You thought I wouldn’t worry?” he asked, a scowl narrowing his features.
“No, of course not, but . . . you came into town. Around people.”
Leanne watched them as they looked at each other, and had her answer. Chase and Nolie were involved. Big time. Whether they knew it themselves or not.
Pushing away from the wall, she hugged Nolie. “I’m glad you’re feeling better. If you need anything, give me a call.” Then she faced Chase. “I have about a million questions for you, but they’ve kept for years. They’ll wait a little longer. Take her home and put her to bed. And get a phone. Someone might be trying to reach you.” She started to pinch the fleshy part of his arm, another habit from childhood, but gave it a quick, affectionate squeeze instead.
As she walked away, she heard Nolie ask, “How do you know Leanne?”
Her steps slowed and her breath caught in her chest as she waited for his response. It came quietly and—yes, she thought with overwhelming relief—affectionately. “She’s my kid sister.”
Chapter Thirteen
NOLIE AWOKE THE NEXT MORNING FEELING like a new woman—albeit, one who’d done some struggling to come into being. She felt a little punchy from the medications the doctor had given her, her mouth was dry, and her abdomen was still tender from the severe cramps she’d thought might kill her, but other than that, she felt pretty darn good. In a moment, she would get out of bed, get Micahlyn up, then start breakfast—
Her stomach clenched at the thought of food, and she grimaced. Maybe she would just lie here and recuperate a while longer.
All in all, Saturday had been quite a day. She’d had a ball at the picnic, had met more people and gotten better acquainted with many who’d come to the store’s grand reopening. Micahlyn had made a dozen new friends, and the food . . . well, never mind that. The only downside—not counting the food poisoning—had been walking up on Leanne arguing with her parents because Danny hadn’t wanted to spend the night with them and she wouldn’t make him. Actually, Phyllis Wilson had done most of the arguing, while Earl Wilson alternately rolled his eyes or made snide comments designed to make his wife even angrier.
Phyllis and Earl Wilson. The parents Chase harbored such resentment toward. It was hard to imagine—at least, with Earl. Once Phyllis had stomped off in a fit of frustration, he’d been friendly and welcoming with Nolie. Clearly he loved his daughter and adored his grandson, and everyone who’d spoken to him, with the exception of his wife, had been affectionate or respectful. He’d reminded Nolie of her own father and, in better days, of Obie.
Phyllis, on the other hand, was bitter, angry at the world, unhappy, and blaming everyone but herself. She was a sharp-tongued, hot-tempered shrew, and Nolie completely understood why Chase had had nothing to do with her for sixteen years.
Slowly, she sat up, testing for any sign of the weakness that had plagued her last night, then eased to her feet. She was still wearing most of her clothes from the day before— when Chase had brought her upstairs shortly before midnight, he’d removed her shoes and helped her with her jeans before she’d collapsed into bed. He’d opened the windows, then tucked the sheet around her and—she thought—sat beside her for a while. She’d wanted to ask him a million questions, like Leanne, but it was a testament to how rotten she’d felt that she had fallen right to sleep instead. Judging by the stiffness in her joints, she hadn’t moved once the rest of the night.
She took a quick shower, wrapped a robe around her, then started downstairs. Nearly at the bottom, she came to an abrupt stop. Chase was stretched out in the recliner across the room, sound asleep, and curled in the crook of his arm was Micahlyn, also asleep. Her favorite storybook was open on his lap, and Maria Diane had tumbled down between his side and the chair arm.
The bogeyman had been tamed, Nolie thought, one hand pressed to her heart to ease the ache that seized it. They looked so comfortable together—so trusting of each other, and neither of them, she knew well, gave that trust easily.
Maybe Gloria had been right. Maybe Chase really did need them.
In the same scary, exciting, uncertain way she needed him. As she moved on down the stairs, the next to the last step creaked loudly and Chase stirred, breathing deeply, then reached up to rub his jaw as he opened his eyes. He saw her right away and looked at her as if . . . oh, Lord, as if he really did need her.
He eased out of the chair, carefully laid Micahlyn down again, then followed Nolie into the kitchen. While he leaned against the counter, one ankle crossed over the other, she started a pot of coffee, then poured herself a glass of water. If her stomach could handle that, then she’d think about something else to take the edge off its emptiness.
Finally, she combed her fingers through her wet hair as if it needed it, though it was slicked straight back from her face—not the most flattering style for a plump face like hers. Too late to do anything about that. Besides, he’d seen her last night looking almost her worst—worst had been when Leanne and Cole Jackson arrived at the store to find her doubled over in pain, sweating, moaning, and heaving up the contents of her stomach for the hundredth time— and he hadn’t run away.
She leaned against the counter opposite him and laced her fingers around the glass. “There’s so much to talk about that I don’t even know where to start.”
“How about we start right here?” He pushed away from the counter, reached her in two long strides, slid his fingers into her hair, and kissed her hungrily. His tongue coaxed her teeth apart, not that she needed coaxing, then stabbed into her mouth. It was a quick, hard kiss, over too soon, then his dark gaze searched her face. “How do you feel?”
“Well . . . my blood’s pumping now.” She raised one hand to curl her fingers around his wrist. “I’m going to survive.”
“Damn straight you are.”
“Chase Wilson.” She whispered his name, had whispered it to herself over and over on the way home last night. She finally had a name for her neighbor, friend, the object of her erotic fantasies . . . for the man she was this close to falling in love with. Under ordinary circumstances, she would have learned his full name the first time they’d met. But there’d been nothing ordinary about their circumstances.
Hearing the final drips of the coffeemaker, she took two mugs from the cabinet, then crossed to the counter where the machine sat. She filled the mugs, offered one to him, then moved the sugar and powdered creamer to a spot between them. At last, she said, “I met your parents.”
He didn’t scowl or make some obscene sound, as she expected. He acknowledged her comment with a slight nod, then said, “I met my nephew.”
“Danny’s a doll, isn’t he?”
“He gets that from his mother.”
“She must get it from her brother.” Still somewhat bemused by the fact that he was the brother Leanne had mentioned on occasion, she gave a shake of her head. “How did you know where to find us?”
“I checked here, the store, and the park. Sophy suggested I call the Winchesters, so I did, and Miss Corinna said you’d been taken to the hospital. By the way, Sophy said to tell you Gloria was really sorry. About what?”
“I don’t know, unless she made the pea salad.” The mention of it brought a sour taste to her mouth, which she washed away with the stronger, bitter taste of undoctored coffee. “And just like that, you came.” The wonder of it amazed her. For weeks he’d stayed close to home, making serious efforts to avoid the town and all its residents. But he’d broken his self-imposed exile, and he’d done it for her.
Now he scowled at her. “All Miss Corinna said was that you’d been rushed to the hospital. For all I knew, you could have been dying. If I’d known it was just a little stomachache . . .”
>
“Hah! Stronger people than you have been laid low by less,” she retorted. “Micahlyn thought I was dying, and there were a few moments there where I was convinced dying couldn’t possibly hurt worse.” She added one packet of sweetener to her coffee and stirred it, then dropped the spoon in the sink. “Leanne must have been thrilled to see you.”
“I don’t know. She punched me twice.”
“Oh, she did not.”
“She did, too. I’ve probably got the bruises to show for it. You want to see?”
It was an innocent question. She was 95 percent sure of it. But damned if the response flooding through her, all hot and tingly, was as far from innocent as could be. If her coffee wasn’t already hot, she could make it steam by doing nothing more than holding the mug. “Sure,” she said, or tried to, but her voice was husky. She cleared her throat. “Roll up your sleeve and show me.”
His eyes gleamed with mischief, wickedness, humor— she didn’t know what—as he shook his head. “I didn’t say she punched me on the arm. I’d have to take my shirt off.”
Her hands started to tremble, and she swore her terry robe had suddenly developed the warming capacity of a half-dozen mink coats. Afraid she might get burned, she set the coffee down. Afraid she might get burned worse, and not caring, she hoarsely replied, “So take it off.”
Whatever had gleamed in his gaze, fled, leaving him serious and solemn and intense. “How late does Micahlyn sleep?”
She glanced at the clock. “As late as she was up last night and with all the excitement, she should be out for another few hours.”
“That’s all, huh?”
“How long does it take to show me some nonexistent bruises?”
“A couple hours, at least. Probably five or six to do it right. But”—his smile was tentative and disappeared practically before it formed—“we can make the best of what we’ve got . . . if you want.”
He moved to stand a few feet in front of her and offered his hand. She stared at it, fascinated by the strength in his long, tanned fingers, stunned by the intensity with which she wanted to take it, but unable to do so . . . yet. Tugging at her robe’s belt, she raised her gaze to his. “I-I’m not very good at playing games, Chase. I don’t know if you’re flirting or teasing or deadly serious.”
“Yes,” he said simply, to all three, then apparently took pity on her. “Just so there’s no misunderstanding, if you go upstairs with me, I’m going to do my damnedest to seduce you. I want to see you naked. I want to kiss every inch of your body. I want—” He swallowed hard, and an exquisitely fierce look came over him, making his voice raw and sharp. “I want to make love to you, Nolie.”
She wanted to say yes and drag him upstairs . . . to say I’m sorry and run away. She was aroused and frightened, flattered and intrigued and unsure.
He waited patiently, his gaze never wavering, his need never slipping.
“I-I’ve never been with anyone but Jeff,” she said at last.
“I know.”
“I’m not exactly experienced.”
The faintest smile quirked one corner of his mouth. “Trust me. I know what to do.”
She smiled a bit, too, then tugged tighter at her belt. “I’m not on-on the pill or-or anything.”
Gently he pulled the belt from her hands. “Stop that, or we’ll have to cut you out of that robe.” Then . . . “I have a box of condoms in the truck.”
Of course he did. Be prepared—the motto of the Boy Scouts and single men everywhere. Not that he’d used them yet, even though he’d had every chance.
Finally he took her hands. “Nolie, it’s all right if you want to say no. Just tell me it’s too soon or you’re not ready or you don’t”—his voice steeled—“don’t want me. I’ll be disappointed, but I’ll deal with it.”
Mouth pursed, she shook her head. “I can’t do that, because it wouldn’t be true, and I try really hard to always tell the truth.” She watched as the understanding that she was going to go upstairs with him dawned. Instead of looking relieved, though, he seemed fiercer, tauter, than ever. Almost as if her simple agreement aroused him even further.
“But you have to promise me one thing. When I take this robe off . . . don’t compare me to any of the other women in your life, okay?” Her voice had started out strong and confident, but by the okay, it had deteriorated into a plea that heated her face with embarrassment.
“There are no other women in my life. Just you,” he said as he pulled her closer. Once her body was snug against his—against his arousal—he brushed a kiss to her temple, another to her cheek, and a third, long, deep, intimate kiss to her mouth, then said, “And just for the record . . . when you take that robe off, honey, I’m gonna get down on my knees and thank God, and then I’m gonna make damn sure you don’t regret it.”
So she was this close to falling in love, huh? She might still be on her feet, but no doubt about it . . .
She’d just finished falling.
WHEN HE WAS SIXTEEN, CHASE HAD LOST HIS VIRGINITY with his high school girlfriend, a pretty little dark-haired thing. Until that night, he’d thought she was a virgin, too, but she’d had a few surprises in store for him. Logically, the fact that she knew what she was doing should have relaxed him, but it had made him more nervous instead.
He felt the same way now, as if he were taking a monumental step and he’d damn well better not screw up.
Though, of course, he would. Making love with her when he still had no intentions of sticking around forever, when she still didn’t know the truth . . . no matter how he looked at it, it was wrong.
And no matter how wrong it was, he was going to do it anyway. He needed it.
He needed her.
Carrying the box of condoms in one hand, he quietly closed the door behind him, then checked on Micahlyn, snoring softly in the recliner. Nolie was upstairs, wearing nothing but that robe, probably waiting beside the bed with its summer-light sheets and quilt. The idea turned him on and made his palms sweaty and his mouth dry.
Skipping the step that creaked, he climbed to the top, walked to the open bedroom door, and stopped. Nolie was, indeed, waiting next to the bed. She’d closed the blinds, turning the room shadowy. With Fiona, it would have been vanity—she believed every woman benefitted from soft lighting. With Nolie, he’d bet it was a combination of modesty and insecurity. He planned to do his best to banish both feelings from her wide range of emotions.
She smiled nervously as he stepped inside and closed the door, then tossed the box on the bed. “Do you always carry condoms in your truck?”
“Never before. But I told you—I went to Howland one night intending to end my three-years-plus of abstinence. I bought them then.”
Her fingers nervously worked at her belt, this time undoing the knot instead of tightening it. He wondered if she knew her actions had caused the robe to loosen so that the vee that earlier had ended modestly above her breasts now dipped almost to her waist, revealing the curves and shadows of her full breasts. He wanted to walk across the room, brush her hands away, and slide his own inside the robe so bad he damn near hurt with it.
He did circle the bed to her, but when he touched her, it was her face, cupping one palm to her cheek. “I’d ask if you have any idea how beautiful you are, but I already know the answer. You see red hair. I see rich, coppery hair that’s silky and soft. You see pale skin, freckles, and blue eyes, and I see skin as fine as porcelain, creamy and smooth and soft, and eyes the blue of a summer sky. You see yourself as generously proportioned, and I see incredible curves. I see a beautiful woman.”
Her breathing had turned shallow as he spoke, then she stopped breathing completely, or so it seemed, when he kissed her. He slid his arms around her—outside the robe, damn it—and drew her tightly against him, and lazily, hungrily, but with all the time in the world, kissed her. His erection strained against his jeans, against her stomach, reminding him how long it had been, but he couldn’t hurry. Not this first time. Maybe not the fir
st fifty times.
She raised her hands to his chest, then slid down, searching for and finally finding the bottom of his shirt. Undressing him seemed a bold move for someone so shy, but he realized that wasn’t her intent, not yet, at least, the instant her palms flattened against his bare skin. Her touch was tentative, relatively innocent, no more than gentle caresses across his middle, but she left a sharp, aching heat everywhere she went. When one hand eased higher and one fingertip brushed across his nipple, he sucked in his breath and lifted his mouth from hers. His gaze locked on hers, wide and watchful but unafraid, as he put a few inches between them, then deliberately slid his hand inside her robe, brushing across her nipple in the same way.
Her lips parted, but she didn’t make a sound, and when he cupped her breast in his palm, a sweet heavy weight, her eyes fluttered shut. Pushing the robe back from that side only, he stroked her breast, toyed with her nipple, making it swell and harden. Impatiently, he pushed the other side of the robe away, guiding the fabric off her shoulder, then maneuvering so he could sit on the bed. She moved willingly between his thighs, giving a soft gasp when he took her nipple into his mouth. He felt her pulse pounding, the rate damn near doubling when he suckled harder at her breast, and heard her shallow, rapid breaths.
The knot in the belt came free and the robe fell away, but he didn’t take time to admire her. Sliding his hands to her hips, he lifted her with him as he rolled back onto the bed. The condom box crushed beneath his weight, but he didn’t mind that, either, as he continued to suck, nip, kiss, and caress her.
“Chase . . .” She managed little more than a whisper, quavery and raw with need.
Lifting his head, he saw her expression, dazed, but purely, painfully, pleasured. “What, babe?”
“Take off your clothes. I want . . .”
To see him naked? To feel him inside her? To not be the only one vulnerable and exposed? He didn’t care which was the right answer. Rolling off the bed, he jerked his T-shirt over his head and kicked off his jeans and briefs, all under her steady gaze. Naked, he stretched out beside her, leaning his head on one hand so he could watch her, using the other to stroke lightly across her breasts, her stomach, her hips. When he reached the curls between her thighs, she caught her breath. When he slid one fingertip over that hypersensitive spot beneath the curls, her thighs tightened as if to stop him at the same time her hips arched, inviting him to continue.
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