by Fiona Lowe
Shit. Silver spots danced behind his eyes, mocking his quip that he wanted her to strip him naked. At this point, still fully dressed, he was going to be hard-pressed not to embarrass himself. Hard-pressed? God, what the hell was wrong with him.
“Ben?”
He tried to concentrate. “Hmm?”
“I’m not your slave and I can’t do everything for you. You need to help out by pulling your good arm through the sleeve.”
Her impatient tone thankfully centered him and he did what he was asked. The next moment, she tugged the shirt over his head and then she slid it down his arm.
“Thanks.” His voice sounded rusty.
“No problem.” She swallowed. “Um...can you...um...” She glanced away as if she didn’t want to look at him and he noticed the tips of her ears were tinged pink.
“Can I what?” he asked, fairly certain he knew what she was going to say but wanting her to say it anyway. It probably made him a total jerk but her acute embarrassment was surprisingly enjoyable. Plus, if his teasing could make her feel uncomfortable then she’d do the absolute bare minimum to help him, which was what he needed if the brush of her fingers on his back had spots dancing before his eyes.
She tilted her chin and blurted out, “Manage the snap on your pants.”
He grinned. “Probably, but you can always help if you want,” he said, knowing full well she wouldn’t touch his jeans with a ten-foot pole.
The next moment her right hand shot out, gripping his waistband with a jerk and pulling his pants up hard against his crotch. The backs of the fingers of her left hand brushed his belly and his butt cheeks clenched as blood shot to his groin.
She flicked open the snap and then her fingers thankfully leaped away as if the metal had burned her. “The water’s extremely hot so you’ll need to add cold,” she said as her heels clacked quickly against the tiles, heading fast toward the door.
It slammed shut behind her and Ben sat down hard on the chair, closing his eyes and gulping in a breath. Fan-bloody-tastic. At this rate he was going to need a cold shower today and every day until he got the use of his arm back and he no longer needed Amy’s assistance. That day couldn’t come fast enough.
* * *
“Amy!”
The volume of Ben’s frustrated shout almost split the wood on the bathroom door. Oh, God. She sucked in a steadying breath, knowing she had to go back in there and she wouldn’t know where to look. Why did he have to have a body that every woman desired and every man envied? Every muscle and tendon was delineated and screamed pure masculine strength and beauty. Just looking at him made her feel even more dumpy and frumpy in comparison and she hated that. Yet his body was hypnotic—she wanted to gaze at him in open admiration just as she’d gazed at Michelangelo’s David in the Uffizi museum in Florence all those years ago when she was a college student with her life in front of her.
You can do this. Just don’t stare. Don’t stare. Do. Not. Stare. She blew out a breath, placed her hand on the doorknob and turned it.
“What do you...?” Her mouth dried as her eyes decoded blue cotton stretched across the tightest male ass she’d even seen. Her eyeballs melded to the glorious sight like they’d been super-glued and she had to close them to break the bond.
Please don’t turn around or I will totally embarrass myself by drooling.
Angry at herself for feeling so hot, aroused and out of her depth, and angry at him for making her feel that way, she flicked the bath sheet off the rail and said to his back, “I asked you to cover yourself with a towel.”
“Yeah, well you try tying a towel with one hand,” he said with a deep growl of frustration.
Thankfully he didn’t turn around. “Here,” she said, flipping out the towel and passing it around his front and knotting it at his hip.
“Jeez, lady, you are one uptight chick. I did my best to protect your poor, fragile sensibilities by putting on my jocks. Anyone would think you’d never seen a naked man before.”
She felt the slow flush of heat starting at her neck and knew it was fast crawling over her face. She hated that she blushed so easily but it was the unwanted legacy of some distant Scottish genes, which gave her pale skin, red hair and a propensity to color up.
“Of course I’ve seen naked men,” she snapped, hoping he didn’t demand to know exactly how many because the incredibly low figure would give him even more to tease her about. “But unlike Australians, who seem so free and easy with putting their bodies on display in front of virtual strangers, here in the Midwest we’re more—”
“Prudish? Repressed?”
Sex with you was so boring I barely stayed awake.
“No,” she spluttered, quickly stifling the memory of Jonathon’s sneering voice that her traitorous mind had chosen that precise moment to recall.
He turned around to face her, his left hand gripping the edge of the vanity. “What then?”
But the bright red blood running down his cheek stalled her reply. “You’ve cut yourself.”
He grimaced. “It appears you need two hands to shave well.”
She grabbed some toilet paper, wadded it and pressed it firmly against his cheek to stem the bleeding. He smelled of coconut body wash and the image of him running along a beach fringed with palm trees socked her hard. Her body urged her to lean in and see if his clean and burnished skin tasted of coconut too, and it took everything she had to lean back from him. It was then she noticed how extremely pale his face had become.
“Ben?” She pulled the chair toward him. “Sit down before you fall down.”
To her surprise, he actually obeyed her and sat down heavily.
She shook her head, bemused. “Yesterday you coped with excruciating pain when I put your shoulder back into position, but today you nearly faint at the sight of a minimal amount of your own blood? What’s with that?”
He gave her a half smile. “Survival.”
She didn’t understand. “How is fainting at seeing blood survival?”
He rubbed his unshaved cheek. “They reckon if a caveman fainted at the sight of his own blood, his opponent walked away thinking he was dead.”
“Well, I think you’re going to live this time,” she said, checking the nick that had stopped bleeding.
“I’m sure as hell not shaving again until I can lift both arms.”
She started laughing.
“What’s so funny?”
“You look like the Yin and Yang symbol with one cheek white and the other brownish-black.”
“I’m glad my misfortune entertains you.”
For the first time he looked ill at ease—sulky almost—which took her by surprise. “I guess I could shave you.”
His honey-brown brows shot to his hairline. “Have you ever shaved anyone before?”
“I’ve shaved my legs plenty of times,” she said, standing up and picking up the shaving cream and twirling the razor. His eyes darkened to the color of moss that grew on the rocks by the lake. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”
She grinned, realizing that she was and not quite understanding why, unless it was because for the first time since she’d met him he seemed uncertain. Up until the moment when he’d almost fainted, he’d been this perfect specimen of manhood who seemed so confident and secure about everything, which was in stark contrast to how she felt about her life. How she always felt in the company of men.
Only now, sitting here, he was just as fallible as her. “I’m enjoying it but not as much as if it was a straight razor.”
“It’s ‘The Man From Ironbark’ revisited,” he muttered as she approached him.
“The man from where?” She rubbed shaving cream into his unshaven skin, feeling the stubble against her fingertips and enjoying the prickly feeling.
“It’s an Australian
poem about how flowing beards became popular after one man’s ill-fated shave.”
“Tilt your head back.”
His eyes took on a steely look. “Be careful.”
She smiled down at him as she scraped the safety razor through the cream, watching smooth skin appear. “Perhaps you’re not as laid-back as I thought you were.”
“And what? You’d be totally at ease if I had you on a chair half-naked with your hands tied and I was standing over you holding a razor and able to inflict damage?”
A throb of pleasure pulsed through her at the image, half horrifying her and half exciting her. She pressed her thighs together trying to stop it. “I’ve hardly tied you down.”
“No, you’ve just reduced me to needing help with basic hygiene.”
She sighed. “How long are you going to milk that cow?”
His gaze held hers. “For as long as I think it’s going to work for me.”
“We agreed it was an accident.” She carefully scraped the razor along his jaw, trying to remain detached like she imagined nurses must do with their patients. “Lie back and enjoy this. After all, it’s only temporary. Some people need help their entire lives,” she said, thinking about a family she knew who had a child with severe muscular dystrophy. The charity she’d founded at M.M. Enterprises had helped them purchase a special bathroom hoist.
A lump formed in her throat. That rat bastard Jonathon had even claimed Kids Plus as his own.
“Steady, Amy.”
She realized her hand was shaking and she went on the offensive to cover her momentary lapse. “You’re the one freaking me out because you think I’m going to cut you.”
“Prove me wrong,” he said, his gaze catching hers with a combative glint.
She rinsed the razor and did another three sweeps before using the washcloth to remove the remains of the cream. Then she opened the vanity and picked up a tube of men’s facial cream she’d noticed earlier. She flicked open the lid and squeezed some into her hand.
Cupping his cheeks, she started to rub the moisturizer gently into his skin and tried not to acknowledge how good he felt under her hands.
His entire body went rigid. “What are you doing?”
“Moisturizing your skin.”
A horrified look crossed his face. “I’m a bloke.”
“And what?” she said, laughing. “Your gender means you don’t get dry skin?”
“Jesus. My skin just is—okay? I’m not some metro-sexual who needs a regime of lotions and potions like your boyfriend.”
She frowned. “My boyfriend?”
He didn’t seem to notice her confusion. “Or your brother or whoever else this stuff belongs to.”
Concentrate! He thinks this is your house, remember?
“At least they’re not threatened by the fact that they take some care in their appearance.”
“I don’t get any complaints about my appearance,” he said, sounding delightfully grumpy.
I’m sure you don’t.
She quickly splashed some cologne on her hands and patted his face.
“Bloody hell.”
His yelp of pain made her jump. “What now?” she said, her surprise making her sound short.
“That stings like no tomorrow.”
She’d forgotten about the cut. “Sorry.” God, she was so bad at all of this helping stuff. She quickly used the washcloth to remove any of the remaining cologne and covered her mistake with a brisk, motherlike, “There you go, all better now.” Without thinking she dropped a kiss onto his cheek as if he were her little nephew.
The moment her lips touched his smooth, warm skin she stilled, shocked into immobility by what she’d just done. What she was still doing. She saw the moment surprise hit him, making the vivid green of his eyes vanish under a pool of shimmering black.
Pull away now.
But his heat fused her mouth to his skin, his fresh, clean scent filled her with an intoxicating need to keep breathing him in and some strands of his hair softly caressed her face. Half of her wanted to run from acute embarrassment at what she was doing and the other half of her wanted to stay.
Now.
She closed her eyes, preparing to immediately retreat, desperately trying to think of a clever and witty retort to cover what she’d just done.
Her mind was beyond blank.
His cheek moved under her lips.
Oh, God, I’ve left it too long. He’s pulling away. I want to die.
The texture of his skin suddenly changed and his lips grazed hers, the touch so soft, she momentarily thought she must be imagining it. But then she felt the slight touch of moisture on her lips, the hint of peppermint toothpaste and the flare of heat.
Then it was gone.
“Thanks,” he said, rising abruptly to his feet. “You did a fair job but I think it’s best for both of us if I skip shaving until I can manage it myself.”
“Good idea,” she said, taking the out he’d just offered her with both hands and running with it. “I suck at this sort of thing.”
She hurried from the warm bathroom and tried hauling in a steadying breath to slow her thundering heart. What the hell was wrong with her? Wasn’t her life already in enough disarray without making a complete fool of herself by kissing Ben? They didn’t even like each other and women like her were never given a second look by men like him. The kiss had only made her look needy and she hated that. It took her back to being a teenager when boys had called her Ginger and used a friendship with her to date her best friend.
Reminded her of every mistake she’d made with Jonathon.
This kiss was just one more piece of evidence that her life was now utterly out of control.
Everything changes now. It was time to take charge. She knew how to do that. She’d been doing it for years.
She’d had twenty-four hours of chaos and feeling sorry for herself. It ended now. She was making a list and tomorrow things would be very different.
* * *
“So here we are again—Saturday night,” Melissa said out loud to an empty room, as she gazed around her sitting room. She noticed a giant cobweb hanging off her light fixture. “You, me and nothing to do but dust.”
Her lack of a social life hadn’t been quite so obvious to her over the busy summer wedding season, but in fall there were fewer weddings and today’s had been a daytime function, leaving her with an empty evening. She picked up the phone to call Emily, her fellow single sidekick, and to arrange to meet her at the Udder Bar. She immediately set her phone down with a sigh, remembering her friend had left straight after delivering the wedding flowers and was out of town until Monday.
She checked her calendar, ever hopeful that she’d forgotten it was one of Lindsay and Keith Leiderman’s themed movie nights at the cinema, but no, that was still a few weeks away. Maybe she could just go eat at Sven’s Swedish Smörgåsbord. After all, she knew everyone in town so if she wanted company she just had to step outside her front door. The thing was, there was company and then there was company.
The dating pool in Whitetail was limited and if she was honest with herself it was nonexistent. At thirty-four, with her ovaries shriveling daily, she didn’t have time to waste on men who didn’t want to commit, or on men with emotional baggage and difficult ex-wives, on men whose behavior indicated that their genetic makeup should never be passed on to future generations and on men too old to be good father material. It had been a sad day when she’d had to cross Luke Anderson off her list. He had the genes to make beautiful babies, he’d been the right age and there wasn’t an ex-wife in sight. Sadly, the moment Erin Davis had swept into town with her camera and can-do attitude, Luke had suddenly gone from avoiding commitment like the plague to embracing it like a second skin.
She sighed again and picked up her key
s. She refused to be a woman who stayed home and dusted on a Saturday night. That was too tragic. Besides, she and Emily had made a pact on New Year’s Eve that this was going to be the year that both of them got married. With that end in mind, they’d determined that every wedding weekend they’d hit the Udder Bar no matter what because those were the days when there was a bigger chance of meeting a guy from out of town.
She thought of walking into the bar without Emily and her resolve wavered.
Why not stay in and do the accounts for the store? Wimp! She told herself sternly, Staying in won’t get me a husband or a baby.
The urge to have a child had gotten so strong lately that it had become a permanent ache in her chest. Technically, she supposed she could go ahead and have a child on her own but she didn’t want to do that. She had firsthand experience watching her sister struggle with single parenthood. Call her old-fashioned, but she wanted to raise a child in a loving family with both parents living in the same house, just the way she’d grown up. That wasn’t going to happen if she didn’t meet someone, and she couldn’t meet someone if she didn’t leave the house.
Tonight might be the night, she said to herself, slipping her arms into her fall coat. She pulled open the front door and marched down the street.
As she lived behind her boutique, it was a very short walk to the Udder Bar, which was both a brew pub and a restaurant. The chef made the best sweet potato tots and waffle fries she’d ever tasted and recently, she’d been eating there more and more often. Pulling open the inner door to the bar, she was immediately struck by the lack of noise emanating from inside and her heart sank. Of course. Brianna’s wedding had a lunchtime reception and people had already left Whitetail to drive west to Minneapolis.
“May I help you?”
She glanced up with a start to find a bespectacled and unfamiliar man, who looked to be in his late thirties, standing behind the bar. “Where’s Johan?”
“He’s out back tapping a keg but I assure you, I can pour beer or wine just as well,” he said mildly as if he’d heard the same question quite a few times already.
