Home to the Riverview Inn

by Molly O'Keefe

  And then she kissed him.

  Kissed him as if he was water and she was dying in the desert. She pressed her strong body against his and pushed the kiss from zero to sixty in no seconds.

  “I’ve got to tell you, Jonah,” she murmured, nipping at his lips, with her teeth. The woman could kiss. Her breath was sweet, her mouth hot—he could die like this. “I can manage not caring for you. But you make it really hard not to want to sleep with you.”

  His eyes flew open. Daphne was laughing but her eyes were very serious.

  He slid his hands into her hair, holding her skull in his palms and finally, after waiting what felt like his whole life, he kissed Daphne Larson.

  9

  She was like lightning in his arms. And this kiss, this simple series of kisses, got carried away real fast. He found his hand halfway up her shirt and her leg pressed hard against his erection before he knew what hit him.

  Brandy—hell, moonshine—had nothing on this woman’s potency and he couldn’t think. For a second he allowed himself to believe that pulling up her skirt and bending her over some school ground equipment wouldn’t be inappropriate. A few more of her breathy gasps and throaty groans and he’d be convinced it had been approved by the school board.

  “Hey,” he said, pulling away. But she followed, licking his lips, biting his tongue. He groaned and gave in. One more kiss, which slid into about thirty more.

  “We have to stop,” he said finally, panting hard. His heart thundered against her hand, which was under his shirt. “Seriously, Daph. We’re getting out of control here.”

  Dazed didn’t even begin to describe her. She was punch-drunk and he loved it. It turned him on as much as her touch, her kiss, the press of her fine leg against his.

  “Right,” she whispered, her hands clutching his shirt. “Oh wow.” She sighed. He could see her pulse beating in her throat. Her hair was falling down around her shoulders and she didn’t seem to know what to do with her hands. She pressed her fingers to her lips and closed her eyes again; a woman trying to get back control.

  As he brushed his hands against her neck and slid his fingers into her hair, she groaned and let her head rest in his palms. Her mouth fell open.

  This was a woman on the edge.

  And he’d never in his life seen anything hotter.

  “You okay?” he whispered.

  “No.” She tried to smile, but it came out in pieces.

  How long had it been since Daphne Larson had been kissed stupid? Or pushed up against a wall and brought to orgasm? Good old Jake didn’t seem like the type.

  And then, not using his head—which had really been the theme of the day—Jonah decided it wasn’t going to be a minute more.

  He couldn’t leave her this way.

  They were at the far end of the school, tucked into a corner between a shed and a recessed entrance. Stepping sideways, he pulled her into the dark doorway, shielded and hidden from anyone who might pass by.

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  “Well,” he said, leaning against her, aligning his hips to hers and her eyelids got heavy at the touch of his erection. She pressed hard against him and he nearly blacked out. “I think I’ll start by kissing you.” He tilted her head sideways, brushed back the hair that had fallen from her braid and found a soft, trembling part of her neck, right where it met her shoulder. “Here,” he said.

  He brushed his lips against her and she melted between him and the door. “Jonah.” Her hands drifted under his shirt again, her nails scoring his skin. She stood on her toes and slid open her legs and he fell between them perfectly.

  They both gasped.

  “And then—” he grazed her knee with his hand, gliding his fingers up her thigh, just under the edge of her skirt “—I’m going to touch you here.”

  He slid higher, grazing the soft skin of her inner thigh. “And here.”

  “Yes,” she moaned.

  His thumb brushed the silk of her underwear. Silk that was damp and hot.

  Like a sixteen-year-old kid, he nearly lost it.

  “Daphne?” he breathed.

  “Whatever, Jonah.” She bit her lips and arched back. “Yes. No. Whatever, just…Jonah. Help me.”

  He forced himself to remember that he didn’t have condoms. That they were a hundred yards from a bunch of kids, including her own.

  This is, he told himself, for her.

  And he slid his fingers under the silk, into the fire that was Daphne.

  She practically climbed out of her skin, and the choke hold she had on his neck might have killed a lesser man. But he was worthy of the challenge. He braced himself against the wall and rode out the wild beauty that was Daphne coming apart.

  Daphne didn’t want to open her eyes. Floating on this cloud of sexual euphoria for the rest of her life was a million times better than opening her eyes and dealing with the aftermath of what she’d just done.

  It had been years, years, since a man had put his hands under her skirt. She’d forgotten how amazing that experience could be. Amazing and electrifying and mind-altering.

  Or maybe that was Jonah.

  He’s leaving, she reminded herself, like dunking her head in a bucket of cold water. He’s told you that. Nothing has changed.

  “Daph?” Jonah whispered, and even the sound of his voice coiled something tight in her.

  “Jonah,” she croaked and would have cringed if she’d had the ability. It felt as if all her muscles had packed up and left.

  She felt his smile against her neck and guessed if he was smiling, reality couldn’t be all that bad.

  Loosening her grip around his neck, she slowly eased down his body, all too aware of the fact while she had been overdosing on sexual satisfaction, he’d been denied, still hard, pressed right against her hip.

  Her eyes popped open. “Jonah—” She reached for him, but he stepped away with a quick smile.

  “I’ll be okay,” he said. He hauled in a deep breath. “In about twenty years.” He bent, found her brown sandal and lifted her foot so he could slide it on. His fingers against her ankle, the arch of her foot, was suddenly far too intimate. Preposterous considering where he’d had his hand a minute ago. But having him crouched in front of her, handling her shoe and foot as if she were some modern-day Cinderella made her feel raw.

  Uneasy.

  She grabbed her other sandal and slid it on. Her brain, apparently asleep for the past ten minutes, woke up and went to work. “I cannot believe we just—That I just—”

  “Oh, it was we,” Jonah said, laughing. But nothing was very funny to Daphne.

  “We could have been caught.” She tugged the elastic from what was left of her braid and tried to repair the damage.

  “You’re right. We could have,” he said, watching her hands, apparently amused by the idea. Great, he was an exhibitionist. She should be utterly turned off. She told herself to be turned off. Instead her contrary body flamed a little hotter.

  “This was a mistake,” she said and that got his attention. The smile left his face. “I don’t do this with men I’m not supposed to care about.”

  She expected that to shut him up. To send him running. He only grinned, revealing that beautiful tooth, the tender reminder of his ordinariness.

  “There’s a first time for everything.” He shrugged, then stepped away from her, turned slightly and adjusted his pants.

  She took that moment to bang her head solidly against the plate glass behind her. Stop. Being. Stupid. With. This. Man.

  “Don’t beat yourself up,” he said. “Everyone gets to have a fling with the wrong kind of guy once in a while.”

  That was the problem. Daphne was pretty sure Jonah wasn’t the wrong kind of man.

  Yes, he is, she wanted to scream. For you, he is.

  But why? He was generous and kind underneath his prickly outer shell. They had the same kinds of priorities, the same concerns about the planet.

  The guy was seriously skilled with his h
ands.

  “Daphne,” he said, touching her braid, the side of her face.

  Each touch was a brand. A searing pulse against her flesh.

  “Try not to think too much,” he said. “Give yourself a break. This is fun—just fun—between two people who don’t expect anything more than this.”

  Ah, right. That’s why he was the wrong kind of man.

  “I don’t know if I can do—” she waved her hand in between them “—this.” Just fun, sex fun, wasn’t really her bag. Especially not when she felt such stupid longing and genuine affection for him.

  Studying her, his face grew somber. “Okay,” he said. “I understand. We can go back to being friends.”

  “Is that what we are?” she asked, nearly laughing. They insulted each other, used each other and were lying to other people with each other.

  “Yeah,” he said. “I don’t jump around in inflatable castles with just anyone. Come on.” He started to walk away. “Let’s figure out how to get lunches to these kids before I change my mind about the whole thing.”

  Friends.

  She couldn’t quite believe it, but maybe that’s what they were.

  Too bad she liked him better when he had his hand up her skirt.

  It was twilight when Daphne dropped Jonah off. He circled the vehicle and stood by her open window fighting the urge to kiss her in the bruised shadows cast by the moon over the Catskills.

  So lovely, he thought, studying the firm angle of her chin, her mouth that hours ago had been fused to his.

  But she wasn’t for him. She’d made that clear.

  He was still off his stride. He wasn’t used to rejection, particularly when it was preceded by a woman practically breaking his neck while she came apart in his arms.

  He didn’t understand women, he was the first to admit it. He really didn’t understand Daphne.

  He could barely look at her without remembering the feel of that hot, damp silk under his fingertips.

  “I’ll be by tomorrow,” she whispered, trying not to disturb Helen, who was buckled up and slumped against Daphne, sound asleep. “We can work out a system for delivery to the school.”

  Daphne smiled, clearly not struggling with being upbeat and friendlike.

  Caught between wanting to be just her friend and his own desires to lay her down and have at it like minks, he waved.

  That’s it. Waved.

  Dust trailed behind her truck as she headed to the highway.

  He didn’t know how to be friends with a woman he wanted so badly.

  The sound of people laughing over clanging cutlery drifted from the other side of the inn and he heard the low timbre of Patrick’s voice.

  Gathering himself to face the music, Jonah walked in the direction of the chatter and found the family on the porch. Even Cameron was there, sitting on the steps looking as though he’d spent the day rolling in dirt.

  Delia, whom he hadn’t seen but in passing since that first terrible lunch, sat on Max’s lap in one of the big rocking chairs. Her fingers absently sifted through the long hair at Max’s neck, the touch so intimate Jonah could practically feel it himself, an unwanted tingle across the top of his spine.

  Gabe stood, Stella in his arms, beside Alice who sat in a rocking chair, a plate of food on her lap.

  Patrick watched over them like some benevolent god. Screws turned in Jonah’s stomach.

  He heard his mother laugh and located her in the shadows.

  Jonah was used to feeling like an outsider, but he’d never been quite this lonely.

  Until now.

  Watching his mother laugh with her other sons. Her other family.

  The blast of pain made him light-headed.

  “Jonah!” Iris cried, coming to her feet. Her smile was akin to being wrapped in her arms. She stepped away from them, that other family, toward him and the pain receded. The two of them needed to get out of here. Once he got this lunch thing up and running he was gone and never looking back.

  “We were just talking about you,” Patrick said.

  “I can imagine,” Jonah said, unable to keep the sarcasm out of his voice.

  “We heard you and Daphne had a date to the school board picnic,” Patrick said.

  Jonah cut his gaze to Cameron, who shrugged as if repeating what he’d seen had been out of his control.

  “We were all trying to imagine you at the dunk tank,” Delia said.

  “I was imagining you in the dunk tank,” Gabe said and his wife smacked his arm. “For a good cause,” he cried.

  “Actually,” Max said, his eyes glittering through the twilight, “I’m a little more interested in your weekend trip to the city with Daphne and—”

  “It’s none of your business,” Jonah said, before all of this got more out of hand. He didn’t want to talk about her with the Mitchells. She was his secret, warm and arousing, and he wouldn’t let these interlopers take that away, too. Not that there was anything to be taken away. And, come to think of it, technically he was the interloper not them.

  “Daphne is our friend,” Gabe protested.

  “Jonah’s right,” Patrick interjected. “Leave him alone.”

  Jonah gave the old man a brief nod of thanks because Gabe and Max shut up fast.

  “The picnic, actually, got heated,” Jonah said and explained about Jake and the angry parents and the defunct lunch program.

  “I found Josie’s notes from the school tucked into her binder,” Delia said. “Otherwise I wouldn’t have known, either. Most of the kids throw that stuff away. It’s not a good situation because parents rely on that hot lunch.”

  “Exactly,” he said. He crossed his arms, braced his legs, as if he was about to take a punch to the head. They were going to cheer. Applaud. Try to hug him. “Which is why I offered to pay for two months of lunches for twenty students.”

  The porch was silent.

  “To be made here,” he finished.

  The porch erupted.

  “You did what?” Gabe cried and it wasn’t a happy cry. “Are you out of your mind?”

  “You’re angry?” Jonah asked.

  “Damn right I’m angry.” Gabe handed Stella to Alice and stepped off the porch. “I’m working at capacity,” he said. “My staff is so overloaded they are ready to kill me. I can’t add twenty more meals, five days a week to anyone’s job.”

  “I can hire someone,” Jonah said, relieved and stunned that anger was the reaction. He’d expected hugs but maybe he’d get the fight he’d been wanting.

  “A stranger in our kitchen?” Alice winced.

  “When do you plan on having this work done?” Gabe asked. “My kitchen is fully occupied with the food preparation for paying guests.”

  “Gabe.” Patrick stepped off the porch, too.

  “You’re going to defend him, Dad?”

  “No,” Patrick answered and Jonah almost fell over. “He shouldn’t have spoken for us.” Patrick shot a glance at Jonah and he knew he was being chastised.

  A little too late, Dad.

  “But it’s for a good cause,” Patrick said. “Surely there’s a way we can make good on this.”

  “Well, of course there’s a way,” Gabe snapped. “I just want to hear what Jonah thought he was doing donating our manpower and kitchen without discussing it with us.”

  “There was no time for discussion,” Jonah said. “You all have been trying to get me to accept the fact that I am a Mitchell and I did it.”

  What am I saying? he wondered. This was what he’d been ready to deny until he was blue.

  “And,” he continued as if his mouth had no control, “I did what I thought was best.”

  Gabe rolled his eyes. “Bull—”

  “Gabe.” Alice broke in. “If we’d been there, we would have done the same thing,” she said.

  “So would I,” Max said. Delia also nodded.

  “Me, too,” Patrick agreed.

  No hugs. No slaps on the back, nothing what Jonah had expected. But the feelin
g of pride rolled off the porch in a giant tidal wave.

  Again, Jonah felt that stupid rush, that nauseating flood of emotion. The night split in two. He was here, wishing this useless, wasted show of unity wouldn’t happen, and he was ten years old, wishing desperately that it would.

  “Fine. Since you’ve decided you’re a Mitchell when it suits you.” Gabe crossed his arms over his chest. “You gonna cook this food? Because I can’t spare Tim.”

  “I’ll do it,” Cameron piped up.

  “When?” Gabe asked. “You aren’t dropping out of school.”

  “I’ll come before school.” Cameron stood. “It’s gonna cost you.”

  Jonah nearly laughed. “I can imagine.”

  “Cameron,” Alice said. “You’ll need to figure out recipes and budgets. It’s for kids so it’s going to take some work. Are you sure you want to take all that on, on top of school work?”

  “When I was in grade school, after Mom left, hot lunch was the only meal I ate,” he said, looking at Jonah as if he identified the same truth in him. “Kids need lunch.”

  Jonah nodded, touched by the kid’s help. “Kids need lunch,” he echoed.

  “Okay. Where is the food coming from?” Gabe asked.

  “Daphne is donating some and I am paying for the rest.”

  “How is the food going to get to the school?”

  “Daphne donated her truck.”

  “You’ll drive it?”

  “Someone will.”

  “No one here has the time. You can’t go speaking for us,” Gabe said. “Committing us to—”

  “Relax, Gabe,” Patrick said and Jonah refused to see the pride in him. The respect. The gratitude. “It’s done.”

  Gabe sighed heavily and stomped up the stairs. “Fine,” Gabe said. “I’m prepared to pick up the pieces when this guy leaves us high and dry.” Gabe shot Jonah a damning glare. “He will,” Gabe said to his father. “You’ve got to come to grips with this, Dad. He will leave.”

  At least we agree on that, Jonah thought, finding it strange that Gabe was the only one who saw things his way.