by Maisey Yates
“Are you going to invite me in?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said, stepping out of the way as she wiggled her hand and tried to get the cork out of the bottle.
“Need help with that?”
“Please,” she said, handing it to him. Their fingers brushed.
That brief, momentary contact was enough to send a sensation through her that rivaled the buzz that would come from a glass of the wine he was currently trying to open.
Whatever she’d just been thinking about tonight not being as good, she was most definitely wrong.
“I thought you might like a drink,” she said lamely.
“Thanks,” he responded. “You thought right. When I’m in town I always want a drink. Or ten.”
She bit back the questions that were building inside her. He wouldn’t want her to ask questions. Wouldn’t want this to be about anything more complicated than the physical connection between them.
She sighed.
“What?”
She turned around to look at him. “Nothing.”
“That was quite the sigh.”
“Well. It’s just been that kind of a day.” She moved over to the couch and sat.
“Why?” Cooper sat down next to her, his knee brushing against hers.
Now he was pressing, and he was the one who had made the rule that they were keeping things casual. So now she was just annoyed that she hadn’t pushed him for more information when she’d had the chance. When the opening had been natural. “Just the nature of retail.” She waved a hand.
“But you like it. Or you wouldn’t have bought the store.”
“Did you and your mom spend your lunch talking about me?”
“Of course we did,” he said. “She was eager to fill me in on the gossip. And on the fact that you bought the store from Freda Lopez when she married Quinn Dodge.”
“Yes. These days, he and Freda are mostly living in New Mexico, enjoying the dry heat—which sounds vile to me—and his son, Wyatt, has taken over Get Out of Dodge.”
“I’m up to speed on that,” Cooper said. “You know my mother would never leave out pertinent information.”
“Of course not.”
He lifted a brow, regarding her closely before speaking again. “She also said that your ex-boyfriend, Parker, was a terrible human being.”
She might have guessed Connie would bring up Parker. Her dad hadn’t been short on opinions about him, and he’d most definitely shared them with Jeff and Connie. “She’s not wrong,” Annabelle said.
“Why were you with him?”
She shrugged. “It felt better than being alone at the time.” Her throat had gone prickly, tight. “I was in college, and I was still a virgin, so it seemed like maybe it was time to fix that. I met him at a concert in the park—he was new to town. He asked me out. I went on a date with him and I liked him, and then we slept together. We just kept sleeping together after that. And I guess when you add meals to that it becomes a relationship. It most especially does when he moves into the house you bought. Before you know it...well, before you know it, it’s been five years of your life.”
“Right,” Cooper said. “I wouldn’t know. I’m definitely not an expert on relationships.”
“I thought he was the best I could do,” she said. “And a lot of what he said to me confirmed it. Then last year he broke up with me.”
“He broke up with you?”
“That’s always how it goes, right? I gave him...so much time. And he never really intended to give me anything in return. He was just waiting for something better to come along.” She tapped her fingertips on her wineglass. “But I suppose in the end beggars can’t be choosers. At least, that’s what I always told myself.”
He set the bottle of wine down on the side table in the living room with a heavy thunk. “Let’s get one thing straight right now,” he said, closing the distance between them and gripping her by the chin, tilting her face upward so that she was forced to look at him. “He was lucky to have you. Whatever he said to you...he was an ass.”
“I know...”
“Do you?” Those blue eyes were hot and intense on hers, and she almost couldn’t look directly at him. He was too beautiful. That sculpted face, lips that she knew were perfect for kissing. A little bit of golden stubble on his jaw. His eyes...oh, those blue eyes.
He was too beautiful and too perfect to be this close to her.
She didn’t get touched by beautiful, perfect men. And yet, here he was.
She looked away. “I had enough confidence to put on some Spanx and seduce you, didn’t I?”
“You did,” he said, sliding his thumb across her chin. “I’m sorry if the way I acted after that did anything to dent that confidence. Believe me when I tell you the reasons I shouldn’t be with you don’t have anything to do with you.”
“Right. It’s you,” she said, her heart twisting at the reminder—yet another one—that this was temporary.
“It’s cliché, maybe,” he said. “But it’s true.”
“Why?” Now she was going to ask. She was going to ask because he had started digging into all of her stuff, so it seemed fair enough to her to dig around his.
“I don’t do relationships,” he told her. “My job doesn’t allow it.”
The way he said it, so flat and hard, she knew there was more than he was saying. That he chose a job that didn’t allow it on purpose. That he was on the run for a very specific reason. But of course, he wasn’t going to say that he didn’t do relationships because his heart wouldn’t allow it. That losing his sister had been difficult and he wasn’t over it.
You didn’t get over loss like that, though, she knew. Sure, she hadn’t lost anyone to death, but her mother had never wanted to be a part of her life. She understood what it felt like to have a hole in your life. That no matter how much you loved the people you still had, it couldn’t be ignored.
“Okay,” she said.
“You, on the other hand, apparently like relationships.”
“Correction,” she said, “I did. Or I thought I should. Now, I’m only in the market for a little bit of sex. So while I appreciate you trying to protect me and all...this is actually just what the doctor ordered.”
“A few orgasms?”
“With a hot man,” she said seriously. “I know that...it was pretty obvious I had a crush on you when I was a kid.”
His eyebrows shot up. “Was it?”
She sputtered, “Well, my dad said it was.”
“I didn’t think of it like that. You were just a cute kid that liked to hang out with me. Are you telling me that your motives weren’t pure?”
“I idolized you,” she said. “You’ll be happy to know that I don’t idolize men anymore.”
“Well,” he said, “that is a relief.”
“These days I just want to jump you.”
“Also a relief.”
“Good. Because I think we should get to that.”
The talking worried her. The fact was that the more minutes they carved out together, the more likely it was there would be a hole left behind when he left.
They’d both had enough of those kinds of holes. They didn’t need anymore.
He wrapped one strong arm around her waist and brought her up against his chest, kissing her, deep and long, glorious. She didn’t want it to end. She felt the kiss all the way down. It made her feel dizzy. Made her feel light and heavy at the same time.
It had to be the kiss. Not him. Not her feelings for him.
“You’re right,” he said. “We should.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
IT WAS ONE thing to accidentally have a one-night stand with Annabelle Preston. It was another thing entirely to choose to make that one night more. To choose
it knowing who she was.
Knowing that the woman he held in his arms now had once been the girl who had followed him around with bright eyes and a hopeful smile.
To know that some asshole had crushed that smile, dulled those eyes.
To know that maybe, if he were careful, he might be able to fix some of that damage.
Cooper wasn’t a savior. Never had anything made that more clear than when Lindsay had gotten sick.
She had known—for most of her life—that she was fighting a battle she couldn’t win. That no one could save her. Not her parents who had loved her, not the husband who had married her anyway, knowing that he was signing on to be widowed.
And certainly not her younger brother.
Who had seen her as the bravest, most beautiful person in the world, reduced in memory to her death, rather than her life. Who had watched as her every breath seemed to steal life from her body instead of give it.
While he could do nothing. Nothing but watch.
No, he wasn’t a savior. He had never saved anyone. He couldn’t even save himself.
But perhaps he could do something to fix what that jackass Parker had done to break off those pieces of Annabelle’s self-esteem.
Perhaps he could put some of them back in place.
Right. Pretend that you’re being noble when you really just want to get off.
That was the same voice that was happy to remind him that he wasn’t a hero. No, he wasn’t.
But maybe there could be some altruistic mixed in with the selfish here. Just maybe.
He kissed her, guiding her down onto the couch rather than leading her back into the bedroom. He filled his hands with her abundant curves, pressed his palms over her breasts, drew his thumbs over her tightened nipples. She was beautiful. And he had absolutely no issues with how long he had known her, not in this moment.
She was a woman. And he was a man. They both wanted this. They both understood what it was. A little oblivion to get through the season. That was what mattered.
He moved his hands down her body, taking in the shape of her waist, the soft curve of her hips. She blushed when he glided his hands up underneath her shirt. Cooper didn’t have any experience with women who blushed. It was a strange sight, and one that lit his blood on fire even if it shouldn’t.
He felt all that smooth skin beneath his touch, brought his hands up to unhook her bra, taking it off along with her shirt. She was beautiful. Full breasts, soft to the touch. He leaned forward, drawing one nipple deep into his mouth, relishing the sound of pleasure she made as he did.
He could spend all night sating himself with her.
But as he finished undressing her, pleasuring her until they were both mindless, until her harsh cries signaled that she was ready for more, he was aware that he had chosen this. That he had chosen her.
And all the entanglements that came along with her. Whatever he said, wanting her had somehow been stronger than the need to stay unconnected.
He undressed quickly, sheathing himself with protection and sitting down on the couch, then lifting her and bringing her onto his lap so that she was straddling him. So that he could get a show along with his pleasure.
He looked at her, at all those gorgeous curves on display. He took stock of every last inch of her, and he did it slowly. If he was going to do something morally questionable, he might as well savor every second of it.
She was blushing, her skin turning pink all over, and he followed the rosy trail with his tongue. She was moaning again by the time he finished, by the time he pressed his hardened length to the entrance of her body and thrust up inside her.
“Show me how you like it,” he rasped.
She grabbed on to his shoulders and moved experimentally, clearly not quite comfortable with this new position.
Much like the blush, he reveled in that, as well. And much like the blush, he didn’t care if he shouldn’t.
Then she seemed to relax, letting her head fall back, letting her eyes flutter closed. And she began to move, riding him like she hadn’t a single inhibition in the world. Like she wasn’t ashamed of anything. Her body, how much she wanted him. That turned him on even more.
And then there was no more thinking. There was just him, wrapped up in her, the soft press of her breasts against his chest, her fingernails digging into his back, the tight clasp of her body around him.
All around them was Christmas. She had a Christmas tree and she had lights all around the room. He didn’t ever have that sort of thing. Hadn’t allowed himself to be surrounded by it in years.
But somehow right now it didn’t seem so bad. Didn’t seem quite so awful, quite so tied to things in the past that been corroded by grief.
This—being with Annabelle—felt shiny. It felt new and beautiful and bright.
He hadn’t felt anything beautiful and bright in a long damn time. Christmas or not.
Pleasure was building in him, a dull roar thundering in his ears as lust overcame the feelings that were expanding in his chest. And thank God. He didn’t want feelings. To hell with feelings.
He was going to embrace the physical. Because that was easy.
Except nothing felt easy as his orgasm roared up inside him, as she found her own release, trembling and shaking in his arms, her internal muscles pulsing around him, sending him straight over the edge.
No, there was nothing easy about that.
About a climax that left him broken, undone. Made of jagged pieces when it ended.
But then, he would never have said he wasn’t broken. Would never claim the pieces inside him were anything but jagged.
She just made him so acutely aware of it. How sharp and damaged he was, compared to her soft perfection.
That was the problem.
Not so much the revelation that he was damaged, but the contrast to the woman he held in his arms. Because when he was on the road, when he never stopped moving, never settled in, never tried to build a connection to someone, it didn’t matter.
He didn’t have to examine it. He didn’t have to know the person in his arms, in his bed for the night.
And because of that, he didn’t have to know himself at all.
It could be a haze of double yellow lines, and the blend of pine trees whisking together into a blur of green. Of alcohol-soaked evenings and soft female skin.
But none of it was personal. None of it lasted.
Annabelle Preston was personal, and she could never be anything else.
He pulled her into his arms and held her there, listening to her breathing hard, feeling her skin, damp and sweaty against his. But not from running across a field or climbing apple trees. From making love to him.
Yeah, that was personal. And right now being in her arms felt too good, too right. And even if he knew he should pull away...he couldn’t.
* * *
ANNABELLE HAD NEVER even thought of having sex on her couch. In full view of her coffee-table books, which were about civilized things like baked goods the pioneers made and shoes through the ages.
No, she had never thought of doing something quite so hedonistic. Because she had never been overcome by the need to be with someone before. By the need to have him inside her. By the need, the desperate need, to find release in his arms.
But she was overcome now. Or she had been. Now she was just a puddle. Naked and lying across her couch, completely unashamed.
“About that wine...” she said, looking to the bottle.
“What about it?”
“Well,” she said, “I thought I would have needed to banish my inhibitions, but apparently you do a good enough job of that all on your own.”
He lifted a shoulder, the muscles in his torso flexing. “It’s a gift.”
“Well, I’ll take that. Consider i
t my early Christmas present.”
“That seems like more of a gift for me, honey. The chance to have you uninhibited.”
He got the cork out of the wine bottle and poured a glass for her, then a second one for himself.
And that was how she ended up sitting naked on her couch drinking wine. Which bordered on being almost as hedonistic as the sex. Almost.
“So,” he said, “are you going to tell me why you feel like you need wine to let go of your inhibitions?”
He was staring at her with those gorgeous blue eyes, and she didn’t know why he wanted to know anything about her. He was interesting. Mysterious. He had gone a thousand places beyond Gold Valley, and she’d never really gone anywhere. She didn’t know why she would be interesting to him. She had never been interesting to anyone else.
“My boyfriend really wasn’t a nice guy,” she said, tucking her hair behind her ear and straightening. Which made her feel even more exposed, so she rounded her shoulders forward slightly. “But I spent so many years with him that it wasn’t obvious to me. It wasn’t like it was years of razor-sharp insults cutting into me. It was more a constant stream of low-grade disapproval, battering against me and leaving bruises. It was just...a lot of little things. And they added up and made me feel terrible about myself.” She swallowed hard, then took another sip of wine. “And it’s... You know, my mother just...gave me to my father when I was a baby. Like I was something from her closet that didn’t fit her. That easy. So I can’t help but feel that I’m deeply uninteresting to everyone. Wine makes me feel more interesting. I mean, in theory.”
“You don’t need wine to be interesting,” he said, the vehemence in his voice shocking her. “It sure as hell had nothing to do with you. And in my experience, the way the people act has a lot more to do with them than it does with you. As somebody who’s spent a fair amount of time running, I can tell you that whatever was happening with your mother...that’s her stuff.”
“Is it?”
“Sure as hell,” he repeated.
“You’re very certain.”
“I am. Like I said, I’m an expert on that kind of thing.”
“So that’s what you’re doing?” she asked. “Running?”
