by Aleah Barley
“I just—” The anger in Nick’s voice was gone, replaced with pain. “I thought we had something real.”
His hand was splayed against her thigh, his knuckles grazing her hip. His thumb raising and lowering with every breath, pushing against the elastic of her white cotton panties.
“I should have known that a woman like you could never be interested in a guy like me. That first day, back then, I knew. Fancy shoes caked on makeup. High maintenance. Then you were in that old house, wearing those same damn shorts from ten years ago, and I thought I was wrong. I thought you were different. Special. I should have known better. Guys like me—I’m just good enough for a one-night stand. You might have divorced Trevor, but he’s just your type.”
Her type. Anna blinked, confused. Sucking in a deep breath, she struggled to regain control of her senses.
“I don’t think I have a type,” she said after a long moment’s thought, trying to figure out what was going on. “Nothing specific.”
“Trevor Bliss is pretty damn specific. The man’s a damn movie star. God’s gift to women. All that money—”
“It wasn’t like that.” Anna swallowed, hard, trying to concentrate, desperate to explain. Nick thought that she’d only been interested in Trevor for his money? How was that even possible? “Trevor wasn’t like that when I met him.”
A snort of disbelief. “What was he like?”
“Ambitious, broke,” she shrugged. “Foolish. He’d just landed his first big role in a Hollywood film, and he thought that it meant something. He thought he was a real actor, an artist. He still had his natural hair color, and he talked about his ‘craft’ a lot.”
Those had been the good days, back before the fame and the glory went to Trevor’s head. Sneaking away from her bodyguards and driving around the city, not doing much of anything, just cruising in his old beat up sedan.
“He wanted to do for Oscar Wilde what Kenneth Brannagh did for Shakespeare. I didn’t even know who Wilde was.” She smiled. “He thought that he was going to be a big star.”
“He was right.”
“No, he wasn’t.” Anna bit back a laugh. “He was living in a tiny studio above a porn shop in the San Fernando Valley, and every time he got home, he’d grab his calendar and stand by the phone. Holding his breath while he checked his answering machine. Waiting for the next big thing.”
It had been painful. Standing there, waiting with him, listening to all those words of rejection. Trevor was too tall… too all-American… He wasn’t right for the part. All the while knowing that she should be at home, working, practicing for her next stadium concert.
“What changed?” Nick demanded.
“I took him to a party.”
All it had taken was one party, one night in front of the lights and cameras, to completely dissuade Trevor of his idealism. Forget Oscar Wilde. He wanted to be the next Cary Grant or Sean Connery, even the next Tom Cruise would be alright.
“I wanted to help. It was a launch party my recording studio was throwing for me—they rented Sky Bar—and I bought him a suit. It was the first time I’d seen him in anything other than jeans, and he was so damn awkward. After that night, he wasn’t just some one hit wonder. He was the one hit wonder dating Anna Montera.” She flinched when she said the name, waiting for a curse or a shout to explode from Nick’s lips.
He just stood there, staring at her, waiting to hear what she had to say.
“Trevor started getting jobs, just a few, but that was all he needed. He’s a good actor. We got married, and his career took off.”
“So, why’d you get divorced?”
“We didn’t want the same things.” Anna leaned forward, resting her head on Nick’s shoulder, enjoying the way he felt against her. The rise and fall that came with every breath he took. The sharp smell of whiskey clung to him, spicy and exotic, over the more familiar scent of soap.
“I was stupid and young, which I guess is the same thing. I was only eighteen-years-old, and I thought that I knew what life was about. I thought that we could ride off into the sunset, be the kind of couple that only exists in the movies.”
Looking back it was foolish, idiotic, but at the time, she’d been so desperate for love. So eager to have something more waiting for her at home then a stack of letters from fans and record executives. She’d wanted more than ‘sweet dreams and chart toppers.’
“Trevor didn’t want to be some suburban stereotype. He didn’t even really want me—no matter what he says—he wanted the pop music sensation. He married a career, and I married a man who didn’t really know me.”
She’d never talked about her divorce before, not to any of the thousands of reporters who’d asked and not to Darryl who’d only ever wanted to know if she were okay.
“I always knew that our marriage was doomed, but it really hit me when I told him I wanted to change my name. Anna Montera’s a boring name, but Anna Bliss has a nice ring to it.”
“And?”
“And Anna Bliss wasn’t a platinum recording artist with a cult following. Trevor put his foot down or tried to. I served him with divorce papers the next week. Darryl—my manager—he took care of it. Darryl always takes care of everything.”
Anna’s teeth sliced into her bottom lip. Her head was pounding; She just wanted to go home, to sleep, or go back to the way they’d been a few minutes earlier. Kissing. Nick’s hand was still on her thigh, she could still feel his body against hers. All those hard muscles. Everything was hard, the entire length of him.
She just couldn’t stop talking.
“It’s ironic. The only thing that helped Trevor’s career more than the marriage was the divorce.”
“Do you regret it?” Nick asked.
“Sometimes.” A soft sigh. “I don’t regret staying friends. We were always better friends than we were lovers.”
Firm lips brushed against her collarbone. “He wasn’t good in bed?”
She laughed. “Trevor was the first man I ever slept with. I didn’t know what good was.” She’d thought that heavy breathing and a few quick orgasms meant love. “Not like now. Not like you.”
Nick’s entire body relaxed. His mouth met hers. This kiss was long, slow, and soft, no matter how much she wished it were a little bit harder. His body rocked against hers, a silent dance that men and women had been performing since the beginning of time.
His thumb flicked upwards, forcing its way past the edge of her panties, making her gasp in surprise. Wet and ready, she shuddered against him. When he kissed her, she could feel the smile growing on his face.
Long fingers skimmed her waist, tugging at her dress, trying to get it to release her breasts. He shifted backward slightly, and Anna bit her lip to keep from whimpering. Begging him to hold her tight. At least her hands were free now, she could grab him, tear at him, hold him tight. She curled her arms loosely around his waist, one hand slipping underneath his cotton t-shirt to rest easily on his back.
“I guess we’ll just have to make the most of things,” Nick said. “At least until you go back to your regularly scheduled life.”
Part of her wanted to scream, to cry. She didn’t want to go back to her life. Coming to Mill City, she’d been looking for something, a simple truth about herself. She’d been so desperate, so damn eager to leave all her friends behind. She’d never thought about how lonely it would make her feel. The truth was that until spending time with Nick, she’d never realized how lonely she was.
That didn’t change things. Nick wasn’t looking for a commitment. No matter how she felt. No matter how much he made her long for a home and a family.
Nick was a grown up, an upstanding member of the community, and—most importantly—a father. There was no way that he could attach himself to a pop singer, especially not one whose oldest fans could barely drive. Even if he were looking for a girlfriend, someone to spend the rest of his life with or even just a few months, then he wouldn’t be looking for someone like her.
Someone who c
ouldn’t even take control of her own life or career.
He’d need someone like Jemmie, the woman at the animal shelter. Buxom and beautiful without really trying. A mother who wouldn’t blink an eye when he dropped Adam off on her doorstep. She’d fill him through of sugary treats, run him ragged, and slip into some sexy lingerie while the kid snored on the couch.
Anna couldn’t even do that much, not with her extensive wardrobe and multitude of costumers almost an entire continent away.
The closest things that she had to ‘sexy lingerie’ were the soft buttercup pajamas that strained over her grown up body.
“Right,” Anna said. “Just until I go back to Los Angeles.”
Chapter Sixteen
Anna had just dropped a whole lot of information on Nick. Standing on his front porch, lost in a lust and alcohol induced haze, he’d only really heard part of what she was saying.
The important bits had gotten through.
Anna was a star, an entertainment powerhouse with the ability to make or break a man’s career just by taking him to a party.
And she thought he was better in bed than Trevor Bliss. Nick’s mouth curved upwards into a wide grin.
Damn. Anna knew just what to say to make him feel good, but everything about her made him feel good, from the way her hips swung back and forth while she walked—like a pendulum keeping time with every breath he took—to that crazy smile she wore when she thought no one was looking. Not the teeth bared, lips pulled back, expression that she pasted on her face most of the time, but the quirky smile that had her lips twitching upwards slightly and her eyes gleaming.
His hand drifted slightly up her leg, his knuckles dragging against the soft skin of her inner thigh, enjoying the way she went taut against him, thrilling in his arms.
Had she only ever been with two men?
Nick didn’t think of himself as a slut, but he’d gone to college and law school. He’d had a normal sex life, and he knew for a fact that most of his female friends had slept with more than two people. Probably more than a dozen. Underneath Anna’s super sexy exterior, she was more than a little suppressed.
The things he could teach her were unthinkable, the worlds that he could open up for her were unimaginable.
Anna had already proven responsive to his touch. If he died in the next five minutes, his last thoughts would be filled by all her happy little moans and shudders from two days earlier. All he had to do was get her off his front porch before he took her against the wall—shoving up her skirt and sliding into her tight interior—in front of God and Mrs. O’Reilly who’d lived across the street for the past six hundred years.
God would understand, but Mrs. O’Reilly would tell Nick’s parents.
“You know Adam’s still at school, right?” He forced the words through clenched teeth.
“Hmm.” Anna was rocking back and forth against him, not listening to a word he said.
Pinching her side, sharply, playfully, he bit back a laugh when she yelped. “After school he’s going to Jemmie’s for a sleepover. He won’t be back until morning. Want to come for dinner?”
Nick wiped sweaty palms on his blue jeans before reaching out to run a finger across her bottom lip, bruised by harsh kisses.
All he wanted was to touch her. To hold her tight and never let her go.
His breath caught in his chest. What was he thinking? Of course, Anna would have to go. She lived in California. Los Angeles. She’d go back there eventually. No matter how much he wanted her to stay.
“What if I’m not hungry?”
“I know just how to whet your appetite.”
H
A few hours later, Nick was trying to figure out what to make for dinner. Not barbecue. Something yummy, something quick. The summer sun was setting outside, and it was later than he’d thought.
Time had gotten away from them as he’d tumbled Anna into bed, tugging at her clothes, tasting her in ways that made her gasp, yelp, and scream. The burgeoning erection that had started outside, becoming suddenly rock hard. A moment later he’d been pushing into her, holding her tight, making her gasp and groan.
Afterward they’d taken a shower together, hot water racing across naked skin, sweet smelling soap making them slick, slippery. They hadn’t been able to keep their hands off each other, and the water had grown cold as she slipped to her knees, kissing her way tentatively down the length of his body before finally taking him in her mouth and making the world fall away.
Even now, the sight of Anna’s pale curls plastered to her head—a trace of soap clinging to her ear—had his breath coming hard. There had been no salvaging her dress after he’d torn it from her body, so she’d dressed in a t-shirt from the stack of freshly folded laundry on top of his bureau, waiting to be put away.
The t-shirt was dark blue with the words ‘Mill City Minors’ emblazoned on the front. It hung across her freshly scrubbed body, skimming her thighs.
The impression was one of a woman who’d been thoroughly used. Ridden hard and put away wet.
He couldn’t get enough of her.
Turning slightly, Anna caught sight of the radio sitting on the kitchen counter. Big and boxy, the machine was a remnant from when his parents had owned the house. On rainy days, the speakers crackled and spat, making it hard to understand what was being said, but Nick hadn’t gotten around to replacing it yet. Reaching out tentatively, she flipped the power switch into the ‘on’ position.
Her brow furrowing slightly as a newscaster’s sonorous tones filled the kitchen: “Today in the middle east—”
Her fingers gripped the tuning dial, spinning it fast and then slow, searching idly for something different. One after another, local stations came on for a few seconds at a time before being discarded out of a time.
Finally, a rush of guitar and electronics, a woman’s voice soaring over the music in a pop ballad that Nick recognized from supermarkets and elevators. Anna’s shoulders relaxed slightly, her hand dropped down to her waist. She leaned back against the counter and closed her eyes, singing along quietly under her breath.
“Is this you?” Nick asked, suddenly eager to hear her music. Desperate to know everything about her.
“Madonna.” Anna corrected around the music.
“Oh.” Nick flushed, embarrassed. Madonna. “Of course, I should have known.”
He forced his gaze away from her, yanking open the refrigerator door and gathering ingredients. Broccoli. Onions. Mushrooms. Cheddar. And, after a moment’s indecision, horseradish. He shoved the fridge door shut with his shoulder, turning to put the ingredients down on the big butch block island in the middle of the kitchen. Grabbing a knife from the rack beside the sink, he struggled to think of something to say next.
Some way to alleviate the nervous tension growing between them.
This was his house. The house that he’d bought from his parents when he’d moved back to Mill City with a colicky toddler and a business plan. Over the years he’d brought dozens of girls to the house—from his first ‘true love’ when he was eight years old to his ex-wife—but none of them had ever made him feel the way Anna did.
Like his insides were going to dance right out of his skin.
What if that wasn’t enough? Besides their shared history and electric attraction, what else did they have in common?
The way he’d grabbed her on the porch, holding her tight. It wasn’t because he didn’t know her, it was because he knew that if he took his eyes off her for even one moment then she’d be gone.
But strong arms couldn’t hold Anna.
Not if she wanted to leave.
“You’re going to have to teach me.” The broccoli was fresh and green. He gave it a quick rinse before chopping it up into inch long chunks.
“Only if you teach me how to drive.” Anna’s hand moved up, fingers twisting nervously in her honey colored hair. “I know about music, but I’m a horrible driver. I can’t balance a checkbook, and I know nothing about cooking.”
“No, it’s not,” she said. “I don’t cook. Ever.”
He blinked in surprise. “If you don’t cook then what do you eat?”
“I eat out a lot, or I have stuff brought in. My housekeeper does a bang up pot roast, and Darryl—my agent—always hosts Thanksgiving at his house. I’m a master at the microwave.” She shrugged. “I can’t remember the last time I actually helped make dinner. Not since I stayed with Papa Billy.”
Bill Howard had been a fine old man, an upstanding member of the community, despite the fact that he’d let his house fall into a serious state of disrepair. Unfortunately, his cooking repertoire had been limited to burning meat and spiking jello salad with something a hundred proof.
If he was Anna’s model for making dinner then she really didn’t know anything about cooking.
“Come here.” Nick grabbed her arm, gesturing for her to stand at the butcher block across from him. Selecting another knife from the rack, he handed her the sharp instrument and pushed a pile of mushrooms in front of her. “Cooking is easy. All it takes is a little faith and elbow grease.”
“Don’t these need to be washed?”
“You can’t wash mushrooms. They suck in too much of the moisture. If they’re dirty then they get brushed—some people have a special brush, but a paper towel works just as good—these ones don’t need it. They’re fine. A little dirt never hurt anyone.”
Nick reached for the onion, enjoying the fact that there was a second person to share the work for once. He sliced the onion quickly, paper-thin rings clinging to his fingers on the way to the counter. The music in the background segued easily into another song, this one with a male singer. Shared work made the tension fall away as they enjoyed each other’s company in happy silence.
