by Lisa Plumley
The screen door slammed behind her. The aromas of tomato sauce, garlic, and roasted peppers wafted from his kitchen.
“Smells good.”
“Thanks. If my research came together half as easily as my pasta puttanesca, I’d have had the growth accelerator finished a month ago.” He hefted the tapered bottle of apple juice. “I’d better go put this in the fridge.”
Chloe eyed the wine-shaped bottle. It practically screamed her hopes that this was going to be A Real Date. A new romantic beginning between them.
Idiot! she told herself as Nick disappeared around the corner. The refrigerator opened and shut. Next came the sound of something scraping in a pan to the accompaniment of Nick’s humming.
This was definitely a Non-Date. His confused glance at the bottle had told her that much. She really had to start clamping down on that wishful-thinking routine of hers.
Chloe collapsed on Nick’s sturdy tweed couch beside a pile of clean laundry and buried her face in a jumble of towels and jeans. See? He hadn’t even bothered to tidy up for her visit, she thought morosely, hugging the pile closer. All she wanted was to disappear. Maybe Nick wouldn’t notice if she slunk out the front door and went home?
His jovial, humming entrance into the living room wrecked her getaway plans. Moaning, she stuffed her face deeper in the pile and inhaled big lungfuls of fabric-softener-scented air, trying to get a grip on herself. The last thing she wanted was for Nick to guess how much she wanted to move things between them to a non-platonic level. How much she wanted him to do the moving…and the kissing, the touching, the lovemaking that they’d….
His hand on her bare thigh sent her bolt upright.
“Wake up, Sleeping Beauty. Aren’t you hungry?”
If he only knew. Chloe tilted sideways to straighten herself and wound up at eye-level with his groin. She eyed the fit of Nick’s shorts, remembered what lay beneath, and had to fight an urge to lick her lips. The night they’d spent together had only been the appetizer, just enough to make her hungry for more.
“Appetizer?” Nick asked.
She whipped her head upward and almost brained herself on the tray of bruschetta in his hand. Her heart quit racing just as she recognized the toasted bread topped with tomatoes and herbs. She cleared her throat and selected one, hoping he hadn’t caught her leering at him.
Sheesh. Hormones.
Who was she kidding? Love.
Grinning, Nick plucked something from her hair, making static electricity crackle above her head. Something white flashed past her field of vision. She recognized it as a pair of white briefs—oh, God, she’d been wearing his underwear on her head!—and wanted to crawl under the sofa.
“Cute.” He dropped the tighty whities back in the laundry pile. “But I like your outfit better without the headgear.”
His gaze skimmed over her clothes—electric blue shorts and a neon green loosely buttoned shirt—as though committing their smooth, washed silk textures to memory. His scrutiny did disturbing things to her ability to think or react—or even chew, apparently. A dollop of tomato slipped from her bruschetta and plunked down her chest.
He watched it slide beneath her vibrant green silk shirt with a starving man’s look. It gave her an unreasonable amount of hope for their potential couplehood—far too much to pin on a half-inch piece of cold tomato. Then Nick shook his head and blinked, fingers on the temples of his eyeglasses.
“And preferably without tomato sauce, too,” he added on a grin, grabbing a fluffy blue towel from the laundry pile. “Here, let me help you.”
Chloe sat still, dying to suck in a gulp of air to bolster herself for his touch, but too filled with anticipation to move. Frowning, Nick scrubbed at the neckline of her shirt, lifted the corner of the towel to assess his efforts, then scrubbed some more.
The ends of the thick terrycloth towel flopped in her lap, tickling her bare thighs. It was nothing compared with the friction he’d set into motion with his clean-up efforts. Her shirt rubbed against her breasts, sensitizing them even through her layers of silken shirt and silkier bra.
Watching Nick’s strong, capable hands at work, Chloe briefly considered dumping the rest of the bruschetta tray in her lap. Reluctantly, she abandoned the idea. She had all she could handle already.
“Wait.” She caught hold of his wrist. “I think it’s clean. Much more of that, and you’ll rub me naked.”
Which sounded pretty great, actually, no matter how much she wanted to groan at having blurted it out. But there was no way she could stand being touched like this for much longer and not reciprocate. Not with Nick and definitely not in the supersensitive state she was in. Biting her lip, she fished her other hand in her shirt to retrieve the tomato herself.
No dice. The little bugger must have slipped past her bra. Letting go of Nick’s wrist, she lifted her shirt hem just enough to glimpse a plump bit of red just above her navel.
Before she could move, Nick ducked. His mouth fastened on the tomato, sucking gently against her skin as he nibbled it up. Too shocked to move, Chloe stared down at the incredible sight of his familiar, golden-haired head against her. His lips puckered on her tender flesh, igniting flickers of yearning, remembered passion in places lower than the rounded belly he kissed.
If she hadn’t been sitting already, her knees would have surely buckled. Wowsers! Shivering, Chloe delved her hand in his hair, wanting to pull Nick closer, to draw him upward where she could properly kiss him back. His hair buzzed beneath her roving hands, spiky soft shafts that tickled her palms even more than the towel had tickled her thighs earlier. She thought of feeling those close-clipped shafts where the towel had been and was squirming in her seat even as Nick’s mouth popped away from her belly.
“Got it.” He winked at her, leaned over to gather up the pile of laundry, and straightened. “You’re good as new.”
Chloe boggled as he juggled the armful of clothes against his chest, smoothed her shirt in place again, and casually said, “I’d better get these out of the way before I find you wearing a pair of sweat socks or something.”
Sweat socks? He could talk about sweat socks, after what had just happened? Shivering, she settled deeper in the couch’s nubbly tweed and watched him disappear down the hallway with the clothes.
Nuzzling her bare belly was not the act of a platonic best male friend, no matter how Nick tried to pretend it was. Never mind that as friends they’d been swimming at the lake dressed in less than she had on now. Never mind that they’d nursed each other through colds, income taxes, and broken hearts. That wasn’t TLC Nick had administered just now. At the least, it qualified as a pass. So what was she supposed to do about it?
Before she could decide, he returned, looking vaguely warm, rumpled, and so much like everything she’d ever wanted in a man that Chloe felt like sobbing with the unfairness of it all. He was as perfect for her as she was for him—except for his lack of interest in having children as soon as five months from now.
I’m lucky as hell not to have kids yet, Chloe, he’d said. I swear I’d never get anything done.
If there was one think Nick wanted, it was to get things done. To accomplish his dream of becoming a great inventor. How could she stand in the way of that?
She couldn’t.
She couldn’t forget her vow to give her baby a loving home with two loving parents, either. Buck up, she told herself. He’s just a man. You can resist him.
Suddenly, Chloe found new sympathy for Nick’s what’shernames.
He reached out and tousled her hair. “Hungry? How ‘bout some grub, Blondie?”
“Sure.” She felt her spirits plummet even further as his hair-tousle turned into a brotherly shoulder punch. “Lead the way, Galloping Gourmet.”
Poor Bruno, Nick thought later. Poor, doomed, besotted Bruno. How had he faced temptation like this and survived?
Maybe fortitude like that was what made a man a Marine.
He and Chloe had finished the pasta puttanesca, pol
ished off the better half of the bruschetta, and moved the party onto his back patio. Out here beneath the clear dark skies and bright stars of summer, Nick could almost believe it was a night like any other they’d spent together. The pink bougainvillea bloomed along the backyard fence the same as they ever had. The cicadas chirped just as constantly beyond that fence, and the citronella candles burned just as lemony-sharp on the wrought iron table between them.
The difference was, this dark night felt intimate in a way it never had before. He’d never before been forced to watch Chloe savor a dish of vanilla ice cream with strawberries, bite by slow shivery bite, the way he’d been doing for the past ten minutes. It was enough to make a guy yearn to be a soup spoon.
“This is so good, Nick,” she said for what had to be the fifth time, turning over the spoon to lick a strawberry remnant from the tip. “Yum, yum, yum.”
Yeah…yum.
The piece of strawberry disappeared between her lips. Reminded of the tomato he’d nibbled up earlier, Nick shifted in his chair and tried not to think of what an insane move he’d made with that. “Glad you like it.”
Curled up in a patio chair beside him, Chloe spooned up the last of the ice cream from the big plastic bowl on her lap. Licking her lips, she let her spoon clatter back in place.
“Every bit as delicious as the first bite,” she announced, swabbing her finger leisurely around the bowl. When she popped her finger in her mouth and sucked off the creamy vanilla, Nick knew he couldn’t take any more.
“Wanna watch a movie?” he blurted, taking the empty bowl from her lap as he stood. “I rented Norgon’s Revenge.”
“Another monster flick?” Grinning, Chloe shook her head. “I swear, Nick, you’re a little boy trapped in a man’s body.”
Just as she got up from her chair, Nick passed in front of her with his arm outstretched, headed for the patio door. They wound up nose to nose. Or, more accurately—since Chloe was a few inches shorter than he was—forehead to chin.
“Oh! Whoops.” She teetered. He put out his hand to steady her, then sidestepped out of the way. So did she—in the same direction.
“Sorry.” Chloe laughed when they found themselves pressed even closer together than before. “I’m a little wobbly these days.”
Her hand went to his upper arm, holding onto him as she explained something about hormones, pregnant ligaments, and other medical trivia items he didn’t quite catch. Her fingers stroked up and down his arm, making it impossible to concentrate on anything except the feel of Chloe touching him. Nick had the stupid, nonsensical urge to flex his biceps, to sweep her off her feet…to show her he could be every bit as manly as the Bruno she was so enraptured with.
He ought to go inside, get away, leave things as they were between them. Chloe had Bruno now. To hear her talk of him, he’d been all she’d ever wanted in a man, even if things were temporarily off—kilter between them. She didn’t need that mucked up with tomato nibbling and soup spoons and kissing. Not when she’d found herself a man “too special” to talk about, even with her best friend.
Friend, schmiend, the rebellious part of his soul prodded. Bruno was gone and Nick was here and this was a moment that might never come again.
“I don’t mind,” he said quietly.
She looked up at him. The amusement simmered out of her smile, replaced by something a little bit…wilder.
It was all the encouragement he needed.
Somehow, his hand went to the nape of her neck instead of the patio door. She tilted her head back, closing her eyes in the flickering candlelight, and although he meant to kiss her, all he could do was stare in wonder at how beautiful she seemed.
Her hair glowed like gold, bright as the candles. Moonlight and shadows chased across her face, highlighting the curve of her cheekbone, the delicate line of her nose, the lush fullness of her lips. He ached to taste her. Would she taste of strawberries, or the sweetness of vanilla?
In the darkness behind them, a warm breeze swirled dried bougainvillea leaves through the yard like whispers. On the same breath of air, Chloe’s tropical perfume wafted toward him, making him groan at the impossibility of resisting her. Kissing her felt inevitable. It felt right. Nick leaned closer…and her eyes opened.
“Whew!” She fanned herself with her hand. “Thanks to you, I’m as good as new. No more wobblies.” She grinned broadly and stepped back. He actually thought he saw her wink at him as she released his arm and gave him a brotherly shoulder punch instead. “Thanks for helping me out, Nick. So, how ‘bout that movie?”
Chapter Seven
Her guerrilla platonic-ness tactic backfired.
“How ‘bout it?”
Nick lowered his voice as he backed her toward the patio door. He kept his head bent, his gaze on her lips, and Chloe couldn’t have kept her feet from moving—or her heart from speeding into overdrive—if she’d tried.
So much for bravado. Or for turnabout being fair play. Her flippancy deserted her when she felt the glass door, smooth and cooled by the air conditioner inside, touch her back. She jerked involuntarily at the contact.
“Easy,” Nick murmured. His big hand cupped her shoulder, keeping her exactly where she was. His thumb rubbed over her shirt, moving slowly as he watched the slide of silk over skin. He closed his eyes briefly, then opened them and tightened his hand on her shoulder. “We’ve got all the time in the world.”
He meant it to reassure her, she knew. Somehow, his words sounded closer to a wish than anything else, though. Funny, because Nick was far too pragmatic a man to rely on starlit wishes or fate or anything else he couldn’t hold in his hands and examine.
Through the patio door at her back, incandescent kitchen light spilled over his features, making him seem both familiar and achingly new. This new Nick, this man who’d touch her like this without even a broken heart and Kahlúa courage between them…he was a stranger to her. One Chloe wanted to get to know better.
“Time?” she asked, feeling breathless. “Time for what?”
“The movie, brainiac.” His voice rumbled through her, teasing and arousing at the same time. “Can’t you keep your mind on the conversation?”
No. She couldn’t. Not with Nick’s hard, muscular thigh wedged warm between her legs, not with his palm pinning her shoulder to the glass and her heart to the wall. Not with all his considerable attention concentrated only on her. He’d moved fast and moved hard, and the feel of his body pressed against hers made the whole world tilt.
“It takes a really long time,” he murmured.
“The conversation?”
He shook his head, smiling for the first time since he’d tangoed her backwards. “No, the movie. At the end, of course, the climax comes quickly.” He traced a path over her shoulder, then slipped his thumb just inside the neckline of her shirt. “But the rest of it moves pretty slowly.”
She was sinking, sinking in this world turned tilted and hot. Amazingly, Nick was her only anchor. The warm pad of his thumb stroked along the side of her neck, sending shivers trembling from her collarbone to her heels. Talk of climaxes and moving slowly was only that—talk—but his touch spoke of more. Much more.
And she wanted it all.
Chloe’s hands went to his chest, smoothing imaginary wrinkles out of his shirt as an excuse to touch him. Wrinkles—as if anything of Nick’s would have dared misbehave. Letting her hands fall to her sides again, she felt an answering smile lift her lips. “But that can be a good thing, sometimes.”
He raised his eyebrows.
“Moving slowly, I mean.”
His smile was wicked. So was the forward nudge of his hips against hers. The hard, slow impact of his hips felt too wonderful for words. The heated meld of their bodies made everything else slide away. Her heartbeat pulsed faster, keeping time with the rhythm of his breathing.
“Mmmm, moving slowly….” He trailed his fingers down her shirt buttons, pretending to consider the idea. “You mean, in a conversation?”
&
nbsp; She shook her head. Her third and fourth buttons bumped beneath his fingertips as he made his way downward, edging between her breasts and lower.
“In a movie, then.”
His voice teased her, taunted her…reminded her of the closeness their banter implied. Chloe bit her lip, holding in the answer he waited for.
“Hmmm. Won’t talk?” Nick’s smile flashed in the night. “Then I’ll just have to guess how this slow-moving thing comes into play for you.” He fingered the next button. The next. His fingers slipped between the buttons to caress her bare skin, then quickly slipped out and continued to the next button. The last one. “Maybe you like it when…everything moves really slowly?”
“No,” she whispered as his hand followed the curve of her hip, then captured her wrist. He laced their fingers together and pushed her hand beneath his against the glass behind them. The rest of her answer emerged on a gasp. “No, I like that in a man.”
“Mmmm.” His fingertips tickled her wrist. “I thought so.”
Quit talking, Chloe thought. Just shut up and kiss me. But instead Nick only raised his head and focused his gaze on her. For one long, breath-stealing moment, she thought he’d changed his mind. He studied her, seeing her in a way she thought he might never have before.
As a lover.
He drew in a deep breath and released her hand. Only his hips touched hers as, casually, he raised the plastic ice cream bowl he still held in his palm and examined it.
“You want a slow-moving man?”
She licked her lips and sucked in a breath for courage. “I—” I want you.
She couldn’t say it aloud. Apparently, the atmosphere in Saguaro Vista didn’t have the magical bravery-enhancing properties she needed. Maybe Nick could invent a solution to that.
“Yes,” she whispered instead, trembling so hard the words emerged on a shiver. “I…I want that.”
“Too bad. Because I’m not moving slowly anymore.”
The ice cream bowl tumbled to the patio tiles. The spoon spun away, whirling silver like a child’s top set into motion. Both his hands came up to cradle her face in his palms, to raise her gaze to his. Once there, she couldn’t look away.
