Take Me Tender

by Christie Ridgway

“I, um.” Her hand lifted and then fell to her thigh. “I haven’t had a chance…”

  “Well, good.” He smiled at her.

  “Good?” She’d forgotten how very white his teeth were and how very dark his eyes.

  “Then you haven’t had a chance to buy any brushes or scrapers.”

  “No.”

  “I brought some from home.” He gestured toward a cardboard box sitting on the deck. “I thought…I thought I could help you get started.”

  Surprised, Shanna took in the mishmash of tools he’d indicated. Brushes, rollers, other things she couldn’t identify. They weren’t new, but items that had been used, and more than once, judging by the multicolored layers of splatters left on wooden handles.

  She swallowed. “I couldn’t…”

  “Of course you can accept my help. I’m offering it.”

  What she’d started to say was she couldn’t paint. That she didn’t know how. That she couldn’t do anything, actually, if it required more than an in-depth knowledge of cocktails and the latest issue of People magazine.

  “Get your keys,” he said, his voice brisk, as he crossed to the box and hefted it into his grasp.

  She stared. There it was again, that manly, possessive stance that kept calling out to her. Though it was just an ordinary cardboard box he was holding, it still struck Shanna like an arrow through the heart. Jorge cradled the tools against his body like he’d cradled the kitten, like Jay had cradled his chef, like Shanna wanted to be cradled in order to keep whole.

  Before she’d given up on men, that is.

  “Go get the keys,” he said again.

  Was it because she was weak? Was it because she didn’t know what else she could do without being out-and-out rude? For whatever reason, Shanna found herself retrieving the keys, all the while telling herself that taking a man up on his offer of aid didn’t equate to taking up with the man himself.

  Not that she thought Jorge wanted her.

  And not that she wanted him back.

  Back at the Pearson place, she dithered again. Really, she should thank him politely and then reject his services, but man of action that he was, he was already spreading a dropcloth and then opening a paint bucket to pour a creamy yellow river into a shallow pan.

  “Do you like the color?” he asked, turning his gaze on her.

  The paint looked like summer sunshine à la mode and would brighten the dingy living area walls. “Yes,” she admitted, though instantly regretted the word. She should have said she hated it, she realized, and thus put off this little work event he was orchestrating. But, she thought quickly, she had a way to save the situation.

  Not that she’d admit to giving up on men. Instead, she’d merely confess she didn’t know how to work the paint roller or even where to start. Her ineptitude would drive him in the same direction every other man who’d known her had eventually taken—far away.

  He put a brush in her hand. “You cut, and I’ll roll.”

  Cut what? And with a brush?

  The questions didn’t come out of her mouth fast enough. Before she could express them aloud, a little smile crossed Jorge’s mouth and he recovered the paintbrush from her and then dipped it into the can. As he ran it along the wall, he outlined the molding of the doorjamb. “Cutting,” he explained. He smiled at her again, that white flash creating deep slashes in his tanned cheeks.

  Ignoring the little tingles prickling her skin, Shanna looked away from his handsome face to the line of paint he’d just made. Truly, it looked so easy. How could she possibly claim it was beyond her abilities to attempt?

  Her self-esteem wasn’t that low. And shouldn’t a woman determined to boot men out of her life be able to make some simple improvements on her own?

  Careful not to make contact with his skin, she took back the paintbrush and continued moving it alongside the door molding. It required more concentration than she’d expected to keep it steady, but she focused on the job and almost forgot the person working nearby.

  Except he smelled like a man, even over the odor of the paint. It wasn’t an expensive, designer scent—God, she’d sniffed enough of those at velvet-roped L.A. nightclubs, always mixed with the sharp bite of liquor and the lingering earthiness of luxurious leather bucket seats. Jorge Santos, by contrast, smelled like plain soap and masculine shampoo and it was so wholesome and…dependable that she couldn’t stop herself from drawing it deeply into her lungs.

  Then he started talking in that deep, slightly accented voice. He spoke of a mother and sisters and his extended family living in a small village outside of Mexicali. Of the grandmother who made the best tamales in the universe and of his grandfather, who had recently taken to wandering away from home and forgetting who he was and how to get back to the house.

  “So far, a cousin or a great-nephew or one of my aunts has quickly tracked him down,” he said, worry furrowing his brow, “but soon we’re going to have to convince my abuela he needs a more secure situation.”

  Shanna looked up from the paint can she’d just dipped her brush into. “You mean you’re going to have to convince your grandmother.”

  That incredible smile dug dimples in his lean cheeks again. “What makes you guess that?”

  “Because you strike me as the responsible older sibling everyone expects to handle every problem.”

  That smile flashed again. “Guilty as charged.”

  She went back to cutting around the window she’d moved on to. “Oh, it’s not an accusation.”

  “Ah. From one who knows the weight of responsibility, then. I recall that your father put this house project in your lap.”

  And it was the only thing Shanna’s father had ever asked her to do for him. And only because if she didn’t do anything about it—which he probably suspected would happen—it would mean nothing more than a slight delay in his grand master plan of destroying this warm, unpretentious dwelling in order to build something on scale with his blockbuster ego.

  A sting of tears surprised her. Why did she keep crying around Jorge Santos? But she had to blink, and blink again, as her hand faltered and she realized she really did care about this place. She wanted to bring it back to its former, comfortable-in-its-own-skin glory. She thought of that photo in the hallway, of her arms opened wide to embrace the world.

  She’d been comfortable in her own skin then, too.

  “Ooops,” said Jorge, as he came up behind her. “Let me get rid of that paint drip for you.”

  Blinking, she realized that her hand had trailed over the enameled molding, leaving a wide streak over the white-painted wood. Jorge’s arm snaked around her to wipe away the new paint with a rag.

  She spun and shifted to get out of his way, but found herself trapped between his chest and the window behind her. They both froze.

  Despite the prevailing, raw smell of new paint, she could still detect his own soapy scent. She could see the masculine, close-shaven line of his jaw, his dark eyes, with their spiky fringe of blacker-than-black lashes.

  Jorge was staring at her mouth.

  Those tingles broke out afresh, starting at her neck and then tumbling down her spine, her thighs, the backs of her knees. They were female tingles, a female reaction, a female-to-male response.

  And she’d decided to boot men out of her life.

  His lips lowered toward hers and their gazes caught. She couldn’t look away, she didn’t back away, even as she tasted his first kiss. In the black of his pupils, she saw her own reflection, and it was what kept her feet glued to the floor.

  How could she turn away from him? She couldn’t. Not when through him she could see herself for the very first time in a very long, long while.

  Inside Malibu & Ewe, Nikki passed the time waiting for Jay by starting on an ambitious—for her, anyway—project. Per Cassandra’s advice, she wound a rubber band around one of her needles as a reminder to increase the number of stitches every other row. She’d just put a slip knot on the other needle in preparation to start her
kerchief, when the adjacent sofa cushion bounced as the yarn shop owner dropped down beside her.

  “Found it!” she said. “It was hiding away in my supply closet. But I think the purse is perfect with your outfit.”

  She dangled it in front of Nikki’s face. It was an evening-sized square, knit in pale blue and with a feathery fringe in the same color around the top. Natural wooden beads interspersed with white shells were strung together to create the short handle.

  Reaching out, Nikki played her fingertips through the light, funky fringe. “A purse, too? And on top of my one of-a-kind, designer T-shirt.”

  Cassandra tucked the purse between them. “I hope you have as much fun wearing it on your date as I did making it.”

  Nikki grimaced. “I’m thinking of telling my date I’ve changed my mind.” Or found it. What stupidity had prompted her to agree in the first place? Jay had thrown out a dare, she could see that so clearly now, and she’d fallen right for it, determined to show him she wasn’t afraid of men, or sex, or even dinner dates.

  Her touch almost maternal, Cassandra patted her shoulder and then adjusted the top she’d created for her from a simple, tie-dyed, “just in case” T-shirt Nikki carried in the back of her car.

  The process had been quick, but amazing. One moment she had a plain boring tee, and the next Cassandra had scissored and tied and threaded to create a collarbone-clearing, cap-sleeved garment. The back view made it really something. She’d cut away the fabric from shoulder blades to waistline, and using strips of leftover material, laced it up the back like a corset, cinching it to her ribs yet still leaving a lot of bare spine showing.

  The blue and white matched the purse and also went well with Nikki’s white, calf-length linen skirt. A pair of flat, white leather sandals would make walking easy on her knee.

  It was getting better, thank God. Without the constant rush of a restaurant kitchen and within the smaller confines of Jay’s, the swelling had subsided and the pain had lessened. She still sensed its inherent weakness, and wasn’t anywhere close to signing up for those martial arts classes she’d bragged to Jay about, but it gave her confidence that she could go on with her life without the operation the orthopedic surgeon insisted was necessary. She couldn’t do the surgery.

  First, because of that little hospital phobia she’d developed following her mother’s sudden death. And second—

  “Penny for your thoughts.”

  Blinking, Nikki’s focus shifted back to Cassandra. “My thoughts? Oh. I was thinking about my mom.”

  Cassandra’s hand smoothed her shoulder again. “She died about ten years ago, is that right?”

  “Thirteen.” Nikki shifted away from the touch and concentrated on her knitting. “But that’s way in the past.”

  “If you’d ever like to talk…”

  Embarrassed, Nikki shook her head. “No, no. You’ve been so nice to me already. I don’t understand why”—not any more than she understood why she’d come here for wardrobe help again—“but I do appreciate it.”

  Cassandra cleared her throat. “I, um, felt a kind of connection when we met. Maybe because we…we grew up in similar circumstances.”

  Puzzled, Nikki glanced up. “Really?”

  The other woman flushed. “Well, not exactly.” Her fingers twined in her lap and then she straightened them out to press at imaginary wrinkles in her khaki trousers. “Um, Nikki—”

  The loud rattle of the bells attached to Malibu & Ewe’s front door interrupted. Three women burst inside.

  With a slight grimace, the shop owner checked her watch. “Tuesday Night Knitters’ Club.”

  “That reminds me,” Nikki remarked, “I’ve been meaning to tell you I received some advertising from your shop before I started with Jay. I don’t know how your marketer targeted me—I’ve never been into crafts. But it’s a weird coincidence, huh?”

  “Um. Yeah. Weird coincidence.” Glancing down, Cassandra ironed her pants once more with the flat of her hand. “Nikki…”

  The bells rattled again, causing Cassandra to jump. She looked over as more women entered the shop, then back at Nikki. “Maybe…maybe we can talk about this later?”

  “Sure.” Though Nikki didn’t quite get what else there was to say. Maybe her obtuseness was due to her dad’s detachment gene showing up again. It had rendered her unnaturally ungood at girl chat. So instead of attempting to join in, she listened to it as others arrived and situated themselves on the couches.

  A new mother, baby nestled next to her, was having trouble with lining the diaper tote she’d knitted.

  A gray-haired lady complained about her latest haircut and seemed to take it out on the cat bed she was creating for her mother-in-law’s favorite feline.

  A younger woman was surprised by the group’s communal reaction of horror when she said she wanted to knit her new guy a sweater. “It’s a curse,” one expert proclaimed. And a well-known fact that the relationship would surely be finished before the boyfriend sweater.

  The legion of true-life examples trotted out by the knitters only ended when a beautiful celebrity entered the shop and plopped her skinny body on an ottoman then set to work on a baby bootie. Nikki might have thought herself delusional except her sofa neighbor introduced Nikki to the striking beauty as Oomfaa—short for One of the Most Famous Actresses in America. The nickname was conferred upon her by the rest of the group, the woman explained, after a Malibu magazine piece on the store used that vague reference to preserve the A-lister’s anonymity.

  Oomfaa flashed Nikki her trademark blinding smile and continued plying her needles. As a rat-a-tat clackety-click filled the room, it struck her that twenty industrious knitters made a noise not unlike a stage full of tiny Irish step dancers.

  A noise that abruptly cut off when the door’s bells rang again and Jay stepped into the room.

  All heads lifted and turned his way. Twenty pairs of eyes took him in.

  Only Jay Buchanan could handle the all-female regard with such aplomb. There was the merest hesitation and then he strode forward, wearing a grin as blinding as Oomfaa’s had been earlier.

  Nikki found herself on her feet and in full retreat as he continued his confident advance. As she backed out of the knitters’ circle, her shoulder bumped into Cassandra’s, stalling her sudden need to escape.

  Clutching her knitting to her middle, she spoke out of the side of her mouth as Jay paused to greet the first of the women. “Tell me you have a back exit.”

  “You’re really changing your mind about tonight? What’s the big deal? You said you two were an item.”

  Nikki kept her eye on Jay and went for the shortest explanation. “We don’t suit.”

  “He didn’t appear convinced of that last week on the restaurant dance floor.”

  It wasn’t the time to talk about lesbian charades and Nikki in bed with twins. “Think about it. Me and Hef Junior together? That sunstruck example of male sexuality and me? He belongs with someone as…as shiny as he is. He belongs with someone like Oomfaa.”

  And he was currently kissing Oomfaa, smug, charming bastard. On the cheek, but still.

  “‘Belongs’? You’re looking for long-term, then.”

  “No!” It wasn’t about that. She knew she wasn’t any good at keeping anyone around. Not family, not friends, certainly not lovers. But everything had come so easy for Jay and she still had her noble purpose to consider. Someone had to say no to him. “He’s only pursuing me because I’m the one who resists.”

  And he was coming toward her now with a conquering light in his eyes. She shuffled back another step.

  Cassandra touched her shoulder. “You’re afraid of him.”

  “No.” Nikki whipped her head around. “Heck no! I’m not afraid of any man.”

  And then the man in the room was there, standing beside her. He wore a pair of soft-looking jeans sans the usual holes and frays that would normally go hand-in-hand with denim that buttery. His mint green shirt was oxford cloth, the usual s
tyle, but it didn’t look usual on him, unbuttoned to show the strong column of his tanned throat and rolled to reveal his powerful forearms.

  It reminded her of his annoying, early-morning habit of near-naked kayaking. Of his bare, rippled torso and his inguinal ligaments she ogled every morning.

  “Cookie,” he murmured. His hand slid up her back, bumping over the strings of her “corset” T-shirt to reach the smooth skin between her shoulder blades.

  To prevent a shiver of reaction, she clenched her stomach muscles hard, then narrowed her eyes at him as she iced her words. “Good God, could you get more obvious? I know you’re copping a feel to see if I’m wearing a bra.”

  He smiled and leaned down to kiss the side of her mouth. His wandering hand slid to her butt. “And checking for panties, too.” He cupped a cheek.

  She swatted his hand away, but heat still sprinted down the backs of her legs as wetness rushed between her thighs. This was what she would be afraid of, if she was afraid of anything.

  For the last twelve years, she’d had to nurture her sexual responses, babying the tiny, smoldering blazes that so rarely ignited inside of her. She’d close her eyes and conjure visions in her head, picturing an anonymous man pleasing some woman—always some other woman. Maybe it was strange, but like blowing on embers to start a real fire, it had worked well enough to attempt intimacy a time or two.

  With Jay, though—with Jay it was different. Jay was the fire, and his touch, his smile, the press of his mouth against her cheek could start the burn.

  It was unfamiliar, okay? And it was natural to be uneasy with the unfamiliar.

  Or afraid of it.

  No. She wasn’t afraid of anything.

  As if he sensed her uneasiness, Jay frowned, and tucked his hand under her chin to tilt her face to his. He looked into her eyes. His fingers were warm, and his thumb absently stroked the soft underside of her chin.

  “Sink or fly,” he murmured, shaking his head. Then his voice strengthened. “Are you okay?”

  No. Because as she dropped her lashes to get away from his piercing gaze, one of her visions popped into her head. But it wasn’t an anonymous couple in some anonymous, private peep show. She saw herself on the stairs at Jay’s house.