Heath's Hope (The Brothers of Beauford Bend Book 5)

by Alicia Hunter Pace

Heath nodded. “Every cent. And they mortgaged the house they grew up in.”

  “Still.” Hope was on shaky ground, but she had to defend herself. “Five thousand dollars—”

  “Won’t break them.” Heath finished her thought. “But it’s a slippery slope. That’s why I’ve never lent them money. And I’ve wanted to. But if they’re going to be true artisans and not hobbyists, they have to earn a living.”

  There was no defense. Everything he said was true.

  They stood there silently, with him grasping her arms and looking at her cheekbones, and her letting the cold truth settle on her.

  “You’re right.” She tilted her head and lowered her eyes until she made him meet her gaze. “I’m sorry.”

  Heath didn’t speak, Hope didn’t say anything further, and no one moved. But the climate in the room changed. Hope didn’t dare to breathe for fear of what might happen and what might not.

  Then it did.

  Heath looked at his hands on her arms and seemed surprised to find them there. But instead of taking them away, he slid them down to her wrists, liked he used to do, and pulled her arms up to encircle his neck. The gesture had always broken her heart a little and made her wonder if he’d thought she wouldn’t put her arms around him if he hadn’t guided them there—and it broke her heart now.

  She was close, so close, to that place on his neck, the one that had always beckoned to her. She wanted to bury her face there, but something stopped her. That spot and that gesture seemed to belong to another time and other people.

  But his face slowly closed in on hers as she lifted her mouth to meet his, and this belonged to now. It wasn’t a tender kiss between a boy who couldn’t make up his mind and a girl who knew what was best for everyone. It was sure, demanding, and made for grown-ups. Hope couldn’t endure remembering the tenderness, so she let the lust take over.

  Without hesitation or modesty, she opened her mouth to him and ground her pelvis against his, and his body answered hers in kind, hard and eager. It seemed like a long time that they pounded against each other, mouths and groins.

  Finally, he jerked his mouth away. “Not good enough.” And he pushed her robe off and settled his hands into her panties even as she unzipped his jeans and pushed them to the floor.

  His penis throbbed and jerked in her hands, as eager for her touch as she was for his. She could have gone on like that forever, rolling her hips to meet his sliding fingers—until his fingers moved away and tore out the crotch of her silk panties.

  If she’d been on fire before, there was something about that gesture that sent lava through her and caused to her cry out.

  “That’s right, Hope. Moan for me. Want me.” He lifted her until they were crotch to crotch, her legs wrapped around him. He clasped her and rubbed against her enough to drive them both into frenzies, but not nearly enough for satisfaction.

  Without thinking, she let her mouth drift to that spot on his neck that she craved so much, but he twisted away. “Not that.” Of course he wouldn’t allow that. He, like she, thought of that as loving and sweet, and this was anything but. Still, mistake or not, this was all there was, and she’d take it. He carried her across the room, let her down into a kneeling position on the floor, and bent her face down over the sofa.

  She was glad that she was facing away from him so he couldn’t see her smile. She knew what was coming—that thing they had learned together as a result of inexperienced groping, and taken to the highest art form. Their bodies would have remembered even if their minds hadn’t.

  He knelt behind her and slipped his penis between her thighs, and she reached below and positioned him where she needed to feel him most. Ah. Velvet on velvet, hard and throbbing on wet. He wouldn’t enter her yet, or maybe not at all. Sometimes this was all they needed, all they could stand. And it had been so, so long.

  She started slowly, moving her hips and manipulating him with her hand, leaving his hands free to remove her bra and pinch her nipples and move them against the rough upholstery of the sofa.

  Her orgasm was almost immediate and bordered on violent. But she didn’t stop. Surely he wouldn’t be far behind her. She’d give him relief and then they could move to the bed. But though she moved and stroked the way he’d always liked it, he didn’t come, and didn’t come. Then, she didn’t want him to, because she needed it again.

  When she’d settled once more, she asked in a shaky voice, “Do you need inside?”

  “No.” And he continued to hammer against her, continued to reach around to lift and squeeze her breasts. And it was good, so good, better than she’d ever had.

  She tried, tried so hard to help him find release, but he resisted, seemingly determined to control her and himself. Finally, she gave into his will and let herself drift from one orgasm to the next, losing all sense of space and time.

  It was sublime and torture at the same time. Was her punishment to be that he would take no pleasure in her?

  Finally, she could stand no more. “Enough, Heath.” she said. “I can’t take any more.”

  “Not quite yet.” He helped her stand and laid her back on the sofa. She had only thought she couldn’t take any more. The sight of him kneeling between her legs, unwrapping the condom, gave her new energy. She spread her legs wide, lifted her hips, and reached for his tanned, beautiful body.

  He entered her quickly, with just enough gentleness. He didn’t speak as they settled around and into each other.

  Then he began to move. This time, he didn’t hold back. Neither of them lasted long.

  • • •

  For the first time, Heath truly understood what it meant for a man to let his cock do his thinking. So what if she was sorry she’d given Julia and Sticky the money? It was easy to be sorry after doing what you wanted. She was probably sorry she’d dumped him too, but not sorry enough that she did anything about it.

  As the blood returned to his brain, the idiocy of what he’d done sunk in. He was still inside her with her legs still wrapped around him, but he was regretting it already.

  Sort of. It was like regretting eating a second piece of cheesecake, but being secretly glad you’d had it. Like now.

  It had been good, as good as he remembered, and, God help him, he’d felt safe and loved in her arms, just like he used to. It wasn’t true, of course. She didn’t love him, and there was nothing safe about her, but the feeling was strong. Even now, his face buried in her neck felt at home.

  But it wasn’t home. Could there be a situation more awkward than this? He couldn’t think of one, and he was a living, breathing study in awkwardness.

  What now?

  Thanks for the orgasm, Hope. I’ll be going now. That was a little cold.

  Want to rest a little and go at it again? Hell, he didn’t even need much rest.

  Come back to me. Please, please come back to me and love me again. No, hell no. Where did that even come from?

  Then what?

  “Heath?” Her hands were on his shoulders pushing him away. “Sorry. But I have to—”

  He climbed off her slowly, never meeting her eyes for fear of what he’d see. Like a gazelle, she was up and gone, snatching her robe from the floor and wrapping herself as she went.

  Gone. Without a word. That’s what she did best. He’d show her gone, not that she’d care. He was dressed and out the door in less than a minute.

  And he wouldn’t be back. At least he hoped not.

  He couldn’t go through that again.

  Chapter Six

  Hope powered down her laptop.

  “Didn’t you just get back from lunch? Are you going somewhere else?” Greta Jo Archer seemed to have a sixth sense about when Hope was packing up to leave.

  “Yes. I am.” Hope picked up the folder that contained the marketing ideas for String and put it in her messenger bag.

  “Where can I direct your calls?” Greta Jo’s expression showed just what she thought of people who left work at one thirty in the afternoon.


  “No one’s going to call me, and you know it. If the bank gets robbed, call my cell after you have disarmed the robbers and tied them up.”

  Hope usually tried to please Greta Jo by appearing to be busy, but after last night, she was in no mood. The sex with Heath had been so sublime, and she’d felt so close to him, that for just a bit, she’d fooled herself into thinking they might have reconnected on some level. If he had not been lying on her bladder, she could have stayed right there under him and around him forever.

  Fueled on good sex and adrenaline, she had erupted out of the bathroom, eager to tell Heath how she intended to help Miss Sticky and Miss Julia recoup the money she’d lent them.

  But he’d been gone—and she’d learned how a nasty, stomped-on, airless, balloon lying in the mud felt. Not just deflated—ruined with no hope and no energy.

  If she hadn’t felt morally obligated to clean up the mess she’d created for String, she might have defied her father and gone back to Charlotte. She had caught him doing bank business from his bed yesterday anyway. But Heath had been right. She’d given the sisters the loan to spite him, because she was mad at him. She just hoped she could help those women see the value of a marketing plan.

  She left the bank, waving to the employees as she went, and made her way down the street toward String.

  “Heath’s mad at us,” Miss Sticky said without preamble the second Hope entered the shop.

  “Well, I’m pretty sure he’s mad at me, too.” Though there was no “pretty sure” about it. It was a stone-cold fact of life.

  “He thinks we’ve all been bad.” Miss Julia picked up a skein of yarn and held it toward Hope. “But some things are worth being bad for.”

  Hope took the yarn. All that fuss over this? Sure, it was soft and the rich sapphire color was pretty, but it looked pretty much like the other yarn. “So that’s it? How did you get it here so fast?”

  “Express shipping,” Miss Sticky said. “Sometimes I think Heath just doesn’t understand art.”

  Had Hope been in a laughing mood, that would have brought her to her knees. He understood, all right. And he also understood how to make his art pay. But no use in arguing the point.

  Hope reached into her bag. “I have some ideas for you.”

  Miss Julia put the yarn down. “What kind of ideas?”

  “Marketing ideas.” She pulled out the folder. “My research tells me that craft supply retail shops tend to slow down during the holidays because people don’t have time to make things.”

  The sisters exchanged looks. “I hope you didn’t go to a lot of trouble to find that,” Miss Julia said. “We could have told you if you’d asked us.”

  “So that’s true here?”

  Miss Sticky nodded. “More or less. There are some who buy materials for gifts, but dedicated knitters make their gifts all year.”

  “Good!” That went right along with Hope’s plan. “We aren’t going to let that slowdown happen this year.”

  “We’re not?” Miss Julia said.

  “No. We’re going to have a yarn tasting directed at those who want to buy yarn as gifts for their knitting friends and family members, but don’t know much about yarn.”

  The sisters perked up. “I’ve heard of those,” Miss Sticky said. “They sound like fun.”

  “It will be. I thought we could have it the same night as the Christmas parade, a couple of hours before the parade starts. We’ll have wine, and you two can do a presentation. I want you to write personal notes to family members of four or five really serious knitters who you think would be interested in that qiviut. Act like it’s rare and a big deal.”

  “It is rare and a big deal,” Miss Sticky said quietly. “But we can do that.”

  Uh-oh. Hope reminded herself to respect the yarn. She was just on the edge of offending them.

  “We’ll also put it on your website.”

  “We don’t have a website,” Miss Sticky said.

  What in the hell? This was worse than she thought.

  “Heath’s been after us about that,” Miss Julia said. “I’ve been meaning to look into it, but I have so many projects going.” She gestured to her knitting basket.

  “Never mind,” Hope said. “We can get the word out. And I know someone in Charlotte who will make you a website. I’ll take care of it. But the yarn tasting will be two weeks before Christmas. The plan for now is some classes directed at the knitters. We’ll present it as a way to slow down a little during the holidays, while being productive. The classes will be at lunchtime, with food catered in, and everyone will leave with a completed project in an hour. I thought we’d have mugs of soup and call it Savory Soup and Christmas Stitches.”

  As the sisters looked more and more skeptical, Hope dialed up her perkiness.

  “I’ve done the cost analysis. We’ll charge thirty dollars.”

  Miss Sticky shook her head. “You expect people to eat and knit at the same time? And leave with a project in an hour? Plus pay thirty dollars?”

  “It’s worked other places.”

  “How often would you want to do this? And what would these projects be?”

  “Once a week, starting next week until the week before Christmas. That’s six sessions. We could do a discount for anyone who signs up for all six. As for the projects—these can be done in an hour.” Hope spread out a sheaf of papers for them to see. “Christmas ornaments.”

  Both women reached for their glasses and perused the pages.

  “No,” Miss Julia said. “You want our customers to make these? I don’t know where you got this, but these ornaments are ugly. I’ll have no part of it.”

  Ugly? She hadn’t considered that.

  “But wouldn’t people like to come together at lunchtime? And knit with their friends? And with you?”

  “Not enough to knit these,” Miss Sticky said. “They look like kindergarten projects from the sixties. Green triangles that are supposed to be trees. Bright yellow stars. No. Now, if they were little angora angels and whimsical cable knit snowmen and the like, it might be feasible.”

  “Couldn’t they be?” Hope asked. “Couldn’t you design something like that? Do up the patterns? Make kits?”

  “Well, yes. But that’s a lot of work, Hope,” Miss Julia said. “Not that we mind work.”

  “If you’ll do that, I’ll get the people here. I’ll take care of the lunches. I will make it work.”

  The sisters exchanged glances and nodded.

  “All right, Hope,” Miss Julia said. “We’ll give it a try. But why are you doing this?”

  The question gave her pause. She wasn’t accustomed to people asking her motives. But then again, she’d never offered to do something for nothing.

  “I just want you to do well. Isn’t that good enough reason?”

  Miss Sticky gave her a knowing look. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were trying to get back into Heath’s good graces.”

  Ridiculous.

  Miss Julia clapped her hands together. “Well. We’ve all got a lot of work to do. Sticky and I have to design six projects, and you”—she met Hope’s eyes— “have to learn to knit.”

  Knit? Her? Oh, no. No. Not going to happen.

  An hour later, Hope sat on the sofa in front of String’s fireplace knitting. Damn it all to hell. She needed to be working on an ad, checking with Robin over at The Café Down On The Corner about soup lunches, and calling Valerie about the website. But here she sat, jamming her needle into one loop after the other.

  “Don’t attack the yarn, Hope.” Miss Sticky’s voice was low and smoothing. “Find your rhythm. Let it relax you. Yes. That’s better.”

  Almost against her will, Hope let herself go with it. Gradually, she pushed the knitted stitches off her needles until they became a solid piece.

  • • •

  Heath stared at the small jack-o’-lantern on his worktable. He ought to put it away and work on the feather chandelier. Why he was bent on finishing it, he couldn’t s
ay. It wasn’t as if he was going to give it to Hope after she’d lent the sisters money to spite him, and especially after she’d run out on him after they’d had sex. Still, he hated to leave something unfinished. He was reaching for his soldering iron when his cell phone rang.

  He checked to see who was calling, since only about a dozen people had the number. Bradley Stanton. No choice but to answer that.

  “Hello, sheriff,” Heath said.

  “I hate to call you during shop hours,” Brad said. “I tried to run down one of the Beaufords, but Jackson’s in Nashville, and Gabe and Rafe aren’t answering.”

  “It’s okay. I’ve got help today.”

  “Jimpson’s over on the library steps. You know that if I see him, I’ll have to arrest him, and I don’t want to.”

  Jimmy Simpson, the high school janitor, had left town an eighteen-year-old golden boy and returned from Vietnam broken in ways that would never be fixed. He was known for disrobing in public places from time to time.

  “I’m on it.”

  Heath reached into his filing cabinet drawer for the T-shirt and sweatpants that he kept just for this recurring occasion.

  “Got to go,” he said to his new apprentice, Wynn. “Close up at five. Work on your window. I’ll look at it in the morning.”

  She was probably frustrated. He knew that because he’d been where she was. It couldn’t be any fun dusting the shop and cleaning up after him, but that was a personal problem and one he didn’t have time for.

  Heath pulled his Jeep in front of the library, all the while praying that Jimpson hadn’t chosen to go on walkabout this time. The townspeople were used to it, but the tourists who came to Beauford to shop tended to find a naked man tricked out like a Greek statue unnerving.

  Ah, there he was. Today, he was posed with a Frisbee in his hand like the Discus Thrower—which meant he was partially bent over with his left hand on his right knee, which somewhat hid his genitalia. When Jimpson was in a David or Hermes kind of mood, nothing was left to the imagination. Really, when you thought about it, it was pretty clever of Jimpson to cover himself in chalk powder to mimic alabaster.

  Not that he really looked like alabaster. But he didn’t move, even though Heath stood a foot from him; you could give him credit for that.