Hometown Hope: A Small Town Romance Anthology

by Zoe York

  She trailed her nails down the length of his spine, pressing the flat of her hand to the taut, rounded mound of his ass. His head jerked back as she grasped him with both hands, pulling him to her and rising to meet the hard ridge beneath his fly. He kissed her thoroughly then pulled back, staring down at her with a deceptively sleepy gaze.

  Her trembling fingers put the first of the buttons on her blouse out of its misery. He glanced down, inhaling sharply as the next gave way too. “Stop pushing me away,” she whispered. Emboldened by the hot, hungry flash of fire in his eyes, she smiled. “I want you naked in my bed, Bram Hatchett.”

  “Yes, ma'am.”

  Chapter 14

  Smooth, silky skin slipped against his. Wispy tendrils of tangled waves tickled his cheek and chin. Tiny puffs of air stirred the hair on his chest. Bram could have cataloged every infinitesimal movement. How could I have forgotten this? Did it feel this good before? A sharp stab of guilt knifed in his gut. He stared at the ceiling unblinking, absorbing the twisting pain he deserved. Oh, Suse, I'm sorry. It did. I know it did.

  Memories, thick and cloying, engulfed him. Susan was so tiny—wasted and ravaged, worn down by the fight she knew was over long before he did. She nestled against him, just as she had for nearly a quarter century, her cool skin stealing his body heat. Her palm absorbed the beat of his heart. “I don't want you to be alone,” she’d whispered.

  The steel that lined her voice made him ache. Vertebrae strained cool, paper-thin skin. He traced each knob, counting them in his head. “Shh.”

  “Bram.” She groaned in a combination of pain and frustration and rolled onto her back.

  He turned toward her, drawn by the string she'd tied around his heart when she'd swiped his pencil box in the third grade and colored her name in red crayon. “Suse, I think we should try that place in Houston.”

  “No.”

  “You heard Doctor Norton. They're trying new treatments every day.”

  She pinned him with a glare. “I don't want you to be alone.”

  “Then we'll try something new, dammit.”

  Susan gave him the same enigmatic smile she used the night of their Junior Prom—the first time he proposed. “We'll see.”

  He propped his head on his elbow, staring straight into her wide gray eyes. “I'll call Doc Norton tomorrow and tell him to set up the referral.”

  “Okay.”

  She closed her eyes, a serene smile lifting the corners of her mouth. Her breathing grew soft and shallow. The fist balled against her stomach grew lax, her slender fingers unfurling as she welcomed the respite of sleep. He rolled onto his back again and stared at the ceiling for a good long while.

  When he finally closed his eyes, Susie whispered, “Promise me something.”

  “Anything,” he answered without a moment of hesitation.

  “I don't want you to be alone.”

  Bram's jaw clenched, but he didn't open his eyes. He knew if he did, he'd give in to whatever she was asking. “I won't be. I've got Abe and Willie, and I've got you.”

  “Ass,” Susan retorted with a whispery chuckle.

  He rolled onto his side, curving the bulk of his body around hers like a shield. “Mule.”

  The appointment had been made the following day. Weeks later, a bright sliver of hope lit their nights after Susan was approved for a clinical trial for a radical new treatment. But the light in his life had been extinguished when the only girl he'd ever loved went into cardiac arrest ten days into the treatment.

  We were good. We were so good together, Suse....

  Lynne shifted and snuffled in her sleep, bringing him back to the present with a jolt. His fingers traced the graceful line of her spine. Taut, firm muscle shifted beneath warm skin. He inhaled the scent of her shampoo, committing its coconut-laced fragrance to memory.

  Her skin tastes like peaches. Her hair is like corn silk. Had Susie's been this soft? Will she think about me when she's back home? His brain ricocheted from the past to the present and pinged the future. Will she tell her fancy friends about the farmer in Arkansas? Will I be some kind of cocktail party joke—the hick who fixed her porch then nailed her too?

  “You aren't sleeping.”

  His breath hitched in his throat. He closed his eyes and concentrated on forcing his lungs to expand and contract.

  Her lips grazed his chest then trailed along his collarbone. “I can hear the wheels turning in your head. Talk to me.”

  He searched for something to say. “Been a long time since I shared a bed,” he mumbled at last, hoping she'd find his excuse plausible.

  Lynne shifted. “Am I crowding you?”

  His arm tensed, pulling her back to him, unwilling to let her go for even a moment. This is bad. I've got it bad. What the hell am I going to do when she leaves? “You're fine.”

  She pushed her hair back and tipped her face up. The heat of her piercing gaze cut through the dark, prickling his skin. The rise and fall of her breasts against his chest pushed him closer to the brink. He clamped his mouth shut, afraid of what might come out.

  “Tell me about her.”

  He stopped breathing altogether. “What?”

  “It's okay, Bram.” She planted one hand on his chest and leveraged herself high enough to stare down at him. “Tell me about her. Tell me what made you fall in love with her.”

  “She stole my pencil box,” he blurted, and then

  the dam burst.

  Words tumbled from his lips, tripping over one another in his need to let them out. He told her everything. The corsage he'd pinned to Susan's homecoming dress, the way her face lit up when she spotted him waiting for her at the altar, and the filthy names she called him while pushing their children into the world.

  Lynne stroked his arm as he talked about Abe's little league days and the fact that Susan was the only mother to ever be officially ejected from the rickety old bleachers. She giggled into his neck when he confessed his anger and embarrassment upon discovering he had no cash to pay for the milk Susan asked him to pick up because she had swiped the last five dollars from his wallet. He also admitted his stunned amusement after he learned the money was used to pay for tickets to a ballet performance staged in his own living room by a six-year-old wearing a lacy slip for a tutu.

  If he thought about what he was saying, guilt might have gotten the better of him. After all, he was holding a warm, naked woman in his arms while he spoke of doctor's offices, needles the length of his hand, and the pills that made his wife say goofy things. If he realized what he was doing, Bram never would have talked so much. He rarely strung more than three sentences together at once, and he never talked about Susan with anyone—not even his kids. Yet, holding Lynne and talking about Susan came so easily.

  Logically, he realized he might be making a big mistake—telling one woman too much about another—but something in the way she held his gaze told him it was okay. Something about her body pressed tight against his, solid and unflinching, told him everything was right.

  When his words wound down, she kissed him sweetly on the lips. Tears burned behind his eyes. He squeezed them shut, wetting his lips with the tip of his tongue and savoring the lingering taste of her.

  “Thank you.”

  A strangled laugh caught in his chest. “For what?” he rasped. “Spilling my guts all over you?” He sensed her smile, envisioning it perfectly and hoping to etch the image into his brain to keep him company after she left. “Lynne—”

  She placed the tip of her finger to his lips, silencing him. “Open your eyes.”

  He did as she asked, staring back at her warily even as his traitorous lips pursed against the soft pad of her finger.

  “Thank you,” she said again, her voice low and firm.

  He shook his head, his lips moving wordlessly against her fingertip. When she withdrew, the breath left in his body escaped in a rush. “You make me feel....”

  Bram rose from the pillow, cradling the back of her head in the palm of his h
and. Her gaze searched his, waiting patiently for him to find the words that eluded him.

  When he failed, she reassured him. “It's okay.”

  He gritted his teeth in frustration. Then he did the only thing he could think to do. He kissed her hard and hot, pouring the dregs of his sorrow and loneliness into her. His tongue swept into her mouth, feeding her the desperation and desire threatening to consume him. He pushed her back, pinning her to the mattress with the weight of his need to keep her with him.

  He broke the kiss, staring down into her eyes, unable to mask the terror rippling through every fiber of his being. Her gaze remained steady and sure while her fingernails sank into his biceps. Her legs wound around his, holding him tight.

  His chest heaved and his heart pounded against his ribs so hard he feared they would shatter. He grew hard and hot, blood pulsing through his veins, pressing insistently against her stomach. She slipped one hand between their bodies, her fingers closing around him, guiding him home.

  He nearly wept with gratitude when he sank into her. Her hands stroked his back, her fingers tangled in his hair, and her lips clung to his, capturing his every breath and giving hers in return. Her body closed around him, pulling him deeper.

  “You make me feel,” he confessed in a tattered whisper.

  Funny, somehow she knew exactly what Bram was doing by his breathing alone. Even as she dozed, she knew he was awake and worrying. In the aftermath of their lovemaking, each gasp came shallow and raspy. When he slipped into sleep, his breaths grew deep, even, and peaceful. Still, her mind was alert. Acutely attuned to every beat of his heart, the weight of the arm draped over her hip, and the delicious sensation of his breath stirring her hair.

  Oh God, he fits. We fit. This works.

  Once upon a time, she'd been accustomed to the odd hours a doctor kept. She didn't stir when Richard's pager chirped. After the first year, she stopped springing from the bed when he slipped from between the sheets. Once Justin came along, her husband's disturbed sleep patterns didn't faze her—she adjusted her internal alarms to her son's rhythms.

  Richard left their bedroom a few years before he'd left their house, relocating to a guest room down the hall. Thinking back now, she marveled at the fact that she'd never asked for an explanation for the move. She simply relished the extra space.

  She could blame her hyper-awareness on being unaccustomed to sharing her bed, but that wasn't the truth. She hated the centimeters of space between Bram's knees and the backs of her legs, so she closed the distance, relishing the prickle of crisp hair against the backs of her thighs. His chest was warm and firm against her spine, each rise and fall pushing him closer as he slept.

  Lynne stared at the crack in the window sheers. The sky lightened from ebony to charcoal, then to the pearly gray that warned of impending dawn. The scent of him would forever be imprinted on these sheets and in her pillow. His taste lingered on her lips. He stirred, shifting closer and burrowing into the back of her neck, his mouth brushing her nape.

  Chores. She allowed the smile to come. He has to get up and do his chores.

  When he issued the warning seconds before falling asleep, she'd wanted to tease him mercilessly. Dozens of tiny jabs about having his allowance docked, or not being able to borrow his dad's car keys sprang to mind. One work-roughened hand closed around her bare breast and all thoughts of jest fled.

  He has chores. Work to be done, and he's the man—these were the hands that would do the work. Those same hard hands caressed every inch of her body with gentle reverence, drove her up with relentless strokes, skimmed over her skin like a whisper of wind, and played her like a well-tuned instrument. His fingers threaded through hers and held her tight. His wide palm dwarfed hers.

  A breathy kiss tickled her neck. His muscles tensed as he surfaced. One of those wonderful hands slid down to her hip. His hot, moist breath made her shiver.

  “I hate to go.”

  Lynne didn't dare move a muscle. She didn't turn to him. She couldn't. If she did, he'd stay, and as much as she wanted him to, he couldn't. He had chores.

  “Come back? We can have breakfast together.”

  A heavy sigh lifted his chest. “I'd love that, but if I come back I suspect we'll end up back here, and I won't get a damn thing done today.”

  “Except me.”

  He chuckled and planted a soft, lingering kiss to her shoulder. “Exactly.” Bram kissed and nipped his way across her shoulder to her ear. “Dinner tonight?”

  “You cooking?”

  “I wouldn't do that to you. We'll go out. Anywhere you want to go.”

  “I don't know where to go.”

  He sat up, propping his weight on his hand and she rolled onto her back. The twisted and rumpled sheet pooled at his hips, giving her another tantalizing glimpse at the line that marked milky-white skin never touched by the sun. Whiskers rasped his fingernails when he scratched his cheek.

  “We'd have to drive a bit to get to something decent.”

  “I could cook for you again.”

  He smiled and brushed her hair back from her face. “I'd like to take you out. I don't want you thinking I'm only lookin' for a hot meal and a warm bed.”

  “No?”

  “No, ma'am.”

  “How about a lukewarm meal and a hot bed?”

  His smile turned sheepish and she pressed her fingers to his cheek. The heat rose under his skin. Her fingers fell away to trail along his bristly jaw. She raised her hands over her head and groaned. Long-neglected muscles ached. Her skin seemed stretched taut, attuned to every wisp of air. The sheet clung to the very tips of her breasts. She gave him a coy smile and clutched the sheet to her bosom when his gaze dropped.

  “I think maybe we should have stretched first.”

  His brow furrowed. “I'm sorry, I....”

  “I'm not.” He held her gaze for a beat too long. A slow, sexy smile curved his lips. She shook her head. “You have chores to do.”

  “I know.” Bram leaned in and kissed her sweetly. “And this is no chore, Miss Lynne.”

  “Stop trying to seduce me with that sexy southern drawl and get going,” she answered, planting one hand on his chest and giving him a playful shove.

  “Yes, ma'am.”

  Without a hint of reticence, he tossed back the sheet and stood, giving her a crystal clear shot of all she'd be missing. He swiped his pants from the floor and extracted his underwear from the tangled cotton.

  “Careful with the zipper.”

  He shot her a dark look. “That's not funny,” he grumbled and quickly stepped into his briefs.

  “You might find me more amusing if I promise I'd make it all better.”

  He paused, balancing on one foot, the leg of his khakis dangling mid-air. “Spend the day with me?”

  Lynne smiled when she spotted the same surprise written all over his handsome face. “I thought you had work to do.”

  “I do.” He pulled his pants over his hips and quickly zipped them over the telltale bulge at his fly.

  “Never mind. You'd be bored.”

  She studied the play of muscle in his back as he scooped his shirt from the floor. “I might be. Then again, I might be fascinated.”

  He shrugged into the polo. “Like with the monkeys in the zoo?”

  “Like looking at Michelangelo's David.”

  Bram snorted and leaned down to gather his socks and shoes. On his way back up he caught her lips in a heated kiss. “I think your eyesight is failing, sugar.”

  “I'm twenty-twenty…except for the reading,” she qualified.

  He ran his hand over her tousled hair and kissed her again. “You're beautiful, and I have to get outta here.”

  “Go.”

  He stole one more kiss. “I'll be back.”

  “Aren't you going to put your shoes on?” she called as he sauntered out the door.

  “Don't need 'em.”

  A moment later she heard the kitchen door squeak open then close with a firm thud. L
ynne fell back to her pillow and released a long, gusty sigh. The rumble of his truck engine made her groan. The crunch of tires on gravel had her reaching for the pillow he'd used.

  She clutched it to her chest, inhaling the scent of him. Gazing at the ceiling, she exhaled slowly, letting the air seep from her lungs. With the last little slip of oxygen, she whispered, “Holy cow.”

  Chapter 15

  The empty cage rattled in the bed of his truck when he pulled to an abrupt stop at the end of her lane. Keeping a wary eye on the rapidly lightening sky, Bram brushed the grass and dirt from the soles of his feet before wrestling his way into his socks and shoes.

  He pushed his heel into the shoe and ignored the dangling laces. Cocking his wrist, he turned to check his watch, only to remember he'd chucked it in the direction of her nightstand when her hair got caught in the band one too many times. Putting the truck in gear, he nosed his way toward the road without benefit of headlights. Bram released the breath he'd been holding once he confirmed that the narrow two-lane was deserted. Headlights sprang to life with a flick of his wrist, and he crept onto the pavement.

  One loose shoelace tickled his ankle when he hit the gas. He glanced at the rearview mirror and his heart clenched when another set of lights crested a rise in the road. He sped up, but the encroaching vehicle had the advantage of momentum. A mile down the road, Bram tapped his brakes and flicked on his blinker, his heart sinking into his stomach as he made out the stenciled writing on the hood of the dairy truck behind him.

  “Busted,” he muttered, turning into the lane that led to his family's farm, returning the milkman's jaunty wave.

  He veered left at the fork and headed toward his father's property. The side door of the big barn stood open, florescent light spilling onto the concrete apron. After parking his truck on the far side of the chicken house, he took a moment to tie his laces and prayed one of the Wilson boys was in the barn and not his father.