Except this time they were closer to her bedroom. And this time there was no chance they’d be caught by anyone passing by outside. This time she couldn’t think of a single reason why they should stop.
Preston seemed to understand, because he pushed her shirt completely off her shoulders and unfastened her brassiere, tossing both to the floor. He shrugged out of his own shirt and pulled her close, pressing their damp, heated, naked bodies intimately together. The sensation of rough hair grazing her tender breasts made Mamie cry out in both desire and frustration. She splayed her hands over his naked back, reveling in the power and strength and heat she found there.
She explored every solid ridge of muscle, every firm line of sinew she encountered and, Preston mimicked her motions, running his hands over every last inch of her naked back. Again and again he kissed her, carrying her higher and higher each time. Lower and lower his hands wandered, until he cupped them over the taut curves of her denim-clad derriere and pushed forward, rubbing himself languidly, wantonly, against her. The sensation that shot through her on that intimate contact was…
Oh.
Electric. Erotic. Explosive. Mamie felt as if someone had launched a bottle rocket too close and it penetrated her to the deepest part of her soul. When he pushed her toward himself again, the delicious friction of his body ignited her from thigh to breast. Gripping his naked shoulders with insistent fingers, she lifted herself on tiptoe to meet him.
This time Preston was the one to cry out his desire and frustration, in a low, guttural voice she scarcely recognized as his. His hands on her bottom clenched tight, his fingers digging low, to where her cutoffs ended and her legs began. He curved one hand under her thigh and jerked her leg upward, opening her to himself, wrapping her leg halfway around his waist. Then he slammed his body into hers again, and Mamie nearly came apart at the seams.
Only then did she realize how far gone the two of them were. Only then did she realize that whatever she felt for Preston, it was like nothing she had felt for anyone else before. If she allowed what they were doing to continue… If she allowed her heart to rule her and made love to him now, the way she wanted… If she discovered with him that ultimate joy that came with total physical intimacy… If Mamie did all that, she wasn’t sure she would ever be able to let him go.
And he would go. Of that, she was certain. When he did, he would take a part of her with him that would stay with him forever. A part she would never recover for herself. But he’d leave something of himself behind in Butternut, too, she thought. Though it would be little more than a memory. A memory made of moonlight and passion and the lingering scent of roses. It wouldn’t be Preston. He’d be long gone.
When that final, desperate thought finally lodged in her mind, Mamie pushed herself away from him, out of his embrace. Before he could stop her, she bent to scoop up her shirt and brassiere, then turned and ran up the stairs as fast as she could. His surprise at her action bought her a few precious seconds, because although he quickly followed her, Mamie made it to her room and slammed the door shut behind herself. Immediately, she turned the key in the lock, then, in darkness, she leaned back against the door, panting for breath and fighting for coherent thought.
She wasn’t surprised by the boom of Preston’s fist pounding against the door, but she flinched at hearing it anyway. That single action was all that came, however, because what followed was a silence broken only by her rapid respiration. After a long moment she heard his hand slide away, followed by a softer sound, one she could only think was his forehead resting against the heavy oak door.
And then, “Mamie, what’s wrong?” he asked softly. His voice held no rancor, no disappointment, no frustration. Only genuine solicitude and honest puzzlement. “Why did you run away? Why did you lock the door? Talk to me.”
She closed her eyes and drew in a few more steadying breaths. Finally, in a voice just as soft as his, she said, “I can’t do this, Preston. I just…” She inhaled slowly again, then expelled a rough, ragged breath. “I can’t.”
She heard nothing for a moment, then, finally, he said, “Look, Mamie, I know what just happened… I know it seemed to come out of nowhere, but I think it was inevitable. The minute we met, there was just…something there. I don’t know what it was, but you felt it too. I know you did.”
“Yes,” she agreed readily. “I felt it too.”
She heard him sigh. Then, his voice a bit heartier than it had been, he continued, “I know you and I haven’t known each other long, and I know we have nothing in common. But this thing between us, Mamie. We need to figure it out.”
She bit back a defeated sound. Did he really think they had nothing in common? Could he have missed what was so obvious to her?
“Nothing in common?” she echoed. “Preston…we have everything in common. Don’t you see that? Everything that’s important, anyway. And I… We…” She swallowed hard and sighed again. “Knowing that you’re so…so perfect for me, so right, and then having you leave… I just can’t do it. I couldn’t stand it knowing you’re out there in the world, but I’ll never see you again.”
There was a long pause from the other side of the door, then, so quietly she almost didn’t hear, he asked, “You think we have everything in common? You think I’m perfect for you?”
She hesitated not at all. “Yes, I do.”
Another lengthy silence, then, “I see,” he said softly.
She wondered if he really did. Wondered if he understood what was happening. If he felt as hopeless and helpless as she did.
Because it sure was clear to Mamie. She was falling in love with Preston, and she would never be able to have him. Even though the two of them complemented each other perfectly, they could never be together. As alike as the two of them were in all the ways that counted, their worlds would never mesh. He was a businessman with expensive tastes, used to big-city living. She was content with her empty bed-and-breakfast and her yard full of roses.
Well, not quite content, she conceded reluctantly. But there wasn’t much she could do about that now.
She heard another sound coming through the door and turned her head to listen. When she finally recognized what it was, she closed her eyes tight against the tears that threatened. Because she realized the sound she was hearing beyond her bedroom door was the soft scuff of Preston’s footsteps as he slowly, methodically, walked away.
Eight
As fortune—or rather, misfortune, as Preston was more inclined to consider it now—would have it, Jackson Butternut returned from his fishing trip the very next morning. That was likely due to the fact that it was raining like a big dog in Butternut.
He stood in the dining room of the Bide-a-Wee Bed and Breakfast, the bag of goobers he’d brought with him from New York sitting on a nearby table. He had returned to his business armor of suit and tie in anticipation of Jackson Butternut’s arrival at the appointed 2:00 p.m. But since that was still a good thirty minutes away, Preston only gazed through the screen door at the curtain of rain pelting the great outdoors. He wasn’t thinking about business right now, anyway. Instead, he was thinking about Mamie Calhoun.
And he hadn’t even scheduled any thoughts of her to have that morning. He’d figured he would wait and schedule that for after he got home. He knew thoughts of Mamie were going to be inescapable upon his return to New York. He’d doubtless have to block out a good portion of each day just so he’d have time for them.
For this morning, he’d scheduled in what he thought was indelible ink his efforts to not think about her. Once his business with Jackson Butternut was concluded—at approximately 4:30, by Preston’s agenda—he would go upstairs to pack his bag and leave the Bide-a-Wee and Mamie, once and for all. He was booked on a flight from Birmingham to New York at 9:48 that night.
Naturally, that made him think about what he’d been doing at 9:48 last night, which in turn brought back thoughts of Mamie. And that, once again, threw him way off schedule.
Ah, the hell w
ith it, he thought, allowing himself to think all he wanted to about Mamie. About how she felt all warm and soft and willing when he held her half-naked in his arms. About the wild, raucous heat she generated inside him, just by the simple act of touching him. About how close the two of them came to coupling in the most intimate way a man and a woman could. About how she fled from him before that could happen. About what she said to him a few minutes later through the barrier of her locked bedroom door.
We have everything in common… You’re so perfect for me… I can’t do it.
She couldn’t do it, he echoed morosely to himself. She couldn’t make love with him because he was perfect for her. Because they had everything in common.
Because she…loved him?
Somehow, that was the question that started circling through his brain after he retreated to his own room last night. Was that what she’d been trying to tell him, without having to tell him? That she was falling in love with him? Could it be possible?
He told himself he should just forget about it. But there was no way that was going to happen, he knew. No matter how much he tried to schedule in forgetting Mamie Calhoun, there was no way he would ever forget Mamie Calhoun. She was unforgettable. That’s what she was. Once he got back to New York, his life was never going to be the same.
And he had to go back to New York as planned—as scheduled. Didn’t he? He would return to his penthouse with all its modern conveniences that were programmed to act and react according to his instructions and his agenda. He would return to air-conditioning and facilities that weren’t located in a cramped room at the end of the hall. He would return to a bed that didn’t require climbing a flight of stairs to get into it. He would return to being groomed by his father to take over a company he’d never really been sure he wanted in the first place.
Oh, joy. Oh, bliss. Oh, rapture.
Funny, but he was beginning to think he’d never known what any of those things was. Not before coming to Butternut, anyway. He could say that, because he did know what they were now. Now that he’d met Mamie. Now that he’d held her in his arms and joined his mouth to hers and clung to her in ways that he’d never known were possible. Now that he was falling in love with the kind of woman who turned his world—himself—upside down.
Love, he echoed to himself. Was that truly what he could be starting to feel for her? After such a short time? It must be, he decided, because what he felt for Mamie was different from anything he’d ever felt for anyone else. Infatuation, he knew well. Desire, he knew very, very well. But neither of those came close to describing the feelings he had for Mamie. Mixed in with those were feelings of hope and promise and contentment and happiness. Feelings of connection and admiration and possibility and serenity. Feelings of respect and communion and mirth and life.
What else could inspire all those things in him, but love?
Now that he recognized his response to her, what was he going to do about it? She’d already made it clear she wouldn’t be happy in New York, and even without attempting it, Preston was inclined to agree. Mamie didn’t belong there. Then again, was he all that happy in New York himself? Because he was beginning to think maybe he didn’t belong there either, and that he actually belonged…
Somewhere else.
He recalled the way Mamie looked surrounded by her roses, as if she were a part of the lush landscape behind her. He remembered how she looked sitting on the porch swing, serenading him with the musical creak-jangle of wicker and chain. He thought back on the way she sat at a scarred Formica table in Fern and Moody’s, studying a paper menu that invited, “Come ’n’ get it!” No, he couldn’t imagine her anywhere but here. And he couldn’t imagine himself anywhere without her. So the question now was…
Could he imagine himself here with her?
“Preston?”
He jerked around at the sound of his name uttered in that lyrical, lilting voice, and found Mamie standing at the foot of the stairs. Instead of her usual uniform of cutoffs and brief shirt, she was wearing a dress the color of butter. As always, she was barefoot, and that made him smile.
She’d avoided him all day, even with the relentless rainfall. She hadn’t gone anywhere, but she’d managed to be wherever he wasn’t. Every time he’d entered a room, it was to hear her footsteps retreating. Finally, he’d just given up exchanging a word with her until it was time for him to leave. But he didn’t want to leave without exchanging more words with her. In fact, he kind of didn’t want to leave at all.
He felt lighter the minute the thought formed. The idea of not returning to New York, of staying here in Butternut, Alabama, with Mamie didn’t alarm Preston nearly as much as it would have a few days ago. On the contrary, the idea made him feel pretty good. Pretty peaceful. Pretty right.
“Jack just called,” she told him. “He told me to tell you was going to be a little late, but he promised he’d make it by two-thirty. Just between you and me, though, I wouldn’t expect to see him before suppertime. He was wrapping some new flies when he called.”
Preston nodded, only mildly surprised to realize he was bothered not at all by the way Jackson’s non-appearance would throw off his schedule. What good was keeping a schedule when it was filled with things you didn’t want to do anyway?
“That’s all right,” he said. And, just like that, he felt as if a huge weight tumbled right off his shoulders. Wow. That felt…really, really good.
Mamie arched her eyebrows in obvious surprise. “It is? I mean, it’ll mess up your schedule, won’t it?”
He smiled and shrugged. “Ever since coming to Butternut, I’ve been rearranging my schedule.”
She wrinkled her nose in apology. “I’m sorry about that. It’s just sorta the way things are down here.”
“I know it is. And I’m not sorry at all about it. Because now seems like a good time to rearrange my schedule again. Only this time, I intend to make sure I stick to my agenda.”
Her confusion was compounded by his statement, but she said nothing in reply.
Preston couldn’t help but chuckle, mostly because he just felt so damned good. “Mamie,” he said, “we need to talk.”
This time her brows arrowed downward in obvious concern. “I thought we said everything we needed to say last night.”
He shook his head. “No, we didn’t say nearly enough last night. We didn’t even cover the highlights. Well, except for maybe one,” he hastily amended.
Her lips parted, as if she needed a little help breathing. “Which highlight was that?” she asked shallowly.
He shoved his hands in his trouser pockets and began to stride toward her, slowly, leisurely, taking his time so he didn’t spook her the way he had last night. He halted when only a few inches separated them. Even though he wanted to reach out to her and pull her into his arms, he decided not to push his luck. Not yet.
He told her, “The one about me being perfect for you.”
Her gaze wavered from his not at all. “What were the highlights we missed?”
A wayward russet curl dangled near her cheek, and Preston, unable to help himself, reached up to loop it around his index finger. He found some reassurance in the fact that she let him do it, but not enough to venture any further.
He fixed his gaze on the silky tress wound about his finger as he told her, “Well, one of those highlights we missed was about how you’re so perfect for me, too.”
She inhaled a quick breath, and he switched his gaze to her eyes, noting how her pupils expanded to nearly eclipse the pale green of her irises. She offered no other response, though, so he had no way of knowing exactly what she was thinking. Still, he could hazard a guess.
“You’re right, Mamie,” he said. “We do have everything that’s important in common. The way we are together…” He smiled. “I’d wager there are people out there who’ve been together for decades who don’t know each other the way you and I do.”
Still she said nothing. Still she didn’t look away.
�
�I’d also wager,” he continued, “that there are people out there who’ve been together for decades who don’t…”
“What?” she asked almost soundlessly when he left the observation unfinished.
He hesitated. Maybe it was still a little too soon to put words to the feelings that were just starting to take root in his heart. “Let’s just say,” he began slowly, “that I’d wager there are people out there who’ve been together for decades who don’t feel about each other the way you and I do.”
She bit her lip and said nothing, but her eyes told Preston everything he needed to know. His heart hammered hard in his rib cage when he realized her emotions mirrored his own. She was falling in love with him, too. Even if she was no more ready than he to admit it yet, the two of them were most definitely of one mind on that matter. Suddenly, nothing seemed impossible.
He completed the final step that brought his body flush against hers, then framed her face with both hands. Mamie laughed—a light, happy laugh that warmed Preston to his core. Great. They’d finally gotten rain and a break in the heat, and now he was going to start feeling hot all over again. Funny, what he’d begun to think of as his short, hot summer in Butternut was looking to last a good bit longer and be a good bit hotter.
“I’m not going back to New York tonight,” he said, not so impulsively. Deep down, he realized the decision had been made long before now. “I’m staying here, Mamie. With you. We have a lot to talk about. A lot of things we need to do together.” He smiled. “And true to Butternut tradition, I don’t want to rush any of them.”
“But what about Jack? What about Butternut Industries? Aren’t you s’pose to have some kind of merger? Didn’t you once tell me you were s’pose to take over for your father someday?”
The Short, Hot Summer Page 7
