Softhearted (Deep in the Heart Book 2)

by Kim Law

  Heather didn’t say anything, but the sound of her breathing reached his ears.

  “I . . . uh . . . haven’t fully moved out yet.” He attempted to explain. He’d been staying at the house since Wednesday, but hadn’t bothered cleaning up here, yet. “I’m doing that tonight.”

  She didn’t say anything, just continued to stare at his bed, and that didn’t help matters at all. He liked her. A lot. He liked the way her eyes sparked when he said outrageous things to her, and how embarrassment could so easily paint her cheeks a pretty pink.

  He liked that she was witty and flirtatious. That she sang sad songs to his horse. And that she wasn’t afraid to say whatever was on her mind.

  But he had not meant to coax her into his bed by literally dragging her to it.

  Still. He did have her there. And he didn’t think either of them wanted to go back downstairs while Cal and Jill remained in the barn.

  He angled his head. “Last week’s offer of dessert still stands.”

  She continued staring at his bed. “I didn’t get the impression it was cake you were really looking to share.”

  He also liked that she didn’t beat around the bush. “It still isn’t.”

  She finally pulled her gaze from the rumpled sheets, and he held his breath as he waited. Because the expression in her eyes told him she was fifty-fifty on the matter. But then she blinked.

  “Damn,” he whispered.

  “What?”

  “You’re going to say no.”

  She laughed nervously. Then she very purposefully put her back to the sight of his bed. “I’m going to say no.” She blew out a breath. “But that might only be because we aren’t the only ones in the barn.”

  He went dead silent for three complete seconds.

  “Heather . . .”

  “I know.” She grimaced. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. I don’t intend to come across as a tease. I swear. But sometimes things just blurt themselves out.”

  She began fidgeting with the deck of cards he’d left on the table, and he made the executive decision that if sex wasn’t going to happen then distance was key. He moved to the small kitchen to put space between them and dug around in his fridge.

  Finding a couple of soft drinks, he handed one over before popping the top on his, and dang if the sound of compressed air hissing out in the silent room didn’t turn him on even more. Tilting his head back, he stared at the ceiling as he guzzled, but when a thump sounded from below—as if someone might have pinned another someone up against a certain bathroom door—he choked on his drink.

  “We have to do something other than stand here and wait,” he wheezed out, coughing between every other word. “Otherwise . . .” His gaze drifted back to the bed.

  “Otherwise,” Heather muttered, and he could still make out every breath she took.

  Another thump came from below, and he made another executive decision.

  “Ice cream.” He said the words with steely resolve. “Ice cream helps everything.” He moved back to the fridge, not waiting for her to comment, and grabbed the pint of banana split from the freezer before yanking open a drawer to search for a spoon. “And don’t give me any crap about it going to your hips, either, because lady, your hips could rock my world.”

  He jerked his head up after realizing he’d said that out loud, then he whipped his gaze back to hers. And he watched as the blue of her eyes softened.

  Damn her romantic streak. He could see it as clear as day.

  And it spoke directly to his dick every time.

  Additional door-rattling sounded from below, this time with a more urgent rhythm to it, and her gaze shifted back from soft and cuddly to panicked and stricken. Waylon ripped into the dessert and shoved a bite into his mouth. “Ice cream,” he demanded. He passed over both container and spoon.

  She followed suit, and they ate like that for a couple of minutes, both standing awkwardly in his kitchen-built-for-one, alternating the pint between them, to the beat of sex pounding out down below. And then suddenly, they heard voices.

  Heather’s gaze shot to the interior window. “Are they finished already?”

  “Either that or they’re taking it to another room.”

  And he would kill Cal if they were taking it to another room.

  Heather groaned and stabbed the spoon into the remaining ice cream. “I can’t look. If I see—” She shook her head as she bit off her words, her eyes giving him the kind of warning that could terrify small children. She freed the spoon and pointed it at the window. “You do it. You’re the one who trapped us up here.”

  The last thing he wanted to do was look to see if Cal and Jill were finished. Because they very well could be taking it to another room. Or out in the open.

  But he also didn’t want to look because if they were finished, Heather would likely leave.

  He couldn’t very well hold her hostage, though. So he did as the woman asked and trudged to the window. After a wince and a quick glance, he could breathe a little easier. “The coast is clear.”

  She stared at him, her eyes a deeper blue than he’d seen before, then she slowly crossed the room to peer out beside him. And now she smelled like both oranges and bananas.

  “Which means,” he croaked out, “that we’re now alone in the barn.”

  And she had said earlier that her “no” might have only been because they weren’t the only ones in the barn.

  Heather stared out the window for a moment longer, while Waylon held his breath and waited. He didn’t really think she would change her mind, possibly take off her clothes. But no one would ever accuse him of not swinging for the fence.

  Swinging didn’t pay out today, though. She took a step away from the window.

  “I should go.”

  He looked down when she spoke, noting that she stared at his chest instead of meeting his eyes, and he told himself to keep his mouth shut. To not beg the woman to reconsider. He didn’t need more complications in his life.

  But his mouth and his brain had apparently disconnected.

  “Are you sure?” he asked, and her gaze lifted.

  Then she looked at his bedroom.

  “I’m sure.” She finally brought her gaze back to his, and she sounded far more confident than she appeared. “I would like to, though. Don’t get me wrong.” Apology touched her features. “But I’m not like you, Waylon. I’m no good with casual.”

  The words stung more than they should. Casual was exactly how he’d allowed himself to be painted. It helped keep people at a distance.

  It helped to keep from getting hurt.

  He nodded. He wouldn’t tell her otherwise. Casual was better.

  He stayed where he was as she crossed the room, not trusting himself not to touch her if he followed, but he couldn’t keep from saying her name before she could slip out the door.

  Blue eyes met his.

  “Will you think about it?” His words came out too soft. Too needy.

  She licked her lips, and her gaze strayed yet again to the bedroom door. He could see her thoughts warring with each other, while at the same time he did his level best to make sure she saw nothing of his.

  And then she surprised him by looking him straight in the eyes.

  “I will think about it.”

  She had thought about it. Then she’d thought about it some more. And again, some more.

  Then just to be certain, she’d mulled it one last time.

  And now she drove around Red Oak Falls on a gorgeous Texas Saturday evening . . . wearing nothing but a trench coat and her scarlet-red five-inch heels.

  What. Was. She. Doing?

  You’ll be doing Waylon soon enough.

  “Shut up,” she grumbled. But she also grinned at the thought. Because she would be doing Waylon soon enough. She may not have ever done anything like this, but that didn’t have to mean she couldn’t.

  She flipped on the signal to take a left, continuing to make absolute certain not to break any
driving laws so she wouldn’t get pulled over, and headed down the street in front of Waylon’s house. Normally he wasn’t in town during the weekends, but at the café that morning, she’d overhead a couple of women talking about how they’d seen him at the grocery store late the night before. So after wolfing down her egg-white-and-veggie omelet, she’d meandered around town. And sure enough, his truck sat in his driveway.

  When she’d checked again three hours later, the truck had still been there.

  Granted, he could very well be holed up inside the house with some woman at that very moment. He might have been in there with her all day. But that was a risk she was about to take. Because the man had wanted her yesterday afternoon. In a way she hadn’t seen from anyone in a very long time.

  Three years to be exact.

  She scowled as if the look would shut up the chiding voice inside her head, and without letting herself think about it anymore, she pulled to the curb in front of Waylon’s cute little stone house. Whether it was the scariest thing she’d ever done or not, she was getting out of her car. She was here, she was practically naked, and she was going to do this.

  Because grown women could have all the casual sex they wanted!

  Carefully pulling the keys from the ignition so they didn’t so much as rattle against each other, she eased out onto the sidewalk in the dark night, and with a gentle nudge, silently closed her car door. She then tiptoed toward his porch. She moved as if on a stealth mission, barely remembering to breathe as she went.

  Why she was going about it this way, she didn’t know. Maybe just in case she changed her mind at the last minute and wanted to escape without him seeing her?

  Or possibly she simply wanted to ensure that no one else on the street realized Waylon was about to receive a visitor. And that the visitor was her.

  Whatever the reason, she couldn’t seem to shake the need to act like a prowler. Her pulse pounded at the base of her throat as she crept onto his porch. A light burned in the empty room to the left, but other than a couple of stacked boxes, a bulging duffel bag, and three gallons of paint, there was no sign of life inside the small home.

  Nerves dried her mouth, and after forcing her saliva glands to work, she rubbed her palms down the front of her coat and lifted one hand. Three sharp knocks, and she thought her legs would wobble right out from under her.

  What was she doing? She didn’t even know how to seduce a man.

  Waylon doesn’t need seducing, you idiot. Just show him what isn’t beneath your trench coat, and your work here is done.

  She nodded. That should be true enough. But it didn’t make her any less nervous.

  The porch light gave a slight sizzle as it came to life, and Heather held her breath. The door then opened.

  She frowned. No one was there.

  What the—

  Just as she was about to call out to Waylon, a perky voice came from below. “Hello.”

  Heather almost vomited on Waylon’s front porch. Everything about her screamed to retreat. To run. To not look back.

  She looked down instead.

  And standing two feet in front of her, only coming up to her hips, had to be the cutest little redhead that Heather had ever seen. One pigtail was pulled back farther than the other, and what appeared to be pink paint was streaked across one cheek and into her hair.

  And she had Waylon’s eyes.

  “Hello,” Heather made herself say.

  The girl’s brow puckered as she took in Heather’s coat. “Is it raining out there?”

  “Ummm . . . it’s not raining.” Heather’s hands trembled, and as if the nightmare couldn’t get any worse, Waylon suddenly appeared behind the girl. He laid one hand on her shoulder, and his gaze also took in Heather’s coat.

  “Heather,” he finally mumbled.

  The child looked from Waylon to Heather. “Do you know my daddy?”

  “I do.” Heather tried to nod, but it came out a jerky, lopsided mess. What had she done?

  Humiliation engulfed her.

  “Her name is Miss Heather,” Waylon told the girl. Then he looked back at Heather, and his gaze lowered to her heels. “And it appears as if she’s brought me a present.”

  “A present?” Excitement rang from the girl, and Heather thought she might die on the spot.

  The left side of Waylon’s mouth quirked up. “A grown-up present,” he told the little girl—though he didn’t take his eyes off Heather. “One she’ll have to wait and give to me later.”

  “Oh.” The news clearly came as a disappointment to the child.

  “I’m so sorry,” Heather pleaded. Her mouth dried out again, and before she could tell him that she’d just go, he took a step back and opened the door wider.

  “Would you like to come in?”

  The child’s eyes turned bright once again, and her head nodded vigorously, while at the same time, Heather shook hers back and forth almost as rapidly.

  “Oh, yes,” the girl gushed. “Will you? You’ll be our first company at our new house.”

  “Will you, Heather?” Waylon now seemed barely able to contain his laughter. “Please.”

  “I really should just—” Heather cut off the words at the dejected look on the child’s face, and though a hard knot of dread lodged dead center in her chest, she swallowed her fear. “Sure. For just a minute.”

  In for a penny, in for a pound, she supposed. The damage had already been done.

  The girl stepped back to stand by her dad, her spine straightening and her chin lifting as if properly accepting guests. “My name is Rose,” she informed Heather. “And you have the most beautifulest shoes in the whole wide world. We’re painting my new room. Would you like to come see it?”

  Heather managed a polite “I’d love to” and in the next instant found herself trailing father and daughter down a short hall.

  Waylon was a dad?

  Waylon was a dad!

  She had not seen that one coming.

  She gulped as she crossed the threshold into what would soon be the pinkest room she’d ever laid eyes on.

  “Don’t you just love it?” Rose twirled in a circle, her hands lifting above her head with the move. “My daddy picked out the paint, but he’s lettin’ me help to paint it.” She danced around the room on her tiptoes. “And we’re gonna buy me a new bed just as soon as we finish.”

  “We’ll buy the bed tomorrow,” Waylon’s deep voice corrected his daughter. “Tonight we’re sleeping in the sleeping bags, remember?”

  Rose gasped and whirled back to Heather. “That’s right. We’re pretend camping tonight. In Daddy’s room. Did you want to pretend camp with us?”

  “I . . .” Heather blinked several times. Wow. “I can’t,” she told the little girl, “but thank you for inviting me.”

  She finally allowed herself to look at Waylon again, and though she suspected his laughter still lurked just under the surface, what she found staring back at her were calm brown eyes. What in the heck kind of parallel universe had she stepped into?

  “You’re a dad,” she said. Because nothing else would come out.

  “I’m a dad.”

  “How?”

  A hint of a smile reappeared. “Let me take your coat for you, and I’ll explain how it works.”

  Her face heated.

  “She said it wasn’t raining, Daddy,” Rose explained the situation to her father. “So I don’t know why she has on a raincoat then.”

  “I don’t know, either,” Waylon murmured. “Awfully nice shoes, too. The two go well together.” He held out his hand. “What do you say, Heather? Want to get out of that unnecessary coat?”

  She was going to kill him.

  “I’m good keeping my coat on.” She narrowed her eyes at him. “And now that I’ve seen Rose’s room, I really should go.”

  “No!” Rose stopped dancing, and her face fell. “You just got here. Don’t you want to stay?”

  “I don’t want to interrupt your painting,” Heather explained.
She forced a smile she didn’t feel and told herself that this was what she got for thinking she could handle casual sex.

  “Maybe you could help us,” Rose suggested. “Daddy has more paint brushes.”

  “I’m sure Miss Heather doesn’t want to get paint on her pretty coat,” Waylon explained to his daughter. “But she’s more than welcome to stay and talk to us while we paint.” He reached for the roller he’d obviously been using before Heather had shown up, and again, Rose nodded, her eyes shining.

  “I think that’s an excellent idea.” Rose grabbed the smaller roller and smacked it into the matching roller pan.

  “Careful,” Waylon cautioned when pink paint sloshed over the sides.

  “I’m sorry, Daddy.” Rose’s movements slowed, her brow furrowed in concentration, and Heather found herself mesmerized as she watched the little girl slide the roller pad along the ridges of the pan.

  A painter’s tarp covered the floor of the room, two walls had already been finished, and the remaining walls had been trimmed out at the ceiling and floor. Waylon worked on the third wall, the one adjacent to the door. In several spots of the unpainted areas, there was evidence of holes having been spackled and sanded.

  “I can’t get it off,” Rose grumbled to herself as she continued to struggle with the roller, and instead of leaving like she knew she should, Heather found herself stepping farther into the room.

  She squatted beside Rose. “Can I help?”

  Waylon’s gaze burned into the back of her head. She could feel it as surely as if she’d seen it. But she ignored the man as she gently gripped Rose’s hand in hers. She helped the girl to unload some of the excess paint, and stayed where she was when Rose hoisted the roller with both hands and carefully moved to the fourth wall.

  “Heather has painted walls before, too,” Waylon told his daughter as they both worked. “But her job right now is to create a beautiful garden for her friend to get married in.”

  Rose gasped at the picture her father painted. “A garden?” Her small face lifted to Heather’s. “Will it have fairies in it?”

  “I’m not sure it’ll have fairies, but there will be butterflies.”