She smiled at the thought of the unusual friendship she’d struck up with Claire. They’d met through the romance book club sponsored by her now husband’s bookstore, Bibliophile. At the time, it had been Claire who’d been in need of a shoulder and some unfettered friendship. They’d become close, closer than Bridget had been with anyone in a very long time. She’d been happy to see Claire and Evan get past their respective baggage and find happiness with each other. A year later, they were solidly married and had a baby on the way.
Pain stole through Bridget at the thought of Claire’s unborn child. Oh, she was happy for her best friend. Ecstatic. She knew she was going to be the best damn godmother ever put on the face of this planet, but how she wished a baby was in the cards for her.
But, just as the deep, intimate relationship Claire had was not destined for her, neither was motherhood. For just a second, tears threatened, but she refused to give into them. Bridget Ross didn’t sit and wallow in self-pity. This was the hand she’d been dealt and she was going to make the best of it.
A glance at the delicate, pearl-encrusted watch that adorned her wrist told her it was time to get a move on if she was going to be on time for her meeting – not a date – with Connor.
Connor was early, but he didn’t mind. He’d been to the coffee shop before, but never hung out there. He’d always grabbed a cup of the daily brew and been on his way. He wasn’t a “hang out” kind of guy. He liked his solitude, and bustling coffee shops always made him feel conspicuous. But if this is where Bridget wanted to meet, then so be it. He was happy to put up with the crowd for a chance to be with her.
He passed the time by people-watching along the small main street that hosted River Rock’s downtown. He wasn’t being very successful at his usual game of creating instant back stories for the people he saw. His thoughts continued to stray back to Bridget.
She’d dominated his thoughts since their encounter on campus yesterday and not in an innocent way at all. He’d had some very, very vivid dreams of her, to the tune of waking up with a raging erection that he’d had to handle himself in the shower since she wasn’t there to sink into. It hadn’t been nearly as satisfying as he’d hoped, considering how his dick wanted to rise up every time he thought of her or how it just ignored him altogether at the sight of her. Even now he tingled when he spotted her coming towards him down the street. As they made eye contact, she smiled and raised a hand in greeting.
Those coppery waves hung down her back today and he bet they’d feel silky wrapped around his hand. She was dressed conservatively at first glance. Simply cut black trouser pants and an emerald green sleeveless top that clung to her body and showed off her toned arms. The clothes were elegant and smart, hugging her body in a way that drew your eye to every lush curve. She held herself with the grace of a dancer and moved with the same litheness.
He wanted her.
Wanted her on her knees in front of him, those lips wrapped around him and her green eyes locked with his. He wanted her bent over with that round ass turning pink under his hand as he plunged into her. He bet her nipples would be lovely, clamped in metal, swollen and red.
His cock stirred, and once again he resorted to reciting the great masters to get it to settle down. Thankfully, he got himself under control. Not an easy thing where Bridget was concerned. He wanted her in a way that he hadn’t wanted a woman in a very long time. His own proclivities made deep relationships few and far between. Few women could handle what Connor liked. After the last disaster, he’d stuck to the basics and kept his darker side hidden.
She made him want to swing the closet door open and shine the light on all the dark shadows inside. It wasn’t just her beauty; it was something behind her eyes. It hinted of depths that she kept hidden and it made him want to explore and expose them. Made him want to watch her gasp as he showed her the limits of her body and her pleasure.
She really needed to get a hold on herself. This was not even a date and it was certainly not something to be losing control over. But her traitorous body wasn’t listening to her at the moment. She didn’t even really know how to react to the fact that her nipples had gone hard and she’d grown damp when all he’d done was look in her direction and smile that crooked grin he seemed to always wear. She’d felt like lightning had struck right through her pelvis. She tingled in a way that reminded her she had to be careful and she willed her body into submission.
She’d never experienced reactions like this. After That Day, she’d thought she’d never respond physically to a man again. Certainly, the few relationships she’d had over the years hadn’t sparked this type of reaction in her. They’d been caring relationships that had ultimately ended disastrously for everyone because she’d tried to make lovers out of friends. Never once had she been honest with any of them about why she was so inhibited. The sex had been perfunctory and controlled. She’d made sure of it. She wouldn’t allow them to touch her in any way that might cause her to lose the strict control she maintained.
In the end, they all had the same complaint and she really couldn’t blame them. It probably wasn’t very fun when a woman wouldn’t allow you to do much more than stick it in and pump. They’d all called her frigid. Ice queen. Or, more colloquially, bitch.
She shook her head to clear it. No good came in dwelling on what couldn’t be changed.
Shaking off the shame that wanted to surge from dredging up the past, Bridget took a deep breath, mentally pulled up her big girl panties, and smiled in greeting.
Chapter Four
‘Hi there.’ Bridget held out her hand to Connor and had to school her expression when her heart went berserk as his much larger hand engulfed hers. ‘You been waitin’ long?’
‘Nope, just a few minutes. But I was people-watching, which is always fun.’
He bent to gather up his backpack and Bridget took the opportunity to look her fill. He was dressed casually in jeans and a T-shirt. The late spring weather was just hot enough that a jacket wasn’t necessary in the midday sun. She’d left her own in the car. His sleekly muscled arms were set off nicely against the deep, midnight blue of his T-shirt. His dark brown hair was slightly wind-blown.
Her hand itched to touch him. Would his hair feel as soft as it looked? The trail of her thoughts caused her a moment’s pause since she didn’t usually spend time thinking about touching men, or wondering what they smell like or if his skin would be warm or cool to touch.
He caught her mid-stare when he straightened and the smile he sent her way was smug with a hint of heat. She flushed but refused to look away. Bridget was no coward … well, at least with most things. Lifting her chin, she met his gaze directly and saw his ice-grey eyes warm to charcoal as his grin widened.
With a nod in the direction of the door, he said, ‘Shall we?’
‘Thank you,’ she replied, tearing her gaze away from his and entering the shop.
Familiar smells of coffee and pastry, along with the sounds of conversation, set her at ease. Her friend Mona’s voice rang out as she made the rounds of the regulars, stopping by their tables and chatting with them about the weather, their families and such. With a deep breath, she put her awkwardness aside. This wasn’t a date. It was an apology. Nothing more.
They took their place at the end of the line and she studied the menu. She’d basically memorised it, given how much time she spent there, but it gave her some time to compose herself. Tasha, one of Mona’s baristas, was running the counter and the line was moving swiftly.
‘What’ll you have?’ she asked Connor when they reached the register.
He was standing a bit too close due to the line behind them and she was doing her best to ignore the heat of his body. Her mind was on board with that game plan. Her body, however, was not listening. Her womb clenched and she felt an uncomfortable rush of moisture between her legs. This was so not happening.
‘Hmmm.’ He rubbed his chin and she followed the movement of his fingers, imagining it was her he was rubbing.
Her nipples tightened and she ripped her gaze away, beginning to dig into her handbag for her wallet. ‘I’ll just have the daily brew, black.’
‘That was an awful lot of thinking for “the daily brew, black”.’ She raised an eyebrow at him.
‘That was an awful lot of letting you get an eyeful, gorgeous.’
Those grey eyes laughed down at her and she felt the heat suffuse her body.
Crap!
She was in trouble. Every moment he spent with her intrigued him more. From her resistance to the obvious attraction between them to the cool way her mind worked, he wanted to know more. They shared a lot of interests. Their passion for running and physical activity, they both were rabid readers, loved movies and good food. Though the latter was something he didn’t get to enjoy very much. Meals for him were usually what he could microwave. It wasn’t that he couldn’t cook, he could hold his own. His grandmother had seen to that. His salary simply didn’t support gourmet meals in trendy restaurants, but he knew all the best diners and hole-in-the-wall joints in town.
‘I’m telling you, absinthe was a big part of the picture – pardon the pun – when it comes to the French impressionists,’ she said as she took a sip of her macchiato.
She drank froufrou coffee, but she looked damn good doing it. Her full lips were tinted a shade of copper that almost matched her hair. Her green eyes were lively and sparkling under thick lashes. She wore make-up sparingly, which he was glad of, since she was beautiful in her own right. She didn’t need help with her looks nor with that killer body. She was tiny, but she was perfectly formed. Large, full breasts, round hips, and a tiny waist. She was the image of fertility. And, as she licked a stray drop of coffee from her lip, the sight of her tongue sweeping along her lips had his cock jumping in his jeans and he was glad the table hid his reaction from her.
‘I agree with you, but I still say, chemically enhanced or not, that period was my favourite in art.’
‘Why?’
‘Because impressionist art makes the viewer part of the piece. The details are fuzzy, and that leaves it to you, the viewer to fill in the gaps. It’s like a piece of fiction that tells you the barest details about a character and you fill in the rest for yourself. In some ways that makes the story, or in the case of art, the painting, even more personal to you, because you’re investing in the piece in your own imagination.’
That he was even having this conversation was unusual for him. He tended to be a loner. His life hadn’t been the kind that lent itself to forming lasting friendships. His one friend, Marco, was back in his home state of Maryland. They kept in touch by email and phone, but Connor was basically alone here in Vermont. So, hanging out in coffee bars debating the merits of the French Impressionists over the surrealist art of which Bridget was a fan was not a part of his usual repertoire.
She put down her coffee mug and tilted her head in the most adorable way as she considered him. He laughed and ran a hand through his hair. He wasn’t used to being under scrutiny. He preferred being the observer and, right now, he felt naked under her gaze. Like she was seeing something beyond the surface and he wasn’t sure if it was meeting with her approval or not. Most surprisingly, he found that it mattered if she approved.
‘You’re very passionate about this.’
A smartass rejoinder of “You haven’t seen what I’m passionate about” jumped to his lips, but he held back. This wasn’t the time for corny pick-up lines. Frankly, she was too classy a woman for pick-up lines in general.
‘I am.’ He cupped his own mug and stared down into the black brew as if it would grant him the anchor he needed when he suddenly felt so off kilter under her regard. ‘Art is the one area of my life that I’m completely at peace with. Watching an image come to life under my hands is like seeing a piece of my soul take form.’ He avoided her eyes as he took a sip of the now cold coffee. He snorted. ‘Corny, huh?’
‘No.’
His eyes shot to hers. There was no humour in them; he saw interest and empathy, but not humour.
‘That’s beautiful, actually. The only time I’m ever completely at peace is when I’m running. I get lost in the music and the run and I stop worrying. So I think it’s wonderful you have that calling and that passion.’
She’d leaned forward as she spoke, the vehemence in her voice adding an urgency that drew him like a magnet. When she placed her hand over his, a ribbon of heat trailed through his body. He didn’t think she realised she’d touched him because she jerked her hand back like she’d burned herself as soon as she noticed.
Throughout their date, she’d kept herself under rigid control. His attempts at flirtation had met with a wall, but he sensed it was discomfort not disinterest. He’d seen her flush, seen her pulse jump, seen her nipples harden, but she stayed cool and remote. He wanted to get under her skin and find out what was making her pull back. She was a woman in her prime and the riddle she presented was one he wanted to solve.
‘You in there?’
‘Sorry, my mind wandered.’
His pulse leaped as she smiled and said, ‘I asked if you’ve always been an artist.’
He looked away from her as his heart squeezed in his chest. This was not something he discussed. In general, it was something he tried to not even think about. It didn’t matter that 15 years had passed. He felt the pain like it was yesterday.
Obviously, sensing his distress, she touched his wrist and said, ‘Forget I asked. You don’t have to answer that.’
It was her touch that loosened his lips. She knew she was holding his wrist; she squeezed it gently, connecting with him. In that moment, he knew he’d bare his soul if it would keep her touching him.
Covering her hand with his own, he told her his story.
‘So, even though I have no formal training, I’ve always loved art. It’s been with me since I was a child. I like to think that they’d be proud.’ He was staring into his empty mug.
She didn’t know what moved her more, his story or his touch. Being the only survivor of a car crash that killed his parents was bad enough, but having it happen as a child, on the night you received an award for winning an art contest, was just a cruel twist of fate. His grandparents sounded like lovely people, taking him in, giving him a home and a family, but their death when he was a teenager was just another kick in the nuts. But the thing that pulled at her heart the most was him being thrown into foster care. The family sounded as if they’d treated him more like an extra set of hands, someone to help around the house like a servant. He didn’t seem bitter, but it said a lot that he’d left on his 18th birthday and hadn’t spoken to them since.
‘I bet they would. Have you ever shown your work?’
‘No.’
‘But you’re a photographer? That must be pretty fulfilling.’
‘Photography is its own pleasure, but it is nothing like painting.’ He didn’t look at her as he spoke. He seemed uncomfortable talking about this and she wondered how much it must hurt to have something you loved so deeply tied to such a tragic event.
Her hand was now clasped in his and she found she enjoyed holding his hand. There was a casual intimacy to it that she’d never experienced before, but that – after a few tense moments initially – she found she liked.
Just like she liked him.
She was uncomfortably aware of him, but she liked being with him and talking to him. She found she didn’t want the date to end, but end it must. A quick glance at her watch informed her she had just half an hour to get back to campus and prepare for her next class.
‘Do you have to?’
She grinned, knowing what he was asking. ‘Yes, I do. I have a class to teach.’
‘What if I said I wanted to see you again?’
She surprised herself by saying, ‘I’d say the right offer might sway me.’
‘How about a picnic? This weekend. I know a great spot. I’ve been wanting to get out there and snap some photos and paint. I’d love for you to be there. Hell, if y
ou’d let me, I’d love to paint you.’
He took her hand again and rubbed the back of it with his thumb. The movement was both hypnotic and erotic and she felt it deep in her body.
Before she could chicken out, she agreed, giving him her number and entering his into her phone. Walking out together, she held out her hand for him to shake. Rather than shake it, he took it in his palm and kissed the back of her hand.
‘Till Saturday. I’ll pick you up at one. Text me your address.’
‘No!’ Her voice was sharper than she’d intended and his eyebrows shot up. ‘Sorry.’ She rushed to fill in the shocked silence. ‘I don’t allow men I’ve just met to come to my home. Even to pick me up. How about I meet you here and I’ll follow you.’
‘You’re not even going to ride with me?’
‘No. Not this time. I don’t know you well enough.’
Curious grey eyes searched her face. She faced him resolutely despite the flush creeping along her skin and her desire to hide from the dawning knowledge in his eyes. Her own were burning, and the longer he studied her, the more scared she became that she’d burst into tears.
She opened her mouth to call the whole thing off only to be stopped short when he quietly said, ‘OK. I’ll meet you on Saturday, but not here. Let’s meet at the library. It’s closer to the end of town and we’ll be headed out that way anyway.’
‘No, here.’
Again, with the scrutiny.
‘Here so that your friend sees us together and there’s a trail back to me if anything happens to you?’
She almost squirmed at his insight, but she refused to back down and said only, ‘Yup.’
‘OK. I’ll see you here on Saturday. One o’clock.’
Another quick kiss was dropped on the hand he’d never relinquished and then he tossed his backpack up on his shoulder, winked at her, and walked away.
She flopped on the bench outside the café as hot tears trickled down her cheeks. She really should just cancel. All the fun and camaraderie had been sucked out of their date at the reminder of her inability to simply be with a man in an unreserved fashion. He probably thought she was some kind of paranoid freak.
Reflection (The Chrysalis Series) Page 3
