Romancing the Rival

by Kris Fletcher

  “Your father was a good man.” Her hand settled over his, warm and comforting, and without thinking he rotated his palm to lace his fingers through hers. “I wish I had known him better. I just have a few memories, from when we were so little. Mostly of his voice. He had the biggest, boomiest voice I think I’d ever heard.”

  “Yeah. He did.”

  This time she was the one squeezing his fingers. “So after my— After Rob was hauled back to the States . . . did the investigations start again?”

  “Yeah. It was pretty bad. The people looking into it—they were determined to find something. But you know, it had been years, my dad was never the best record keeper . . . the cops hunted and hunted but could never find anything definitive. Finally they worked out an agreement. My parents were told that they weren’t going to be charged, but it was strongly recommended that they leave town and do everything possible to make sure they never had anything to do with Rob again.”

  “So that whole line about going to Arizona to look after your grandparents?”

  “Not a total lie. Gran had been after them for a while to come out there, at least for winters. But on their own, it probably wouldn’t have happened for at least a few more years.”

  She pinned him with the unblinking gaze from behind her glasses. “Interesting that you managed to be sent home from school right at that time.”

  So much for hoping he could keep her away from that part of the story.

  “No comment.”

  “Spence—”

  “Nobody knows this, Bree. My father was so embarrassed over letting himself be played that way, so ashamed of what he had let happen to his family . . . he didn’t tell anyone. His reputation was about all he had left by the time it was done.”

  “Mmmm. Especially when the town had other, juicier topics to discuss. Like, say, you.” She sipped her wine, watching him over the edge of the glass as she drank. Those eyes saw too much. Knew too much.

  He should never have let himself get involved with her. All it would take was one word to her sister, the future Mrs. Mayor—or even more dangerous, to that crazy Aunt Margie—and the entire town would know that Spencer James wasn’t half as badass as he’d led them all to believe.

  But deep down, he knew he’d done the right thing. Bree deserved—no, needed to know. Spence had never demanded a woman’s entire life story before he slept with her, but things were different with Bree. History had to be dealt with before he could think about—well, not a future. This wasn’t a relationship that had any future built into it, he was pretty sure. More like they were finally acknowledging something that had been simmering for a long time. Definitely more of a get on with the inevitable and then move on kind of thing.

  But when it ended, he wanted it to be because it had run its natural course. Not because she found out he’d been hiding something so massive from her.

  He shook his head. What the hell was he doing, already planning how this would end when they were still on the brink of beginning?

  “I know I had nothing to do with any of this,” she said at last. “But I guess that whole thing about blood being thicker than water might have some truth, because I have the strangest urge to apologize.”

  “That’s really not necessary.”

  “I know. But I still feel . . . it’s weird. Almost guilty.”

  “The only guilt you would need to feel is if you mentioned this to anyone. I mean it, Bree. Not even your sisters.”

  “Lips are sealed.” She drew an X over them, momentarily diverting his attention to far more interesting areas. “But I confess to being curious.”

  “About what?”

  “About why you told me all of this. You didn’t have to. Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad you did, which seems kind of strange in itself. But you didn’t have to say anything.”

  “Yeah, I did. Not to make you feel guilty. But because”—he paused, wondering how to explain the unexplainable—“it felt important. I don’t really understand it, but it just felt like something I should do.”

  “Because you want to have a clear conscience when you sleep with me?”

  When. Not if, but when.

  He liked the sound of that.

  “How about, because I didn’t want you to feel blindsided by anything?” He slipped a hand around the back of her neck, sliding it through her curl. “I want you to feel good about this, Bree. No regrets. No second thoughts.”

  Her hand came up to cover his. Her other hand rested on his chest as she tipped forward on the barstool.

  “It goes both ways, Spence.” She scooted closer, dropped one light kiss on his mouth, and whispered, “I want you to feel good about this, too.”

  When she leaned in and kissed him again, he was pretty sure that the feeling good part was all but guaranteed.

  * * *

  Bree willed herself to go supple. Spence was an accomplished kisser. She wanted to take it slow, let herself learn his rhythms and tastes and preferences.

  Except she also wanted to get to the point where thinking was nigh impossible. Because she was having a hell of a time turning her brain off long enough to get turned on.

  She edged forward on her barstool, gliding her hands across his shoulders. Muscles. Muscles were good. Kissing was good. Spence was good.

  His hands were at her waist, softly kneading, thumbs brushing little pleasure circles below her breasts. She smiled against his mouth. His chuckle was deep against her ear.

  “Who would have believed . . . ,” he said softly, but she stopped him with a kiss before he could say anything else. She was sorting through enough new truths and revelations as it was. She didn’t need to be reminded that this, now, was also verging on the incredulous.

  No second thoughts, he’d said, and she’d agreed. Because she wasn’t having second thoughts. Not about this.

  It was the constant stream of other thoughts that was knocking her sideways.

  She wriggled her fingers beneath his sweater. Skin. Hot, smooth skin. Sure enough, her pulse kicked up a little at the contact. Exactly what she needed. More skin. More touch. More blood pounding in her ears, blocking the nonstop thoughts chasing themselves through the part of her brain that wouldn’t shut off.

  Except that even while his lips glided across her jaw, she couldn’t stop thinking of everything he’d said. About his father. And her father.

  And him.

  His hands were on her thighs, deliciously close to resurrecting memories of the filing cabinet interlude. She sank deeper into him, against him, and almost—almost—lost herself in the moment.

  Spence, she thought firmly. Spence. Fisherman’s sweater. Jeans. Muscles. Doing all the things that had made her act like someone totally not herself when they were in her office, but now—

  He stilled beneath her mechanically roving hands, then pulled back and looked down at her.

  “Uh, it’s not like I know what to expect from you, but I get the feeling you’re not really here right now.”

  Damn it.

  She hesitated the merest fraction of a second, debating with herself. Deny and carry on?

  No. He’d had the guts to be honest with her. She owed him that same courtesy.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, meaning it more than she would have thought possible. “It’s not that I don’t want to do this. I do.”

  His raised eyebrows told her that he had suspicions.

  “This is nothing about you, Spence. Okay? I’ve been . . .” She breathed in deep, determined to tell the total truth. She could at least give him that. “Ever since the day in my office . . . No, ever since the, um, experiment in the greenhouse . . . I’ve been thinking about this. Imagining it. Dreaming about it.” Heat climbed to her cheeks, but she pushed on. “Trust me. This isn’t cold feet or second thoughts or anything to do with you. It’s just—”

 
“Too much in one night?” he asked, and his voice carried such a potent mix of understanding, gentleness, and regret that she almost kissed him in appreciation.

  “That’s a good way to put it.”

  He rested his forehead against hers and sighed, his breath tickling her face. “I knew I shouldn’t have said anything. Problem was, I knew I couldn’t not say anything, either.”

  “You made the right choice.”

  “I hate when that happens.”

  Seriously, what was wrong with her? She hadn’t been lying. Thoughts of sleeping with him had been hijacking her attention almost constantly over the past few days. She’d debated and considered and made her decision, and she had been happy about it. There hadn’t been a shred of doubt when she dressed this morning that she was seriously looking forward to removing those clothes in front of him.

  Her body was issuing a bunch of reminders that it was still ready, willing, and able to make that happen.

  But her mind kept whispering things about betrayal. And intrusion. And something about taking control. None of it at his hands, which made the thoughts even more infuriating, because damn it. Wasn’t she entitled to a good time once in a while?

  She laced her fingers through his, soaking up some of the strength. “I promise I won’t mention any of what you said to anyone.”

  His head dipped in what she supposed was acknowledgment.

  “And even though this is pure conjecture on my part, let me just say that if, perhaps, someone decided to sacrifice his own reputation to protect his family . . . well . . . if someone made that choice, I might think it’s one of the most ridiculously honorable things I’ve ever heard of.”

  “If, hypothetically, I knew of anyone who did something like that, I would convey his thanks.”

  She let herself lean into him a moment longer. If this was all that was going to happen tonight—and it certainly seemed that way—then she was going to appreciate every moment of it.

  But she had to be fair to him, too. And fairness dictated that, after a few seconds, she pulled back, cupped his cheek, and kissed him lightly on the lips.

  “I should probably leave,” she whispered.

  His sigh was a deep echo of her regret. “I guess so.”

  He helped her down from the barstool and kept a light hand on her elbow as they walked back into the living room where he’d stashed her purse and her coat. She cast a longing look at the wide expanse of the sofa, the fireplace, the shadows, and bit her lip. The things she could do with those . . .

  But she couldn’t stop thinking. And he deserved more than someone who wasn’t truly here.

  “It’s funny,” she said, because silence offered too many openings for self-recrimination. “My research is all about the impact of parental scandal on their children’s locus of control. Their feelings that their life is either determined by their actions or by outside events,” she added automatically, because it seemed that was always the next question whenever she mentioned it to people. “If, hypothetically, someone did spread some rumors about himself to help his parents save face, that would definitely fall into one of the coping methods I discuss.”

  “A coping method?”

  The man could convey more with a quirked eyebrow than most guys could do with their whole face.

  “Taking control of the story. Changing the narrative to suit himself. Becoming the storyteller instead of merely a character.” She smiled. “Definitely someone who sees himself as the author of his own life.”

  “I take it that’s a good thing.” His hand rested on the doorknob.

  “It is.”

  He bent and kissed her lightly behind the ear. “Maybe you should try it sometime,” he whispered, and opened the door. She took one step.

  And froze. Though absolutely not from the late-season Arctic cold front that had settled in over the past few days.

  Maybe you should try it.

  If she left—if she walked down those steps and into her car and drove home—then that would be it for her and Spence. Even if he was generous enough to try again, which she suspected he might be, she would be hampered by embarrassment and regret, uncertain if she was acting out of true desire or simply gratefulness. Not that she had a problem with gratitude sex. There were times when it was absolutely justified, a way of saying thanks that went beyond simply words.

  But not for a first time.

  “Bree?”

  Spence had seized control of his story. He had taken a situation where life must have felt unfair, as if it was spinning away from him, and he had found a way to make it his. It might have been shortsighted and kind of ridiculous, but his intentions had been good and his heart had definitely been in the right place. Most important of all, it had worked.

  Maybe you should try it.

  She had lost huge chunks of her heart, her childhood, her whole life to her father. She had mastered the art of pushing on anyway. She had immersed herself in everything she did and thrust Rob out of her life and congratulated herself on being the winner.

  Yet here she was, letting him into her head again. Letting him take over her thoughts. Letting him steal yet another shiny possibility from her.

  The hell with that.

  She whirled around. “Spence. I know this is going to seem mercurial and kind of unhinged and maybe like I’m a flip-flopping fool, but the thing is . . . you’re right.”

  “About . . .”

  She could have explained it with words, but seriously, was that the best use of her lips?

  Instead, she stepped back inside, closed the door, framed his startled face with her hands, and kissed him. The way she had in the greenhouse. The way she had in her office. The way she had wanted to for the past few days of waiting and wanting and hoping and counting.

  By the time she finally was forced to come up for air, her fingers were wedged beneath his waistband and he had her pressed against the door and her coat was half off and his hands were on her butt and it felt as if someone had lit sparklers all over her body.

  And the real fireworks hadn’t even started yet.

  “Is this about that whole taking charge of the story thing?” he asked, his voice ragged.

  “Mmhmm.”

  “What if I told you”—he grabbed her hands—“that there’s a time to take control. But then”—and he lifted her hands above her head, pinning them in place while leaning strategically closer—“there’s something to be said for losing it, too.”

  “I’d say that that’s a theory I’d like to put to the test.”

  He nipped the side of her neck. “Another experiment?”

  “Damn straight,” she said. “This one is about . . . uh . . . sofas. And . . . floors. And . . . um . . . and . . .”

  “And?” he mumbled from somewhere between her breasts.

  “And other—oh, God—horizontal surfaces.”

  Which was the last complete sentence she managed for the rest of the evening.

  * * *

  Spence was almost out the door for a meeting of the Stop Elias group when he got a call that plans had changed. Their designated host had a sick kid, one member was out of town, and another was unreachable. It seemed he and Fred Gettman were the only ones available.

  Spence had no burning desire to spend the evening with Fred, but the man had some decent ideas, and they could compare notes about the task force work as well. Which was how the two of them ended up in a corner booth at Lakeshore Burgers discussing fruit trees, fire halls, the uselessness of most committees, and the perfect onion ring.

  “Beer batter,” Spence insisted. “It’s the only way to go. With thick slices of onion to hold up to the flavor of the batter.”

  “Oh, sure. If all you want is to taste some crunchy flavored dough, that’ll work great. But if you want to taste the onion, you need sweet ones. Vidalias. Slice ’em thin
and barely coat them with buttermilk and flour. A light hand, see? That’s the trick. A light hand, light breading, and then all that crispy, sweet crunch in your mouth. Yeah. That’s what you want.”

  “Tell you what,” Spence said. “When it’s my turn to host the meeting, you come early. We’ll have a fry-off.”

  “May the best cook win,” Fred said with a laugh, and raised his beer. Spence clinked his mug against Fred’s.

  Once the mugs were back on the table, Spence pulled out the photos of the proposed food forest location. “Listen,” he said. “Before we go, I want you to have another look at these with me.”

  “What am I looking for?” Fred pulled his reading glasses into place and leaned over.

  “I’m thinking there has to be a way to work in a playground and a pavilion. They both would add a lot of appeal to the place and draw people there even when it’s not harvest time. But to fit in both, we’d have to cut down on the trees, and since they are supposed to be the main draw . . .”

  “Got it,” Fred said, and pulled the photos closer. Spence sipped his beer while Fred hummed softly to himself and traced lines with his finger. At one point Fred said something under his breath, grabbed a knife, and used the blunt end to draw invisible lines that left him muttering with barely concealed excitement.

  “You figured it out?” Spence asked.

  Fred nodded, then shook his head. “I might have something. I don’t want to say anything yet, in case it’s not possible, but I’m thinking . . .” He gathered the papers. “Let me do some exploring. I’ll get back to you on this ASAP.”

  “Hang on,” Spence said as Fred slid out of the booth. “Don’t I even get a hint?”

  Fred grinned and tossed money on the table.

  “Two birds, one stone.”