“She must have been really special,” Margot said softly.
“She was. She saved my life, I have no doubt.” I took a long drink. “But I couldn’t save hers.”
Margot’s face fell, and she studied the base of her wineglass.
I groaned and set my bottle down. “What the fuck—I’m sorry, Margot. I didn’t mean to unload that on you.”
“No, no, it’s OK,” she said, touching my arm. “I’m glad you did. I’m sorry if asking about her made you sad.”
“Don’t apologize. I’m glad you asked. You know what?” I ran a hand over my scruffy jaw, wishing I’d trimmed it up a little. “No one does. No one ever talks about her in front of me.”
“Maybe they’re worried it’s too painful.”
“I guess. But I’d much rather talk about her than myself.” I looked at Margot and realized I’d monopolized the entire conversation. “Actually, I don’t want to talk at all, I want to listen. Tell me about you.”
She smiled. “What do you want to know?”
I thought for a second. “Tell me about the horse you had growing up.”
Her eyes lit up, and she told me about Maple Sugar, the thoroughbred she’d owned from the time she was eight years old until she left for college. When she teared up, she apologized and said it was silly to get sentimental about a horse she hadn’t seen in more than ten years, but I understood the bond between humans and horses and told her so.
I learned about her family, her father’s Senatorial race, the company she’d started with her friend. “Did you always want to go into marketing?” I asked.
“No. Not really.” She smiled. “Actually, I’d have liked to be a social worker, but Muffy said that was out of the question.”
I made a face. “Muffy?”
“My mother’s nickname. You see, all the first-born daughters in her family, the Thurbers, are named Margaret or some variation thereof, the middle name has to be her mother’s maiden name, and woe to anyone who tries to defy this tradition.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yes. You can go traditional, like Margaret or Marjorie. French like Margot or Marguerite, and you can even get away with changing up the spelling, like M-A-R-G-R-E-T, but don’t you dare get cutesy and American and do something like Maisie or Maggie or Greta, at least not on the birth certificate. My cousin Mamie named her daughter Marley, and Great-Grandma Thurber died before she spoke to her again.”
“Wait.” I put out one hand. “Mamie and Muffy are OK, but Marley isn’t?”
She giggled, flushed from two glasses of wine. “Mamie and Muffy are only nicknames, not on the birth certificates. We have to have nicknames, see, otherwise it would be mass confusion all the time. Plus WASPs love nicknames.”
I propped my arm on the bar. “What’s yours?”
She brought her hands to her mouth, laughing uncontrollably. The sound was girlish and playful, and sent a wave of heat rushing through me.
“Come on, tell me,” I said, unable to keep a smile from my lips.
She dropped her hands in her lap and tried to keep a straight face. “It’s Gogo.”
“Gogo?” I burst out laughing, leaning back in my chair. “Seriously?”
“I’m afraid so.” She looked at me, and her eyes were full of something good—wonder and warmth and affection.
My laughter died down and I found myself looking at her the same way. I loved that she could laugh at herself. If only things were different. I cleared my throat. “So Muffy said no to social work, huh?”
“Yes. She said, ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Margot. Thurber women go to Vassar and major in English.’” She shrugged. “So I did.”
“Were you happy with that decision?”
“I guess. I never really thought about it. I got my degree, came home, took a job working for my father…and that was that.”
“Did you like what you did?”
“Yes.” She thought for a moment. “A lot of what I did involved charity work and fundraising, and I liked knowing I was helping people.”
“How’d your parents take it when you left to start your own company?”
She chuckled. “They were kind of baffled by everything I did last year—I broke up with my boyfriend, took up yoga, quit working for my dad, started Shine PR…”
“Yoga?” I arched a brow at her.
She shook her head. “Didn’t take.”
“And the boyfriend?”
“Still gone. And he’ll stay that way.” Her dinner arrived and she laid her napkin across her lap.
“Why’s that? Let me guess—Muffy didn’t approve?”
She hesitated, her fork hovering above her planked whitefish. “That’s a long story. Let’s just say we’ve both moved on. I’m looking for something better.”
“Like what? What is Margot Thurber Lewiston looking for in a man?” I was teasing, but I was also curious. “A certain number of zeroes in his bank account? A Rolls Royce? A house in the Hamptons?”
“No,” she said. “I’m not totally shallow and pretentious, despite what you might think.”
“So?” I prodded. “What then?”
She put a forkful in her mouth and chewed as she thought. “I don’t know exactly,” she finally said. “I’m still figuring that out.”
“Fair enough.”
“I know I want to get married and have a family. Actually, I sort of thought I’d have one by now, but…” Her voice trailed off and she shook her head. “But I was wrong.”
“Life’s full of surprises.” I tried not to sound bitter.
She glanced at me. “What about you? Think you’ll get married again?”
“No,” I said, and I meant it. “I know what I had. And it doesn’t happen twice.”
“Fair enough.”
We chatted a little more about the farm, about my family and hers, about places we’d traveled. She liked visiting big cities, and I preferred small towns, but we both agreed Mackinac Island was beautiful, perfect for a summer getaway. The more we talked, the easier I found it. Margot had definitely grown up in a different world, but she wasn’t a snob. And she was so damn pretty. Even the way she ate and drank was graceful. I found myself mesmerized by little things—the curve of her wrist, the straightness in her back, the arch of her foot. She had the kind of beauty that resides in the bones. The creamy skin, perfect lips, and big blue eyes were just a bonus. Then there was the body—the endless legs, the narrow waist, the small round breasts that sat high on her chest.
What did they look like? I hadn’t even gotten to see them last night. Were they even more pale than her face? And what about her nipples? Pale pink like cotton candy? Dark pink like a raspberry? Or maybe even deeper, like a cherry. As she chattered on about Mackinac Island fudge, my cock started to rise as I imagined licking my way up her vanilla skin to the cherries on top. I can practically feel them under my tongue. I can taste her.
God, why hadn’t I done it last night? Why had I raced to the finish like a fucking teenager afraid of being caught? Why hadn’t I taken my time with her? For fuck’s sake, I’d barely touched her anywhere. I dropped my eyes to the napkin on her lap.
“Jack?”
“What?” I looked up sharply to see her slightly amused face.
“Do you want another beer?” She nodded toward the bartender, who was standing there waiting.
“Oh, sorry.” I was completely torn. On one hand, I was having a nice time, and when was the last time I’d done something like this and enjoyed it? On the other, the longer I sat here with Margot, the more attracted I felt to her. “I shouldn’t.”
“Oh, come on. I will if you will. And then we can go our separate ways and you’ll be rid of me forever.”
I shook my head. “You really don’t like to be told no, do you?”
She grinned devilishly, her blue eyes lighting up.
Sometimes I wonder if it was that smile that did me in.
Twenty
Margot
I’d thought it would
But it was fun. And easy.
And deliciously, drastically dangerous.
When I’d first walked in, it had been slightly uncomfortable, not knowing exactly how it would go pretending we hadn’t done what we did. But then he’d invited me to sit, and made a joke, and eventually, he’d smiled. And laughed—God, his laughter made me so happy. I wanted to roll around in it, get it all over me, like a pig in the mud.
He looked so good. I could hardly take my eyes off him. I loved the wayward curl of his hair, which I noticed for the first time had a little bit of gray. I loved the shape of his full mouth and had a hard time looking away every time he brought his beer bottle to his lips. I loved the way the cuffed-up sleeves of his blue shirt showed off those tanned, muscular forearms. He even wore a wrist watch tonight, with a large round navy blue face and a brown leather band with white stitching.
He also wore his wedding ring. And when he brought up Steph, I’d taken it as an invitation to ask about her, although I was surprised at how forthcoming he was. I got the feeling he was surprised, too, by how much he was revealing about himself, but it made me happy to think he felt comfortable confiding in me.
But instead of shutting down my attraction to him, the opposite happened—after hearing about their romance, I found myself even more intrigued. Here was this big, brawny, tough-as-nails ex-soldier talking about his first love, how grateful he was for her, how she’d saved him. And when he’d said he couldn’t save her, my heart had cracked, and feelings for him had started to seep in.
Maybe if he hadn’t asked about my horse. Maybe if he hadn’t been curious about my family. Maybe if he hadn’t told me he’d enlisted after 9/11 or talked so lovingly about his nephew or laughed so joyfully at my nickname. Maybe then, I’d have been safe.
But instead, I found myself wanting him again—badly—and regretting the circumstances that made it a terrible idea.
I tried not to flirt. I tried not to touch him. I tried to “pretend it had never happened,” but by the time he paid the bill—he’d insisted on treating me to dinner—we were both half drunk and unable to remember the rules.
“OK, Magellan,” he teased, turning me around after I headed the wrong way, looking for the exit. “Neither one of us should drive home tonight, so I’m going to walk you back to your cottage. Then I’ll walk home.”
“You don’t have to walk me back!”
He held up a hand. “Please. If I don’t help you, you’ll probably end up in Deckerville.”
I giggled. “What about your truck?”
“It’ll be fine. Oh, shit.” Thunder rumbled as we stepped out onto the sidewalk in the dark, the air warm and humid and smelling faintly metallic, but it wasn’t raining yet. “We better hurry.”
I had to work to keep up with him, and I was out of breath by the time we’d walked a block. “Slow down,” I panted, then laughed. “You’re always so fast at everything.”
He groaned and grabbed my hand as we crossed the street, like he was the parent and I was the child. “Last night was not representative of my sexual skills.”
“Hey, no complaints here,” I said, stumbling up the curb.
He caught me by the elbows, and his touch electrified me. It must have had an effect on him too, because he let go of me as soon as I had my balance and put some distance between us. “Well, good.”
“And anyway, it never happened.” I bit my lip to keep from laughing.
“Nope, it didn’t,” he said.
“Not in a house.”
“Not with a mouse.”
“Not in a box.”
“Not with a fox.”
“It did not happen here or there.”
“It did not happen anywhere.” Lightning flashed, and he grabbed my arm and started to jog, dragging me alongside him. But he was laughing.
And I was giggling so hard, I could hardly breathe—the fact that Jack could recite Dr. Seuss was hilarious to me. Did he read to his nephew?
“Oh God, I have to go to the bathroom,” I moaned, trying to run in sandals while squeezing my legs together. “Who told me to have that fourth glass of wine. Was it you?” I pointed at him accusingly.
“Don’t blame me, Miss I Will If You Will. If you wet your pants, it will not be my fault. And I don’t have a bathroom to offer you this time.”
I groaned. “This is really embarrassing.”
“I know. You’re a mess.” He looked both ways and led me across another street.
“I am, aren’t I?”
“Yep. Look at you. Unattractive, not too clever, uneducated, hopeless at farm work, a Peeping Tom, and serious bladder control issues.”
“Ouch.” I made a face.
“And you’re slow,” he complained, tugging me along.
“Sheesh, I don’t have much going for me, do I?” A few raindrops started to pelt us as he yanked me up the walkway to my cottage.
“Oh, I don’t know.” We stood at the door and faced each other as the drops fell heavier. “You might have a few things going.”
“Like what?” The air around us hummed with electricity. He was so close I could smell his beach bonfire scent, feel his breath on my lips. Kiss me, Jack.
He slid his fingers into my hair, cradling my head in his hands. “You have beautiful eyes.”
“Thank you.”
“And lips.” A flash of lightning lit his face briefly before thunder growled above us.
“Thank you.” My voice trembled.
“And if things were different…” He closed his eyes as the rain made the metal gutters sing. “If I were different…”
“I don’t want you to be different.” Rising on tiptoe, I lifted my chin, let my eyes drift shut, waited to feel his mouth on mine.
But he pressed his lips to my forehead instead. “Goodbye, Margot.”
One second later, he was racing away from me in the rainy dark.
I stood there in shock, stomach jumping, hands shaking, rain dripping from my hair and clothes. He’s gone. That’s it.
Disappointed, I let myself into the cottage and locked the door behind me. A lump formed in my throat, and I tried to swallow it away. What did you expect? He is who he is, and you are who you are, and the two of you do not belong together.
I used the bathroom and washed my hands, talking back to the voice of reason in my head. Of course we don’t belong together. I know that. But it was such a nice night, and I thought maybe…
No. There is no maybe.
Sighing, I switched on a lamp in the front room and stood by the windows looking out at the lake. The rain drummed hard on the cottage roof, and I shivered again as lightning lit up the dark. The lamplight flickered, and I wondered what I’d do if the power went out.
Three sharp knocks made me jump. I hesitated for a second, then raced toward the sound. Was it him?
I yanked open the door, and there he was—dripping wet, breathing hard, body tense with restraint.
A second later, we lunged for each other.
Our mouths slammed together as his hands moved into my hair again, slanting my head as his tongue plunged between my lips. I ran my hands up the damp front of his chest and gripped the back of his neck. He came back! He came back!
He walked me backward without taking his lips off mine, kicking the door shut behind him. Frantically, we tore at wet clothing, our hands working as fast as the rain was falling. My fingers fumbled with the buttons of his shirt until I could push it from his shoulders. He broke our kiss only for the half-second it took to whip my blouse over my head. I undid his jeans and shoved my hand down the front of them, both of us moaning as I wrapped my fingers around his cock. It was hot and hard and grew thicker inside my fist. He unbuttoned my shorts and slid his hands down the back, inside my underwear, squeezing my ass.
Oh, God that feeling was back—that desperation to clutch and claw, to lick and bite, to scratch and pull. The way I wanted him gnawed at my insides like it was captive, determined to escape.
Part of me was dying to know what had made him change his mind, but no way was I about to stop and ask. And nothing about his actions suggested he wasn’t sure about this—not the stroke of his tongue, not the strength in his hands, not the thrust of his cock through my fingers. The force behind his desire heightened my own, because I knew what it had taken for him to come back here tonight, to admit that we’d failed to smother the spark between us, to give it another chance to burn.
Howling winds pressed against the windows as we shoved off shoes and jeans and shorts and underwear and tumbled onto the rug. He caught himself above me, and I stretched out on my back, his hips between my thighs. For the first time, we stopped kissing and looked at each other. Lightning flashed a split second before a loud crack of thunder shook the floor beneath us. Then the power went out, leaving us in the near dark.
Jack looked sharply toward the corner of the room where the lamp was, and his body tensed. In my mind I saw him hit the ground after the branch I was standing on snapped.
“Hey.” I took his face in my hands, forcing his eyes back to mine. “It’s OK.” I kissed his lips, his cheek, his lips again. “It’s OK. Stay with me.”
He pressed his mouth to mine and reached behind me with one hand, and I arched my back so he could unclasp my bra. The moment he’d tossed it aside, he descended on my breasts, kissing them, licking them, sucking them, kneading them with his hands. I wove my fingers into his hair, fisted them tight when he took one nipple between his teeth and flicked it with his tongue. The ache between my legs throbbed, and I sighed with pleasure when he slipped one finger inside me, then two. As his mouth traveled down my ribs and stomach, I rocked my hips against his hand, melting into his touch. His thumb moved gently over my clit, slow, rhythmic circles that made my skin hum and my stomach muscles tighten.
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