Wait. What was her name?
He'd though of her all day as Hank's niece or that woman who'd sent him to the hospital. Had she told him her name? He strained, giving himself even more of a headache trying to remember if Hank had ever told him her name in the course of long days on the lake or long nights in front of the TV. They weren't much for conversation, the two of them. They were happy enough keeping most of their thoughts to themselves. But now that Trent had kissed the girl, or more accurately she had kissed him, well, he'd at least like to know her damn name.
Maybe it was an excuse to see her, maybe it was to test his own resolve that he wasn't going to touch her again. Maybe it was to prove that she really wasn't all that irresistible and the thing between them had been just a fluke, but with his jaw set and his body mostly under control, he stomped up the stairs making lots of noise to give her warning he was coming. He walked to the closed guest room door and knocked.
"Yes?" came her soft answer, sounding a little shaky. She didn't open the door. Maybe she was changing. Lord. Don't think of that.
Obviously he was going to be talking to the door; probably better, anyway. "Uh, I didn't catch your name."
A long pause ensued. "It's Patterson. Patterson O'Reilly."
Patterson. He'd expected Betty or Lana or maybe Sophia with her curvy bombshell body and wide blue eyes.
"OK. Uh, thanks." He stood there for a moment awkwardly then gave up. "'Night."
"'Night."
Trent considered turning in himself, but he really wasn't tired. And being so close to the source of his new worries was not going to be conducive to sleep, anyway. All he'd do was toss and turn and think inappropriate thoughts about his house guest. Patterson. About Patterson.
The name suited her, in a weird way. Sure, it sounded like someone’s surname not the first name of a cute, perky pin-up throw back that had just sent him for a loop. But it did have sort of a quirky hippie vibe.
Trent went back downstairs and stared at the kitchen for a moment, all the light still on, the wine still open on the counter. He re-corked it and set it aside. Now what? Bed? Book? Late-night TV? Another episode of the Vampire school show?
He went to the glass door. The early summer moonlight spilled down, sparkling on the surface of his pool. He went outside and the wall of humidity wrapped around him like a damp blanket. The hum of insects was a lullaby in the night, the boat motors now quiet. There was music from far off in the distance, no doubt someone's Memorial Day party still going strong.
Sweat instantly beaded his forehead and he was pretty sure the ambient temperature wasn’t the only cause. The water looked so inviting, he was stripping off his t-shirt and shimmying out of his shorts without a second thought. A few laps in the pool ought to cool his libido and calm his mind a little. He made a shallow dive and swam under water to the end of the pool. The water glided across his skin, washing away the sweat and soothing his tense muscles. Underwater there was no sound and he felt like he was the only person on the Earth, the quiet and peaceful weightlessness cradling him and comforting him. He wished he could stay down there forever.
But he ran out of air and surfaced near the steps at the far side of the pool. He flipped to his back and floated gazing up at the stars and nearly full moon.
Amy had picked this place out right after they'd returned to Nashville after having married. It wasn't supposed to be their forever home, just a nice place to retreat to between tours, to hang out. Once things calmed down and they decided to start a family, then they'd build somewhere on a few dozen acres, they’d said. They’d build a house big enough to raise a family in, somewhere safe and private and happy. Twelve years later, he was still here, unable to move. No wife, no family, no kids, no career. Stuck.
Yes, he'd been stuck. And it had never really bothered him. After the accident, he'd come here to heal physically. His cuts and scrapes and broken bones had healed but his soul never had. After the first six months, his friends had suggested he might want to get a new place, somewhere with fewer memories. After six months when Trent had retreated from every part of the life he'd had before, they'd begged him to sell the house, to come and stay with them if he wanted. A year after that they'd stopped trying, just urged him to reach out and to get help. To quit drinking so much. To rejoin the living instead of dwelling in the land of the dead.
But they didn't get it. Amy was gone. He was still here out of dumb luck or maybe as punishment. He didn't want to feel better. He didn't want to reach out. Didn't want to continue on as if nothing had happened. He just wanted everyone to go away and leave him alone.
Finally they had, no doubt writing him off as a lost cause. Hank was the only one who had continued to reach out to him in that quiet, unobtrusive way of his. He’d come knocking on the door once a week inviting Trent to watch a game with him or go out on the lake to fish. He'd kept pestering Trent until he'd agreed to go just to get Hank off his back.
It was hard at first, leaving the safe cocoon of his house. It felt like betraying Amy to enjoy the sunshine and fresh air when she couldn't. It seemed wrong to enjoy anything.
But slowly, over months, Trent had come to look forward to seeing Hank, heading out on the lake, chatting about the previous night's game, listening to Hank talk about his family. Trent was usually silent, and Hank never asked him about the accident or about his drinking or hounded him about moving somewhere with fewer memories, but slowly Hank had drawn him outside of himself with humor and kindness and fishing. Trent wasn’t his old self and would never be. He still preferred his own company to other people’s and didn’t like to go out. But he’d come a long way from the days of sitting alone, with only his buddy Jack Daniels to keep him company.
He owed Hank everything. Taking advantage of his niece, of Patterson, wasn't the way to repay a friend who had most likely saved his life. No, he needed to stay as far away from her as possible.
Turning to his belly, Trent side-stroked across the pool, enjoying the faint pull of fatigue in his muscles. Why didn't he use the pool more often? He used to work out religiously three times a week. For a while he'd done nothing but sit on the couch and drink and all his muscle mass had melted away along with his desire to rise form couch ever at all.
But once he'd started fishing and laid off the booze, he'd gotten back a little of the physique he used to have. He was definitely more angular now, more lean and less bulky. But swimming would bulk him up a little. And it was relaxing at the same time.
Trent reached the end of the pool. One more lap, down and back, and then maybe sleep would come.
He pushed hard, forcing muscles he hadn't used in years to perform, propelling himself through the water with years of pent up energy that had suddenly come to the surface. His breath came in gasps when his head broke the surface of the water and his arms and thighs burned with the effort. He turned at the far end and swam back, his last length of the pool.
Lungs burning, he pushed harder. A few more strokes and he'd be at the end. The underwater light on the sides of the pool told him he was only a couple of yards away.
He reached out and touched the wall with his fingertips, breaking the surface of the water with a big grin, like he'd just shattered the word record for the X meter.
The first thing he saw when he opened his eyes was a pair of petite bare feet with bright pink toenails. They were attached to long curvy legs, too long for Patterson’s short stature. Tight little sleep shorts, not unlike his own boxer-briefs, and the worlds tiniest tank top barely covered the curves he’d been trying to forget with his late-night workout.
The lights around the pool deck and the full moon overhead illuminated the frown turning her bare lips downward.
"What in the bloody hell are you trying to do? Kill yourself?"
*****
Patterson had been lying in bed, not sleeping and not thinking about the epic blunder she'd made by kissing Trent when she'd head the splash from the pool below her window.
What the
hell had she been thinking with that, anyway? Ok, he was hot. Not even just hot for an older guy. Just hot, period.
Her past boyfriends had all been Ken-doll handsome—white teeth, perfect skin, surfer-guy bodies that were manscaped and to perfection. She'd never been one for the rough-around-the-edges type and Trent was rough everywhere, not just around the edges. She would bet her best pair of Levi’s he'd never manicured or waxed anything. The weird part was, she kind of liked that.
Trent Ryder was damaged. Even if Dan and Uncle Hank hadn't suggested as much, it was obvious in the way he was so closed off from anything resembling a normal life. But the thing that most intrigued Patterson about him was that for all the prickliness on the outside, he was soft as a Christmas pudding on the inside.
And when he'd acted all alpha about her not seeing the allegedly womanizing Dan and had almost shyly offered to take her on a tour of the Ryman himself, something in her just burst. She'd been unable to stop herself from touching him. And once she'd touched him she had to kiss him. Had to. There hadn't been conscious thought behind it, let alone thoughts of consequences or how awkward it would be afterward.
Then once she'd so totally humiliated herself, she'd run to her room—his room really— and hid, blushing like a school girl with her first crush. She wasn't sorry she’d kissed him. No, not a bit. Now she knew how warm his lips were and how hard and strong and easy to lean on he was.
But what was he thinking?
She'd caught him staring at her a few times and knew he found her attractive, but all in all, he had to think she was a pain in the ass and the only reason he was letting her stay in the house was as a favor to Uncle Hank. It was embarrassing to think she might possibly be crushing on a guy who thought she was some sort of a silly twit who couldn't take care of herself.
Turning all this over in her mind and thinking about calling a hotel first thing in morning, since it seemed like Trent wasn't suffering any serious side effects from this concussion, she'd heard the splash. Patterson went to the window and her mouth had gone dry at the sight. Trent had stripped down to almost nothing and was floating on his back in the pool. Moonlight caressed his wet skin, the sheen of the water highlighting strong, flat abs, a broad chest and powerful shoulders. He had an expression on his face she'd never seen, partially because his face had been all but obscured by the heavy beard, but partially because he though no one was looking. It was a look of contentment, a small smile playing at his full lips. Relaxation. Maybe even contentment.
Was this what he was like before he was, well, like he was? Carefree, relaxed, spontaneous? Heat stirred in her belly watching him and her lips began to tingle all over again, thinking about their kiss. He'd said he'd seduced women with the tour guide schtick back in the day, but she doubted it would take more than a glance or maybe a slight crook of the eyebrow and the ladies would be cat-fighting to get to him to look their way.
Looking at his half-grin, maybe the kiss hadn't turned him off after all, or maybe he was lost in a memory of happier times. Patterson didn't know. But as soon as he flipped to his belly and started doing laps in the pool like he was training to make the Olympic team, she remembered his head injury and the stitches he wasn't supposed to get wet. The damn fool was going to break open his gash all over again.
Without a second thought about putting on something more substantial than clingy cotton pajama shorts and a white cami, Patterson flew down the stairs and out the French doors to the pool.
"What in the bloody hell are you trying to do? Kill yourself?"
He looked up at her, blinking the water from his eyes, just staring until she became painfully aware that she was wearing very little clothing. He was wearing even less. He was dripping wet, and she was about to be, too, as heat spread through her body, tightening her nipples and spiking her pulse.
She crossed her arms over her chest, hoping she looked angry and it wasn't obvious she was trying to conceal her nipples.
"Shit," he said, and probed his injury with blunt-tipped fingers. "I forgot."
"Don't touch it. Get out and let me see what you've done. Are you trying to be Michael Phelps or something?" More like Ryan Lochte with his model-handsome face and the hard body most women would sacrifice their favorite Spanx to hang a medal from.
He hesitated and then pushed out of the pool to sit on the side of the cement, splashing her with cool water in the process.
"Sorry," he murmured.
She didn't know is he was apologizing for the splash or for trying to pop his stitches. He sat obligingly enough as she sifted through is wet hair to examine his injury. The stitches were intact and his wound was still closed. That didn't mean the stitches wouldn't wick moisture and bacteria into the fresh wound, though.
"You need to let this air dry. And then let me put something on it. You got any Neosporin?
"I don't know."
Once she was sure he was OK medically, her senses tuned into his closeness. Maybe her touch lingered a little longer than necessary on his shoulder as she examined the wound. Maybe the smooth slide of has damp strand of hair through her fingers gave her a little thrill. Maybe she examined the wound much more carefully than was really warranted. But she needed to be thorough, right? Uncle Hank had asked her to watch out for his friend and that's exactly what she was doing. Being a good nurse, making sure the injuries she'd caused in the first place were being taken care of properly.
Oh, hell, who was she kidding? She couldn't stop touching him, measuring the texture of his skin, cool from his swim, watching the way water droplets ran down his back in small rivulets pooling at the waistband of his shorts before the fabric absorbed them. Blood pulsed through her veins like it was she who was going to require a defibrillator if she didn't stop touching him.
She pulled her hands back as if she'd been caressing the belly of a wood burning stove.
"You're fine," she said a little more breathy than she would have liked. "Just keep it dry for a day or two."
He tensed, she could see the muscles in the shoulders tighten, then unfolded himself from the side of the pool and rose to his feet. He turned to face her.
The moonlight caught the wet strands of his hair making it gleam like ebony. His eyes had gone dark, too, and with the hard set to his beard-shadowed jaw and drawn-together brows, he looked like a younger, hotter Poseidon rising from his watery kingdom to smite ship or two.
"Thanks." His voice was husky and in the deep quiet of the night, broken only by the buzz of nighttime insects in the trees outside the fence, his voice was as intimate as a lover whispering into the shell of her ear.
"Someone has got to save you from yourself." She tried to keep it light but failed as the dark seductive mystery of him washed her thoughts with pure need.
He locked gazes with her and the same inexplicable pull, the same sense of getting lost in his gaze as had happened in the kitchen overwhelmed her senses and any coherent thoughts she might have had about turning around, sprinting straight to the guest bedroom and locking the door behind her.
Instead she stayed where she was and let herself be drawn in deeper. She felt herself go soft and open to whatever happened next, no matter what kind of mistake she was about to make.
He reached out a hand towards her cheek, then stopped a hair's breadth away, dropping his hand to his side at the last second and letting out a soul-weary breath.
"If you don't go inside and stop looking at me that way, I'm going to kiss you, Patterson. And I don't mean a 'thanks for the $5, Grandma' peck like you gave me in the kitchen." He did touch her then, just a feather tight touch of fingers on her bare forearm.
"Patterson." It was almost a plea but she didn't know if he was begging her to go or begging to stay.
Her blood boiled over, her senses short circuiting. She swayed towards him, her body saying what her lips couldn't. Yes. Yes.
"Aw, hell," he said roughly. Then he crashed into her, banding his arms around her so that every inch of his bare skin was touching e
very inch of hers, and he did exactly as he'd threatened.
CHAPTER SIX
Clearly the light concussion had made his brain go soft. It was the only explanation for his actions. How many times had he told himself over the past 12 hours or so that she wasn't to be touched. That looking at her with lust was a slap in the face to a friend who had trusted him. How many times had he forced himself to turn away from the sweet sexy curves and wide blue eyes that made him as hard as a pike with barely a brush of skin or lips or hands?
And all that had gone out the window as soon as she'd looked up at him, concern for him and something else plain on her upturned face. She wanted him, of that he had no doubt. He just didn't know why. And at the moment, when his arms were full of her soft, sweet-smelling curves and his mouth plundered her pillow-soft lips, it didn't much matter.
Trent angled his head to access her mouth more fully as passion he hadn't felt in years swept through his body like wild fire. Blood surged through his veins and he had absolutely no doubt that Patterson could feel how much he wanted her. It would be hard to miss with his erection, just on the other side of soaking wet boxer-briefs, pressing into the soft curve of her belly.
She moaned low in her throat and wrapped her arms around his neck, arching against him. God, she was going to kill him. He felt lightheaded, but deepened the kiss, the animal part of his brain automatically skipping ahead to locating the nearest horizontal surface.
Her nipples were hard and pressing into his chest, her flesh burning against the coolness of his skin. His hands dropped down to the luscious backside and pulled her harder against his body, seeking relief.
Her knees went soft and he held her small frame more tightly against his larger one, supporting her, gladly.
They breathed in rough gasps between kisses. This was crazy. Wrong. Perfect.
Nashville Crush Page 6
