by Laura Drake
She slid her hand from under his and put the top on the Poupon. “Yeah, maybe. But I’m touched. People don’t usually care that much what I think.”
An hour later he and Priss sat side by side on the edge of the small cliff, watching Nacho herding small crabs with a stick. His shoes were soaked and his legs were sand-dusted, but it was clear he was enjoying himself.
Once Adam had gotten Priss talking, he’d discovered they had a few things in common besides music and baseball. Priss, too, wanted to see places.
She sat cross-legged, pulling up stems of grass, one at a time. “And so, after school’s out, Nacho and I will move on to the next place.”
The pâté soured in his stomach. “What? Where?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe Boston. Or Boca Raton. Or Seattle. It depends on where I get a job.”
Bells went off in his head. “You have a job.”
Her eye roll included a head tilt. “Yeah, a great job. Even you thought so.”
“Hey, it’s a paycheck, right? What about Nacho?”
She shrugged. “Kids are portable. It’d be good for him to see other parts of the country.”
He looked out to where the sun neared the horizon. “My legendary luck is running true to form. The most intriguing woman I’ve met in years walks into my life, and she’s on her way to somewhere else.”
Priss’s small shoulder gave his a gentle bump. “It’s only March. Nacho’s not out of school till the end of June.”
When his pâté sandwich tried to crawl up his throat, he swallowed it again. He’d just made up his mind to grab for the life he wanted.
Three months weren’t going to be near long enough.
“We’d better get going, if we want to be back by dark.” He stood, and reached a hand down to help Priss up. Her hand fit in his as if it belonged there.
She squeezed his hand. The look in her eyes lit the pilot flame in his chest and the heat cranked up.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
PRISS WOKE MONDAY to an explosive sneeze. Overnight the tickle at the back of her throat had expanded to a full-size feather duster crammed into her sinuses. Glancing at the alarm clock on the nightstand, she threw off the covers, rolled her legs out of bed and sat up. Her head throbbed with every conga drumbeat of her heart. When she blinked, the sandpaper on her lids scoured her eyeballs.
Nacho’s head appeared at the doorframe. “You’re not up? We’re gonna be late.” He stepped in. “Wow, you look like crap.”
She gently lowered her massive head into her hands. “I tink I’b dying.”
He swung his backpack onto his shoulders. “Okay, but can you do it after you take me to school? I’ve got a spelling test.” He leaned his shoulder on the doorjamb as if collecting his cool. “Not that I care.”
The oversize T-shirt brushed her knees when she pushed to her feet. “I’ll bake you sobe eggs—”
“We don’t have time. I ate some Cap’n Crunch.”
She sneezed again. “Okay. Hag on. I’m boving.” She shuffled for the bathroom.
How do mothers do this?
A half hour later after dropping Nacho off and getting chewed out by Floyd for calling in sick, Priss slid onto a tall stool at the soda fountain and laid her head on the bar.
Sin’s gum snapped double-time. “Now that’s sanitary.”
“Could you snap that gub a little more quietly?” Priss slipped her forearm under her throbbing temple. “Do you dow a good doctor?”
Sin poured her a cup of coffee. “Wouldn’t it just be quicker to call the mortuary?”
“Okay. Whateber.”
“Anyway, no one would be in their office or clinic yet. But hello—this is a drugstore.” She cupped a hand around her mouth and yelled, “Hey, boss, cleanup in the fountain area!”
Priss covered her ears, but it was too late. The echo ricocheted through her skull like a stray bullet.
“Sin, you don’t have to bellow.” Footsteps and a voice got closer. “I have a cell phone in my pocket.”
Sin pointed at Priss. “It will not help business if she’s still here when we open.” Snap. Snap. “I’m just saying.”
“Priss?” A hand touched her back. “What’s wrong?”
She pushed herself upright. “I hab a cold.”
“Let me see.” The back of his hand touched her forehead. “No fever. That’s good.”
His hands bracketed her cheeks. “Do your eyes itch?” His thumbs pulled down her lower lids.
“My eyes, my throat, eben my tongue itches.” She dropped her too-big head onto her forearms. “Just leab me here to die.”
He chuckled. “You’ve got hay fever.”
She rolled her forehead on her arm. “I don’t hab allergies.”
He smiled down at her. “I hate to argue with a dying woman, but you do, hon.”
Sin’s gum interrupted. “I had that once, when I visited my cousins in Pittsburg. I was miserable. I’m never going back there.”
His arm came around Priss’s waist, helping her to her feet. “Come on, I’ll fix you right up.” He stopped. “Unless you’d rather see a doctor?”
Widow’s Grove trusted Adam as their pharmacist. Surely an entire town couldn’t be wrong. But he was a nice guy—and nice guys couldn’t be trusted. Right? She looked into his soft brown eyes and saw competence. And concern. And caring. She thought back to what she knew of him: his empathy after her fight with Nacho, how hard he’d tried to make a good impression, on their “date,” that smoking kiss on the sidewalk just outside the window. Truth was, for whatever reason, she did trust Adam. She relaxed into him, allowing him to support her. “I’ll trust you.”
They walked together down the “cold and allergy” aisle. “Do you own a Neti Pot?”
“Whad’s dat?”
“Okay, you go upstairs. I’ll gather the stuff you need and be up in a few minutes.”
“Brig drugs.” She missed his warmth as soon as he dropped his arm. “Major drugs.”
He smiled. “You’re going to feel better in a half hour. Promise.”
Within five minutes he was at her door, arms full of relief. He punched two allergy pills out of the foil packet, fetched a glass of cold water, and put both in her hand.
“Those will start working soon, but let’s do something for your sinuses in the meantime.” He opened a rectangular box.
“Okay, but you deed to know, I’b paying for all dis. What is dat, Aladdin’s lamp?”
“Nope. A Neti Pot.” He opened a bottle of distilled water and poured it into the “lamp.” “You use it to run room temperature salt water through your sinuses...” He opened the cupboard over the stove. “Where’s your salt?”
She took it from the table and handed it to him.
“This’ll work like a charm.” He shook salt in, then mimed how to use it. “Come over to the sink.”
She imagined what was going to drain out of her head. “I’b not doing dat while you watch.”
“Oh, all right. Go in the bathroom, then. Remember to breathe through your mouth.”
The treatment was gross and messy, but the salt water shrunk her sinuses almost immediately. The pills must have kicked in too, because she could breathe again.
Glancing in the mirror, she winced. She looked terrible. Why hadn’t Adam run screaming? She wet her fingers and spiked the bed-head, brushed her teeth, and tried a quick Visine application to get the red out. She considered lipstick, but decided against. Lipstick was for job interviews and serious dates. This was neither.
Checking to be sure Nacho had flushed the toilet, she mopped the counter with a bath towel. She glanced in the mirror once more, then snatched the lipstick and swiped it across her lips before opening the door.
Adam stood leaning against the counter, his long l
egs crossed at the ankles, his shoulders blotting out the light from the window over the sink. That one fallen curl on his forehead, the chin dimple. He may be a good boy, but he was a smokin’ hot good boy. “Better?”
“Yes, thanks to you. I think the drugs are kicking in, too.” She stepped out, suddenly aware that they were alone in the apartment.
“Do you want coffee?” He glanced to the cupboard over the counter. Of course he knew where the cups were. This used to be his apartment. She imagined him living here: cooking in her kitchen, showering in her bathroom, lying in her bed. Naked. She swallowed. “No, thanks.”
Maybe their thoughts were synced, because suddenly his professional look softened, going all smoky. He reached out and the back of his fingers grazed her cheek.
Odd as it was, she really liked this nice guy. He was so cute that day of the picnic, all flustered at having brought pâté. She’d been touched that he had tried so hard. Might as well face facts. Downstairs, she said she trusted him, and in spite of every bit of evidence in her past screaming that she shouldn’t—couldn’t—she did.
As long as he knew this was temporary, why not give in to the attraction that pulled at her? They could have some fun before she flew off to the next place.
The air seemed warmer, closer all of a sudden. More intimate. Her libido roared to life, imagining his broad hands on her bare skin, his leg, thrown over hers, his...
“Apparently that thing is Aladdin’s lamp because I feel so much better.” She took a step closer. “Can you guess what I wished for?”
His lips twitched. “Too easy. Clear sinuses.”
“Well, yeah.” Giving in to the tug deep inside, she took the last step that brought her inches from him. The clean smell of his skin filled her head. “But I get three, right?” She ran a finger along his strong jaw and down his neck, to the first button of his shirt. “Want to know my second wish?” She looked up at him, trying for sultry.
She must have achieved some version of it, because his dark chocolate eyes melted to black.
His arm came around her waist to bring her snug against his long length. “I don’t know about the second, but I call dibs on the third,” he whispered, lowering his head to kiss her.
What was it about his kisses that made them different from anyone else’s? It was as if his entire attention gathered to that moment, drawing to a white-hot laser of focus.
And it burned.
With a twist of her fingers, the first shirt button slipped out of its starched prison. She moved to the next.
She was so tired of reasoning with herself, arguing how this wasn’t a good idea. Her brain knew it wasn’t—she just didn’t care.
When he lightened the kiss, she caught his bottom lip with her teeth. He moaned and took her again, making love to her mouth.
She caught fire. The heat fanned out. She felt it in intimate places: the soft hollow of her throat, the tops of her breasts, between her legs. Adam was so buttoned-down. What would happen if she undid all his buttons, and started pushing them, instead?
The thought blew away when he cupped her butt and lifted her slowly over his hard length. Electricity zipped from her core, sending sparks that ignited her lips, her nipples...her need. It was her turn to moan. When he pushed away from the counter, she wrapped her legs around his waist.
“Don’t you have to get to work?” She whispered against his lips.
“Oh, hon, I think I might have to be a little late today.” Still cupping her bottom and kissing her dizzy, he walked to the bedroom as if he owned it. Which he did.
When they fell onto the rumpled bed the warm smell of her night billowed around them. The thought drifted through her mind that she’d never see this bed the same way again—before all thought blew away in the wind that was Adam. He may have been tentative that day on the beach, but he wasn’t now.
He lay beside her, reading her face as his hand slipped under her T-shirt. His eyes widened at discovery that she hadn’t put on a bra this morning.
She smiled. “Just for fun, right?”
“Oh, yeah, I can get behind that.”
She closed her eyes to feel without the distraction of sight. It’s only a brief rest. Enjoy it while you have it.
And with a flip of a switch, she let go of what she held so tightly.
His lips captured her earlobe and bit lightly. She squirmed. He must have created some magical magnetic pull because when he lifted his hand from her breast, her body followed, arching against the bed.
“Don’t move.” Adam sat up and shrugged out of his unbuttoned shirt.
She didn’t need him to tell her to stay still. The dozens of short white scars marring his chest paralyzed her. When he turned away to toe out of his shoes, the matching scars on his back sucked her breath away. A soft sympathy spread through her chest. These were old scars. Very old. She reached out to smooth one, to ease the pain of it, retroactively.
He flinched, then froze. As if her touch allowed her to read his mind, Priss realized he’d forgotten the scars for just that moment, and was now sorry he had. She lowered her hand. She had no right to know his thoughts.
In one fluid motion, he dropped his pants, stepped out of them, and turned.
She forgot the scars, too. The buttoned-down pharmacist goes commando? The long, rigid length of him bounced against his flat belly.
“You’re full of surprises, Preston.”
A corner of his mouth lifted in a smoky smile full of promise. “Oh, I hope so.”
He held out a hand. She took it and he pulled her to her feet. He skimmed his hands over her ribs as if she were an exotic piece of art. Her T-shirt bunched, so she raised her arms and he whisked it off. His gaze warmed her flesh where it lingered.
He lowered his head.
She heard a whimper and realized it was her. He sucked in her hard nipple, then blew a soft breath across it. Tinder caught and flared, the sweet flames roaring under her skin, racing through her, melting all they touched. Her hips bucked against him. It had been a long time.
“So sweet.” He said it like a prayer.
Her knees weakened but his hands were there, supporting the backs of her thighs. She had to touch. She grabbed handfuls of his thick hair. His tongue scorched a path across her stomach, trailing nips and kisses. Her eyes closed to better feel. With a rattle of zipper teeth and a brush of air on her belly, she let go of him and watched as he slid her jeans and the damp panties down her legs. No longer supported, she plopped on the bed and her eyelids slid shut.
How had she ever imagined Adam staid and uptight? The man before her was all fluid power, carefully harnessed, but hot. Searing hot.
“Priscilla, watch.”
She opened her eyes. Wide.
His dark eyes bored into her, asking, demanding, taking.
When he lowered his head and inhaled, she twitched deep inside. He exhaled, blowing on the fire, teasing it, setting her ablaze. She squirmed beneath him, the watching somehow making this intimate moment more private—even more personal. When his tongue whispered against her sensitive bud, electric heat shot from her sex to her nipples with a flash of pure lust, leaving in its wake an aching hollowness.
Be careful; this man is addictive.
The thought melted before her need. “Adam. Please.” She caught his wrists, unable to articulate her yearning.
He looked up and saw it. He must have, because after one last intimate kiss, he fumbled with his jeans on the floor, brought out a condom, opened it with his teeth and unrolled it onto his length.
I wasn’t the only one thinking—
Then he was with her, his long body filling the bed, his clean scent filling her head. Lying side by side, he seemed taller—larger. But her need was larger still. She reached for him.
He caught her hands. “Be sure.”
“I told you downstairs I trust you.” She gave him a flirty smile. “Did you think that only covered dispensing pills?” She twined her fingers with his and curled his hands against her breasts, capturing them both. He kissed her deeply and she threw a leg over his hip and guided him to the edge of her.
He broke off the kiss, settling his head on the other half of her pillow, watching her with heavy-lidded eyes. With a thrust of her hips, he was inside. With a thrust of his, he filled every empty place to overflowing. Her muscles closed around him and squeezed in a grateful spasm.
Still, he watched her with smoky, unfocused eyes, his lips parted in a sigh.
But her need wouldn’t wait, not this time. She felt a rumble in the floor of her pelvis and she clung to Adam as it barreled toward them like a locomotive out of a tunnel. He wrapped his arms around her and rolled until he was above her—deep inside her. But then “her” ceased to exist and it was just them—pumping, pulling, straining, as the locomotive caught up and overran them, enveloping them in a cocoon of tympanic sensation. They rode it, rushing fast to the jumping-off place.
With one cry they plunged over the edge, falling together with sparks all around them in a white-hot shower.
When their syncronized breathing slowed, Adam lifted himself on his forearms, his hands cradling her head. He looked down at her. Looked down into her. His tender look seemed to cherish her face. His soft-as-butter smile told her what he saw.
Her stomach muscles jerked tight, slamming the door that had fallen open when she was unaware. Looking away, she squirmed until he rolled off her. But he didn’t go far. He lay on his side, one possessive forearm across her chest, his trailing fingers cupping her ribs.
What just happened?
What they had just shared was different from anything she’d experienced before—as if they’d met in the middle, on some other plane. Priss knew they came from different places, with backgrounds and personalities. But in that space, they didn’t seem different at all. He wasn’t exacting and uptight. He’d been open, and giving, and there. She felt as though she’d tasted the essence of Adam Preston. And he was richer than condensed milk.
