Wishes and Stitches

by Rachael Herron

  Naomi didn’t move. She stayed resting again Rig’s broad back, and whispered, “Damn.”

  She felt his laughter more than she heard it: a rumble that moved from his lower abdomen up to his chest. Naomi’s hands had been resting lightly on Rig’s hips, and she let herself feel the denim fabric for another heartbeat before she sat up and away from him. Then she slid off the bike, feeling graceless as she hopped backward to avoid touching the pipe Rig had said was hot. She took off her helmet and her head felt so light that it might float away.

  Inside, Anna waited for her. It said something awful about her that she wanted to stay out here with Rig, just a few more minutes. But she didn’t want to go in, not just yet.

  He sat on the curb and patted the concrete next to him. “You wanna tell me what happened back there?”

  “When?” Playing the dumb card wouldn’t help, but it bought her an extra second or two while she sat down next to him.

  “At the shop, when you freaked out.”

  “I didn’t . . .” She couldn’t tell him the truth. It was too pathetic.

  “You did.” He leaned so that he could lift her hand and tuck it into his.

  And suddenly, with that touch, Naomi wanted to tell him. She felt as if she could. “I overheard some women talking about me. They weren’t nice, and it kind of confirmed something for me.”

  “What?”

  “That I don’t fit in here. That instead of just being ambivalent about my presence, which is what I thought, they actually dislike me.” The words felt as if they were twisting their way out of her mouth. She closed it tightly to prevent more from coming out.

  The streetlight above them gave a metallic clink and went out. A curtain twitched across the street, and Naomi knew Mrs. Strufend was watching them, making sure they weren’t planning on stealing her 1972 mint green Cadillac.

  But instead of protesting, which Naomi expected Rig to do, instead of telling her she must have misunderstood them, he asked, “What are you going to do about it?”

  Naomi took her hand back, and shoved it through the curls that kept blowing annoyingly into her face. “Do about it? I can’t change the way they feel. Psych 101, you remember. I’m not responsible for their emotions.”

  “Oh, cut the crap,” Rig’s voice was a drawl in the dark. “You’ve done something to earn their dislike. If it’s something you want to continue, then fuck ’em. And if what you’ve done is something you want to change, then change, and see what happens with them.”

  “I didn’t do anything,” muttered Naomi as she plucked a sad piece of grass from behind her and examined it. She really should water more often.

  “So what didn’t you do?”

  Shit. He was on the money, and she didn’t like it.

  “Well, I didn’t come into town and pretend to be the next best thing, trying to be everyone’s friend.” She let the implication remain only in her tone. “I didn’t josh with everyone in Tillie’s or join every committee they asked me to. I didn’t have time. I thought people would meet me in my practice—I thought that’s how I would make friends.” Her throat tightened with sudden tears, and Naomi was horrified. She didn’t cry in front of anyone. Certainly not her new business partner who happened to be stroking her shoulder in a way that was both comforting and devastatingly hot.

  She cleared her throat and tried again. “I thought that slowly, I’d become part of a group, like I was down south. I miss them. I miss my friends. But they’re too busy with their own work to come up, and God knows I haven’t been able to find the time to go south. It’s been a year already . . .” She folded her arms on the tops of her knees, and then put her head down, swallowing as hard as she could to try to keep back the awful lump that rose in her throat. “They said I was stuck up.” She groaned and buried her head farther.

  Rig didn’t say anything immediately, which further increased Naomi’s agony. But his hand massaged back and forth along her shoulder blades, a warm, reassuring touch. He wasn’t trying anything with her. He more than likely never would, not after this meltdown. And that was fine. Wasn’t it?

  “You probably haven’t failed. Not completely,” said Rig finally. “You’re just a little . . . awkward.”

  “Thank you.” Naomi turned her head to the right to stare at him. “And you’re no help. The town already loves you.”

  “You forget I had an in—my brother. Everyone loves a firefighter.”

  Naomi rubbed her head back and forth on her folded hands. “No, I think it’s you.”

  He scooted the final inch closer, so that now their sides were touching. He stared across the street and she saw him blink as Felix, Mrs. Strufend’s gigantic great Dane pressed his nose against the glass at the top of her front door. “Wow. But hey, what about me?”

  “What?”

  “Why do you think they like me?” Rig cocked his head to the side and waited, seeming intent on her answer.

  Was he fishing for a compliment? It sounded like it, but Naomi didn’t think that was his purpose. He didn’t really seem like the kind of guy who needed affirmation. God, he felt good next to her. So warm, as if he were giving off warmth like a heater. Naomi had to physically restrain herself from pushing back into him. She’d climb in his lap if she could.

  But she couldn’t. Naomi gave herself a mental shake, and then considered his question.

  “Truthfully?”

  He nodded. “Yep. Truth.”

  “Because you’re The Guy.”

  A slight furrow dented his forehead. “Huh?”

  “You’re tall. You’re the right age. You have cheekbones practically as broad as your shoulders. You’re a doctor, for goodness’ sake.”

  “So are you. So what?”

  “It’s different. You drive a motorcycle. You worked on oil rigs. You’re a man’s man, doing a man’s job.”

  “No way,” Rig said. “You can’t reduce this to a gender argument.”

  “I can and I will. That’s what it’s about. They don’t talk to me, put me at my own stupid table at the diner, hold out until they’re practically dead hoping Pederson is coming back, but you waltz in, and you’re accepted.”

  “You’re saying that’s because I’m male.”

  “And tall. And okay looking.”

  Rig threw his head back and laughed up into the night sky. “Well, at least you think I’m okay looking.”

  He was better than okay looking, but she wouldn’t say it. She wouldn’t give him that satisfaction. Naomi lifted the shoulder that was touching his with a slight up-down motion. “I guess.”

  She wanted to touch him more. With a wild desperation that didn’t fit in her body, she wanted to kiss him. To feel his mouth on hers again, to determine if the heat that had flared between them would happen again.

  No, no, no. No.

  He had to leave. She’d lost her mind, riding out with him. And they had to be at work on Monday, ready to go, working together, side by side, professionally.

  Abruptly, Naomi stood. “Thanks for the ride, then.” She busied herself with brushing off the seat of her pants.

  Rig looked surprised but stood with her. “Yeah. Okay.” He threw his leg over the bike and looked at her, his eyes intense in the darkness. “I had a great time tonight.”

  Naomi kicked at a pebble. “Thanks,” she mumbled. She wanted to run in the house and bury herself in the afghan on the couch, but she knew another problem was waiting for her inside.

  He gave the kick that would preface the rumble of the bike below him. But instead of a roar, she heard a click. Rig kicked the starter again. Still nothing.

  “What’s going on?”

  “Hell if I know. Old bikes like this . . .” Rig’s leg jerked again, and this time, there was a loud bang and a rattle that seemed to jerk his whole body, followed by another pop.

  “Whoa!” Rig leaped off the bike and stood next to her on the curb, watching as it smoked.

  “I think it’s on fire,” he said. “Whoops.”

/>   Chapter Twenty-one

  I’ve studied a little Zen in my time. Knitting is the opposite of a koan, I think, but it has the same grace.

  —E.C.

  But no flames rose, and the smoke or dust, whatever it had been, dissipated, leaving just the smell of burning oil and a faint tink-tink from the engine.

  Naomi waited a beat while he stared at the bike, unmoving. Then she said, “Isn’t this where you hit the dirt with a wrench, getting grease on your hands? Further proving the town right about you? You know, Zen and the Art and all?”

  Rig shook his head. “I love riding, but I don’t know a damn thing about engines. Of any kind. I know how people work. That’s about it.”

  Naomi felt a flutter in her stomach.

  Rig stuck his hand in his front pocket and pulled out a cell phone. “I’ll just call my brother.”

  Standing on opposite sides of the motorcycle, Naomi watched as he dialed, then listened as he gave his brother directions. “Quit it. Just get here.” A pause. “Shut up.” A click as he snapped the phone shut. “Smart-ass. He’s on his way. He’s not far.”

  There was an electrically charged pause. Should she invite him in? Naomi dug her nails into her palms. Need hit her, hard. A ridiculous desire to test him. To test herself.

  Rig kicked a booted toe into the edge of the gutter and kept his eyes down. The quiet grew louder.

  She would figure this out. Naomi only knew why she was moving a second before she came around the back wheel. She didn’t give herself time to form an argument. Coming face-to-face with Rig, she grabbed the front of his leather jacket in both hands.

  In the moonlight, his eyes widened, and the beginning of a smile crept across his mouth.

  “What—?”

  “I just have to try this again,” Naomi said. This would be scientific. A controlled study. In Portland, it had been . . . In her living room, it was . . . no, she must be remembering wrong. One more try, then.

  Going up on tiptoe, she pulled herself up to his mouth. She didn’t go slowly. The kiss started up right where it had left off earlier, as if no time had passed. Her head swam, and she held on tightly to her intention. This was a test—she was in control.

  Rig met her intensity, wrapping his arms around her waist, drawing her against him, hard. His tongue rasped against hers, and Naomi kept track of who was in charge of the kiss. She was, no, he was . . . No, she definitely was. No question.

  He sucked on her lower lip, then breathed into her mouth, and she inhaled him, wanting to draw him into her, down inside where her need started, growing with each flick of his tongue. She was shocked to feel her knees shake, and pressed her thighs to his while at the same time, she leaned out, taking a juddering breath. She needed cool air in her lungs to come back to herself.

  More. She should push this further. Just to see. His head dipped toward her again. Releasing his jacket, feeling herself supported fully by his arms around her waist, she wove her hands into his hair, dragging her fingers down his neck, back up to the base of his skull so she could pull his kiss against her harder. Rougher.

  Getting air was difficult again, and she heard the ragged edges of his breath match her own. Forgetting her study of the kiss, unable to stop herself, she dropped her hand down to the front of his jeans, pressing against where she could feel him straining. He bit off a curse against the side of her jaw and leaned more heavily into her, bucking again at the touch of her hand.

  “Naomi . . .”

  “What?” she whispered, dipping her tongue into the corner of his lips, just where they met. He tasted sweet and metallic. She couldn’t get enough.

  “You have to . . .”

  “Have to what?” A heady feeling of power coursed through her as she felt his sides shake with a need that matched hers. Yes. This was what she wanted.

  “Stop. You have to stop.”

  Naomi pulled her head back and looked at him. The moonlight bathed his high, broad cheekbones, and she could see that they were flushed with warmth. Good. Her whole body was superheated, and she wanted his to match.

  “Why?” she asked. A little more of the kiss wouldn’t hurt. Just testing. She told herself she could keep it together. She knew she could. If she figured out exactly how dangerous he was for her, she could control her responses.

  “Because,” Rig said, and leaned forward to graze her cheek with the stubble of his chin. His voice was intense, pitched low and directly into her ear. “If you don’t, my brother is going to drive up and find me fucking you against the bike.”

  And just like that, Naomi lost control of the situation. The image crashed through her mind, her naked legs wrapped around his hips, Rig thrusting into her—her knees, already shaking, felt as if they were made of liquid, like the rest of her. She clung to him, her mouth open. She couldn’t find the words, the right words . . .

  Rig drew the lobe of her ear into his mouth, and then said, “And if I do that then the woman across the street”—Naomi peeked at Mrs. Strufend, who was gawping at them through her kitchen window—“will probably have a heart attack, and we’ll have to save her, and I don’t feel like saving anyone but you right now.”

  Naomi turned her head and took a deep breath. “You’re right. We have to stop.” She managed to push her way out of his arms and stumbled backward a few steps. Her lips felt swollen, burned by stubble, and she put her arms out, as if something were nearby to steady her.

  The streetlight clicked back on, and lit him like a spotlight. His hair stuck out on the side where she’d had her fingers in it, and his bottom lip shone, wet. He looked like he should be smoke jumping, not ferrying a coworker home.

  She’d been playing with matches, forgetting he was a fucking volcano. Holy Christ. She barely restrained herself from panting.

  Naomi couldn’t let that happen again. How ridiculous. Thank God it was Friday and she wouldn’t have to face him in the morning.

  Already, now that the heat of his body had been removed from hers, the cool air was giving her a chill. Goose bumps prickled her arms. His chest was rising and falling like hers. Damn it. She was struck by the completely irrational urge to fly back to him, wrap herself around him so tight that they both went crazy, and at the same time, she wanted desperately to run inside. Away from here. Away from him. Oh, but God, she’d forgotten yet again that her home was occupied by her pregnant sister. Damn, damn, damn.

  “I’m sorry,” she mumbled, looking anywhere but at his moonlit eyes. A shooting star grazed his shoulder.

  “I’m not,” he said. His voice was sugar on gravel. “I’m glad as hell.”

  A car’s engine sounded in the distance. A wild feeling of gratitude rose in her chest. “Is that him? Your brother?”

  “Probably.”

  “Thank God.”

  The car, a small black Jetta, pulled onto the street and then drew alongside them. The window went down, and Jake Keller’s head came out the driver’s-side window.

  “All three of us needed an outing. Hope you don’t mind.”

  Chapter Twenty-two

  At some point, you’ll drop all your notions in the worst place possible, as we all do. Just gather as many stitch markers as you can—the ones you can’t pick up will help a knitter later.

  —E.C.

  Rig’s father gave a cheery wave, grinning like the five-year-old Milo who sat behind him. For God’s sake. His brother had brought the whole damn family.

  “Hey, you two.” Jake got out of the car and gave Naomi an assessing look. Then he turned to his brother and winked. “What’s wrong with your bike?”

  Apparently Jake had forgiven him for the argument about the photo album yesterday. Good. That was something.

  “You had to bring everyone?” said Rig.

  “Sure!” said Jake. “We were bored. Milo couldn’t sleep. Thought we’d come help Uncle Rig.”

  Rig’s father unfolded himself from the front passenger seat into the street, stretching and sighing as he did so. “Your car is cram
ped, Jake. You should get a new one the Keller men fit into.”

  The situation was turning even more embarrassing than Rig had imagined it would be to have his brother rescue him. Frank approached Naomi, who stood in place with a quizzical expression on her face. Was she wondering if he’d ordered reinforcements?

  “Frank Keller, at your service,” his father said, holding out his hand.

  “Dr. Naomi Fontaine, nice to meet you.”

  His father leaned forward, took her hand with both of his, and then bowed to kiss her knuckles. She’d been kissed by two Keller men tonight, Rig realized. Naomi giggled, a cute-as-hell sound Rig hadn’t heard before. He made an immediate vow to get her to giggle for him. There was no way his father was getting away with it if Rig couldn’t.

  “I don’t know what’s wrong. It just kind of blew up,” he said to Jake.

  “Blew up? Motorcycles don’t—” The firefighter in his brother looked concerned. “You both all right?”

  “Fine, fine. I think it threw something, which pissed something else off.”

  “You never were the mechanic in the family.” Frank released Naomi’s hand and tapped himself proudly on the chest. “I rebuilt my Volvo’s engine last summer. It’s at Jake’s house, runs like a dream.”

  “The horn honks when you use the turn signal,” Jake said.

  “That’s just electrical,” snapped Frank. He turned back to Naomi and beamed. “The engine purrs. And you, my dear, look lovely tonight.”

  “Don’t hit on Rig’s date, Dad,” said Jake. “It never goes as well as you think it will.”

  “Well, thanks for coming to get me,” said Rig. He wasn’t above begging. This had just turned into the most uncomfortable date he’d ever been on. “Naomi, I’ll have the shop pick up the bike in the morning.”

  “You’re leaving it here?” asked Jake.

  “What, you think you can fix it with your mechanical prowess and mind control? Got a toolbox on you, bro?”

  Jake shrugged. “Guess not.”

  “So let’s go.”

  “I have to pee,” piped Milo, poking one hand out the open window.