by Selena Scott
Play it cool! she commanded herself. Her eyes dropped to his gigantic hand clutched in both of hers. She was holding onto him like a lifeline. She shifted her hands and held his hand palm up, like she was trying to catch the light. He instantly opened his fingers, held his hand completely still for her. She felt just a kiss of his breath on her temple.
So, she knew she was about to cross a line here. Up until now, pretty much everything she had done could be explained away as casual flirtation. This? What she was about to do? Felt different. She, snuggled up in the dark with him, was about to explore a part of his body. If that didn’t say come here, big boy, she didn’t know what did. And that’s how she knew she shouldn’t do it. Because she wasn’t asking Jean Luc to fuck her. She already knew that she wouldn’t, under any circumstances, be subjecting him to the miserable, disappointing experience of sleeping with someone sexually deficient, like herself. She was just flirting with him. That was all.
That was why she shouldn’t, under any circumstances, trace the lines in the palm of his—damn it! Her fingertips, apparently having a mind of their own, were already skating over that long, somehow handsome, line that swept across the middle of his palm. She leap-frogged from callus to callus and then flipped his hand over to inspect his nails.
What the hell was she doing? This was a suicide mission! Because, Jesus, even his nails were handsome. Square and clean with that perfect half moon of white at each cuticle. His arm flexed around her, just for a second, and Celia melted back just a little bit further into him. Her knees, drawn up to her chest, threatened to topple over to the side, press into the side of his leg. But she didn’t. She flipped his hand over again and just kept tracing the lines of his hand.
He held perfectly still and let her do whatever she was going to do.
Jean Luc was strung like a bow, vibrating with electricity as those small, gentle touches of hers just lit him right up. He swore his arm was numb from the elbow down. He didn’t think he’d ever in his life been touched like this. Affectionately, sweetly. It was sexual, of course, because she was this perfect little sexy warm gorgeousness pressed up against him. But her touch wasn’t aggressive or overt. Not like so many of the women he’d had experiences with, who seemed to really like grabbing the bull by the horns. So to speak. There was something so forward and so shy at the same time about this touch. And that, he was beginning to understand, was the perfect way to describe Celia. Forward and shy. Confident and self-conscious. She was like a pendulum, swinging from one side to the other. He wondered what would happen to a man if he could catch that pendulum perfectly in the middle, stop it still like a gong. Would he see the real her?
The thought was still clanging around in his mind when the credits rolled on the movie and their friends started shifting.
“Now that’s a movie,” Jack said, standing up and stretching. It was still dark, so he couldn’t quite see what the hell was happening over on the couch, but he knew for a fact that something had had Jean Luc’s juices going for the better part of that motion picture experience. And he didn’t think it was Jack Nicholson.
But Jack didn’t get a chance to see because the dark shapes on the couch separated and Celia was quickly folding a blanket and stretching. “Good night, everyone!” she called, a little too brightly, and ducked out of the room just like that.
Jean Luc felt like she’d just ripped Velcro off of his bare skin. She’d been all pliant and warm and touchy and then the movie was over and bam! She was off like a shot, practically running back to her room.
He rose up himself, said some goodnights and went to his own room. He closed the door and leaned back against it. Then and only then did he let out the whooshing breath that had been gathering in his chest for the last hour and a half.
***
Celia crept into the kitchen at dawn the next morning. She needed coffee and she needed it yesterday. That had been one of the worst night’s sleep of her entire life. The combination of the scary movie and the unresolved sexual tension had her tossing and turning for the better part of the night. She cursed herself for getting herself into this situation. And she cursed Jack, too. For suggesting it in the first place.
She pulled a mug down from the cabinet and looked out the kitchen window at the pool, still as ice in the early morning light. She indulged herself in a brief fantasy where she was actually amazing at sex and knew, without a doubt, that she could blow Jean Luc’s mind. Yeah. If that had been the case, last night would have ended up very differently. She’d have followed him back to his room, and stayed up all night for a very different reason.
She shook her head at herself. There was no point indulging that fantasy seeing as how that was pretty much her mind writing a check that her body couldn’t cash. It was only disappointment down that road. She sighed and stepped over to the coffee maker. She blinked at it. There was already coffee made. Huh. Someone must have set the timer.
“Why do you wear those?”
Celia ‘eeped’ and jumped a full foot in the air as she spun around to face Jean Luc, who’d apparently been sitting at the kitchen counter this entire time. She hadn’t seen him.
“Sorry,” he winced, and then his eyes widened. “Wow. Remind me never to sneak up on you again.”
Celia blinked down at the bread knife that had somehow found its way to her hand in the midst of her panic. “Wow,” she muttered. “I guess you can take the girl out of Brooklyn…” She carefully slid the bread knife back into its slot in the knife holder and poured herself a cup of coffee. “Guess I’m strung a little tight from the movie.”
He grunted and took a sip from his cup of coffee. He was strung tight too, but for a very different reason. “You gonna sit down?”
“Right.”
Celia hadn’t anticipated seeing anyone else this early, and though she was wildly grateful that she’d brushed her teeth, she cursed herself for not putting her contacts in. She pulled off her thick glasses and folded them up. Her glasses in one hand and her coffee cup in the other, she squinted her eyes and carefully stepped toward the barstools where Jean Luc was sitting.
“What the hell are you doing?” he asked, surprise and laughter in his voice.
She was too busy trying to pick her way across the fuzzy landscape of the kitchen while not falling on her ass or spilling her coffee to answer.
She jumped a little when she felt Jean Luc’s hand at her elbow, guiding her toward the counter.
“I don’t like people seeing me in my glasses,” she told him, straightening herself on the stool with as much dignity as she could muster.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “You think your sexy librarian frames are less attractive than that squinched-up raisin face you have to make without them?”
Her mouth dropped open, but she had to admit, he had a point. She was really squinting just to see him two feet in front of her across the counter. She sighed and put her glasses back on, staunchly ignoring the fact that he’d called them sexy librarian frames. If she thought about that, she was going to fall off her barstool. She put it in her back pocket to mull over later.
She needed something else to talk about. She cast around, trying to ignore the way he looked so freaking hot in a gray undershirt and his short hair pressed down at one side where he’d been sleeping on it. “What was it you asked me when you attempted to give me a heart attack and I attempted to stab your face off?”
He chuckled. He was hoping she’d missed that because he’d impulsively asked and immediately regretted it. “I was asking about the boxers that you’re wearing. Why you wear them instead of PJs.”
“Oh.” She looked down at the worn, blue and gray boxers. She also looked down and realized that her black camisole was leaving very little to the imagination right then. At least she hadn’t worn the white one that totally showed her nips. “I don’t like pajama pants because I get all bunched up and tangled in them.”
“So, you just go to the men’s section and buy yourself some boxers?”
>
“No,” she shook her head and took a sip of coffee. “These are my ex-boyfriend’s.”
Why oh why had she just admitted that? Now it sounded like she was some sort of creepy, desperate woman who was so lonely she’d stolen underwear from a man who’d dumped her just so she could sleep in them. Oh God. Now she was either going to have to explain further—humiliating—or just let him think whatever he was going to think—also humiliating.
But Jean Luc just raised one eyebrow. “Your ex-boyfriend must have been tiny as hell.” He leaned to one side, peering at her boxers over the counter.
“He wasn’t tiny!” Celia insisted. Though she wasn’t sure why. Max had definitely not been what one would call large. Or athletic. She waved a hand in the air. “I mean, compared to you, everyone is tiny.”
He straightened up a little in his chair and she could see him attempting to suppress a smile. “Recent break-up?” he asked, and she could have sworn the tips of his ears went red.
“No,” she shook her head immediately. “Maybe three or four years ago.”
“And you’re still wearing this man’s underwear because…” He was looking at her like she was crazy, or like he was trying hard not to ask the question he really wanted to be asking.
She shrugged. “Because they’re comfortable and he was a nice guy, so there’s no bad memories associated. And because I hate spending money. So why would I go buy new boxers when I have a few perfectly good pairs anyways?”
He nodded his head from one side to the other. “I can relate to that. I hate spending money. It’s like nails on a chalkboard for me.”
She turned the handle of her coffee cup one way and then the other. “Yet you insist on paying for the hotels and all the groceries and the gas and the car rental and—”
“Correction,” he told her. “I hate spending money on myself. I like spending money on,” he swallowed, “on people I care about.” He cleared his throat. “I bought Hugo a house and didn’t think twice. He was so pissed at me for doing it without asking.”
She gathered her courage. “Is it weird to be here without him?”
Jean Luc looked down immediately and Celia could have kicked herself when it was like a light had been extinguished within him. “Yeah. But everything is weird without him. Even years later, it’s still so weird and awful that I can’t call him up or text him. That I’m just never gonna see him again. I don’t know if I’ll ever get used to it.”
Celia slipped off the barstool before she could get a chance to psych herself out. She popped around the counter and pushed between Jean Luc’s legs. Up onto her tiptoes, she clamped her arms around his neck, pressing her forehead into his shoulder. He was frozen for a second before those big arms of his came around her back.
He was right. He swallowed her right up. He was tempted to plant his hands flat on her back, really feel her. But instead, he banded his forearms around her and squeezed her tight. She melted into him, all soft and tiny. His body was firing and his heart was banging around, but this hug was more about comfort than it was about sex. In a strange way, he almost felt rewarded for having talked about Hugo. It was like he’d taken a teaspoon of the crushing weight of grief that he felt, and he’d handed it to Celia. And now he was just a little bit lighter than he’d been before.
Celia gave him one more squeeze and stepped away. She wasn’t pressed against him anymore, but she was still between his knees as she reached across the counter for her coffee and stayed just exactly where she was. He cleared his throat.
“Thanks,” he said gruffly.
“For the hug?”
“For all of it,” he answered honestly. Every little thing she did was lifting him up. And it felt good. For the first time in a long time, he felt good.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Tre bounced on the balls of his feet like he was about to step into a basketball game. He shook out his hands and then his shoulders. He really didn’t want to do this. He really, really didn’t want to do this.
And he really had to do this.
“Where you goin’?” he asked Caroline as he walked up to the driveway where she was pumping up the tires on an old bike she’d found in the shed around the side of the house.
“Just thought I’d go for a ride. I love biking.” She wore neat little navy blue shorts, a fancy, light blue T-shirt, and the whitest sneakers Tre had ever seen in his life. “Wanna come? There’s another bike in there. It might fit you. Though you’ve got long legs.”
He shifted a bit to one side as her caramel eyes zipped up his legs. “Ah, sure. Be right back.”
He’d go on a bike ride with her and then he’d tell her about her husband. Maybe it was smarter to do it somewhere away from the house. Where she could have a little privacy from everyone if she needed to cry about it. Oh God. He really hoped she wasn’t going to cry about it. Any woman crying was enough to have Tre’s neck going bright red, but to witness Caroline Clifton crying? That was like watching the sun itself somehow start to produce rain. It just went against the laws of nature.
He wheeled the bike around and they fixed up the tires. “I’ve gotta be back in an hour or so,” he told her. “Bear practice.”
“Oh! Okay, no problem.”
They set off together, Caroline in front and Tre bringing up the rear. And speaking of rears. Jeez. Tre did his best to keep his eyes on the greenery and the blue sky whipping past them, but holy Moses did this woman have an ass. She was tiny up top and had the ass of two women on the bottom. The most gorgeous little pear he’d ever seen. She looked back over her shoulder and he immediately did an exaggerated half circle with his head as if he’d just been animatedly enjoying the scenery and not the up and down of her ass on that bike seat.
“I know an ice cream stand on the edge of town if you wanna pull over there before we head back?”
He hadn’t realized they were quite that close to the edge of civilization, but he nodded.
They pulled up to the stand and it was definitely busy, but there were some empty picnic tables dotted around the lawn that Tre figured was as good a place as any to break the horrible news he had to break.
Caroline got in line, her hands in her pockets and her chestnut ponytail long enough to rest over one of her shoulders. Tre stood next to her and frowned when he realized that pretty much every dude, young and old, was looking at Caroline. Whether they were stealing glances between helping their kids with their ice cream cones, or they were just out and out staring at her, every single one had noticed her. Annoyance curled in Tre’s belly. He was not a fan of this phenomenon.
Tre stepped a touch closer to her and for the first time, realized that he was really a lot taller than she was. The top of her head was well below his chin. He looked down at her and—whoops!—immediately looked away, realizing that he had the perfect vantage point for seeing down her shirt. He cleared his throat and attempted to forget about the edge of the lacy pink bra he’d caught sight of. Fat chance.
They ordered their ice cream and sat down at the farthest picnic table. Tre put Caroline’s back to the crowd of people back at the stand so that she wouldn’t have to worry about hiding her face if she cried. The side effect was that her perfect, peachy ass was on full display, but he figured he couldn’t win them all right then.
“Caroline? I wanted to talk to you about something.” He planted his spoon in his chocolate and wiped his mouth with a napkin.
“Oh?” She licked at her strawberry cone.
“Yeah. And I just wanna say that you’re probably gonna be mad at me. And that’s okay. I deserve it.”
She furrowed her brow in confusion. “I really can’t imagine being mad at you, Tre. You’re so kind. And funny!”
“Yeah. Look. I’m not gonna drag it out. But I just think there’s something that you need to know. About your husband.”
“About Peter?” Now she looked really confused.
“Yeah. Ah, I hate so much to tell you this, Caroline. But I think he’s been cheating on
you.”
She froze, her eyes wide. She tried to put her ice cream cone down, but realizing that it wasn’t going to balance on the table, just passed it from hand to hand. Tre leaned over and gently took it off her hands.
He figured that he’d delivered the blow, now he needed to explain. “I hacked into his accounts, while we were still in Michigan. I wasn’t looking for it exactly, but I found evidence that he’s been using some dating sites. And, uh, some hookup sights.”
“You hacked into his accounts?” she asked, her eyes still wide.
He really couldn’t tell, even remotely, what she was feeling. “Yeah. Yes. Caroline, I’m so sorry. I know it wasn’t any of my business. But I had this weird feeling. Like something wasn’t quite right. It was before you told us about your divorce, and I just kind of knew you were hiding something. But I didn’t want to completely invade your privacy by hacking you. So I looked into Peter and…”
He scraped his free hand over the back of his neck, pushed up his thick glasses and rubbed at his eyes. “I’m so sorry, Caroline. About all of it, but especially that I invaded your life like that and—”
He cut off when her hand came across the picnic table and squeezed at his elbow. “You were protecting the group, Tre. You sensed I had a secret, which I did, and you did what you had to do to protect the group. I’m not mad that you hacked Peter.” She ducked her face behind her hands. “I’m just really embarrassed about what you found.”
