“Harley danced?”
He grinned, sending a flurry of little twinges down to her core. Was it possible to love this man any more than she did? Totally possible.
“I’ll make him prove it to you next time he’s in town.” He ran his hand along the top of the steering wheel then gripped it tight at the two o’clock position, his smile slipping a notch. “But as in everything, Harley figured it out first. The two of us refusing to talk about her over the years gave her a power she didn’t deserve. She wasn’t the monster I’d built up in my head as a child. But she did monstrous things—things she tried to apologize for when I got older. I’d never let her finish, thinking by withholding my forgiveness, I’d make her suffer.”
“Instead, you suffered more,” Holly said quietly. “It isn’t in your nature to forgive easily.”
“No. We Scorpios are masters at holding eternal grudges. It just took me a while to figure out that I’d continue to pay far too high a price by holding on to that grudge.” Ford slid his arm along the back of her seat and brushed his knuckles down her cheek. “But not with you—I’ll never hold a grudge against you.”
“You forgive me for knocking you back twice?”
“Nothing to forgive. I’m a stubborn idiot. You just pointed out the obvious and made me take a hard look at myself.” His warm palm slipped under her hair and cradled her neck. “I love you, Hol. Please, for God’s sake, tell me I haven’t blown my last chance with you?”
Warmth transmitted by his fingers spread down her spine and pooled deep in her core. Her chest tightened around a heart that suddenly felt swollen to twice its normal size. “I’ll never stop giving you chances because I love you, too.”
Ford’s fingers curled on her nape, drawing her face toward his. Holly placed her hand on his chest, stopping him.
“Not here.”
Ford slanted a glance past her shoulder and grimaced. “No one in this neighborhood will call the cops because of a couple making out in an unknown parked car. Nobody wants that kind of attention.”
Holly ran her fingers up Ford’s chest and traced the full line of his lips. As much as she wanted to kiss him…not here, not in this place where he’d been so brutally betrayed by someone who should’ve loved him.
“Let’s find a more romantic spot to make out; what do you say?”
For the first time since they’d left Oban, the grin on his face reached his beautiful dark eyes. “I know just the place.”
Ford started the car, and they peeled away from the curb. Holly waved at the little boy, who sat watching them, thumb tucked firmly in his mouth.
They cruised to the Port Hills, saying nothing, but Ford holding her hand said enough. Driving up the winding road with Christchurch and the surrounding area spread out beneath them, Holly at last allowed herself to feel the pleasure of her surroundings.
Ford drove into a summit parking area, finding a spot that overlooked a stretch of the snow-covered Southern Alps. The engine died with one last defiant rumble, and Holly unclipped her seat belt, sliding across the bench seat. Ford wrapped his arm around her, tucking her close to his side. She breathed him in—leather and spicy cologne and the hint of to-go-coffee that had dripped onto his jeans during the long drive.
“When Betsy suggested we find you a woman, do you know what the first thing that popped into my mind was?” Holly asked. “That I wanted to be that woman. I’ve wanted to be yours for a long time.”
Ford kissed her temple. “Took you long enough to make a move, baby. I was getting tired of waiting.”
“I thought big, strong, wolfy males like to pursue?”
He chuckled. “I was pursuing…in my own way.”
“Yeah? Well, it wasn’t working for either of us. I had to learn to ask for what I wanted. I was so used to accepting what I was given that I found it hard to admit to anyone—especially you—that I wanted you. And not just to play around with.”
His voice roughened. “So I’m more of a long-term renovation project, then?”
Holly angled her head so she could meet his eyes with a narrowed glare. “Don’t you even think of sanding off your flaws and slapping on a coat of varnish.”
Ford sang a line from Bruno Mars’ Just the Way You Are.
She laughed then slipped out from under his arm and straddled his lap, squeezing herself tight against him. He slid his seat back as far as it would go, but the steering wheel still jammed into her lower spine. Worth the pleasure of being close to him again. Ford hummed his approval and nuzzled her neck. She gripped his shoulders and pushed, pinning him against his seat.
“Before we completely steam up the windows, I’ve a couple of questions.”
“Shoot.”
“Do you promise not to shut me out again?”
“I won’t do anything to risk losing you.” He gave her a lopsided smile. “You’re my kryptonite and my ring of power. My weakness and my greatest strength.”
“Aw, listen to you get all mushy.”
“I got more where that comes from, baby. Game on.”
“You’ll let me love the good, the bad and the ugly?”
“I’m all yours. Every inch of me.” Ford arched his hips, reminding her of where some of the inches he talked about were. “As long as I can love every part of you and your stumpy toes in return. And that you’re willing to keep me around,” he added.
Holly rolled her eyes and covered his mouth with her palm. “Just a yes or no answer, thanks. Blink once for yes, twice for no.”
Ford’s eyes sparkled at her, and she could feel the width of his grin under her fingers.
“Will you always be my best friend, even when as lovers we don’t agree on stuff?”
Ford winked at her.
“I said blink, man, not wink like some sleazy wedding singer.” She pretend glared at him, her heart wildly whizzing and fizzing because she was about to take the biggest risk of her life.
Ask for what you want. Just ask.
“Considering it took you three years to kiss me for the first time, I’m speeding things up by asking a question that I want you to think about very carefully.”
Ford’s dark eyes widened, and his fingers dug into her hips. Before he could peel her hand from his mouth, she blurted, “Will you stick around forever, sweet? Will you marry me?”
Ford stared at her a moment, then deliberately closed his eyes and opened them—then after a flickering pause, repeated the action.
Holly’s heart plummeted into the pit of her stomach, and her hand fell from his mouth.
Oh, hell! He said no.
The shocked horror lasted approximately two seconds until she spotted his huge grin.
“Two questions, silly girl,” he said. “Two questions, two blinks. Yes to both.”
“Yes?” She might’ve squeaked a little bit since her heart had traversed in one gigantic bound from her stomach into her throat. “You want to marry me?”
“I do.” Ford ran his hands up from her hips to her rib cage, lightly brushing his thumbs on the undersides of her breasts. “But there’s no way in hell we’re telling anyone we know that you proposed to me.”
The movement of his thumbs made logical thought extremely difficult, but she managed an indignant huff. “And why not?”
“Because you love me enough to want to save me years of humiliation at the hands of my mates if they found out I didn’t get down on bended knee and put a ring on it.”
She cocked her head. “True. You kinda would be a laughing stock.”
“And while I’m happy to be a laughing stock for you, maybe you’ll give me a chance to prove I can be romantic, too.”
He kissed her—a deep, soul-blistering kiss that made her forget they were parked in a public area, made her good bits vibrate with pleasure—
Holly pulled back, ending the kiss. “Your groin is vibrating.”
Ford chuckled. “So is your butt.”
Holly lifted her hips, and Ford dragged out his phone from the front pocket of
his jeans. He glanced at the text and burst out laughing.
“What?” she said.
He turned the screen to show her the text message—an all-capitals text message.
MY DARLING FORD I’M SORRY FOR BEING A BITCH COME OVER STUD AND I’LL MAKE IT UP TO YOU LOVE HOLLY
Holly dug out her phone. A text message from “Betsy Taylor” had arrived on hers too. She scanned it, laughter bubbling in her chest, then showed Ford.
BABY I’M SORRY I WAS A DICK. I’M COMING OVER TO FIX THINGS UP AND REV YOUR ENGINES LOVE FORD
“That woman,” Ford said. “Still light years behind understanding how text messaging works.”
“Her heart’s in the right place. She knows we were meant to be together.” Holly slid off his lap and across to her side of the car. “So let’s head to the nearest hotel, and you can show me what you got, stud.”
Ford laughed and started the Thunderbird.
“Do you think the devious old woman planned for the two of us to hook up right from the beginning?”
“Yeah.” Holly linked her fingers with Ford’s as he drove them out of the parking lot. “I think Mrs. Taylor knew we weren’t just playing for fun, even before we did.”
* * *
THE END
Epilogue
Bad things come in threes.
Bree Findlow adjusted a watercolor of Stewart Island’s Mt. Anglem displayed in the window of Bree’s Curios, her gift-shop-come-art-gallery, and tried to keep her eyes off bad thing number one’s butt. Not an easy task since the bad thing in question—Harley Komeke—was a fine example of denim-wrapped temptation. She angled her head farther past the watercolor display and handcrafted, native bird-shaped wood carvings and perved even more.
Harley stood with his back to her outside the building next door where he and his twin brother, Ford, worked with a couple of mates renovating the now-empty space for Oban’s first beauty salon. Though Bree’s soon-to-be-neighbor and friend Holly would tear a strip off anyone she heard uttering the words “beauty salon” out loud.
Harley adjusted the tool belt on his hips, his tee shirt pulling tight across his broad shoulders as he twisted. Tanned, defined biceps flexed as he pulled a hammer from where it hung, smacked it twice in his palm and said something to Ford that made him laugh.
Definite arm porn.
Toward thoughts of porn of any kind—arm or otherwise—was not a direction Bree cared to permit her mind to wander in now that Harley was back in Oban. Bad things happened when he entered into her orbit. Catastrophic things she’d spent years avoiding by being elsewhere when Harley came home to New Zealand. Except on his last visit, five weeks ago for his mother’s funeral, Bree hadn’t had time to make other arrangements. Thank God he was only expected to be here for another few weeks—a month, max.
She crouched, fussing with a small table of paua shell jewellery while slanting a sideways glance at the two men. Ford hadn’t stopped grinning since he and Holly returned from their Christchurch road trip the week before. Bree’s stomach gave a little twinge. Her friends were crazy adorable together, and wedding bells were in the cards.
One Komeke male caught, hook, line and sinker, and the other who’d rather chew off his own hand than wear a ring on it.
Outside, the brothers engaged in a snarly game of rock, paper and scissors.
“Best two out of three.” Harley’s gruff voice feathered over her, popping goosebumps out on her skin.
“No way, you predictable loser,” Ford said. “Paper beats rock every time. Go.”
Harley swore and did an abrupt one-eighty, every inch of his six-foot frame facing Bree crouched in her window display. At least he hadn’t caught her staring at his butt—though wrenching her gaze from the front view was just as difficult.
She rocked back on her heels and stood, smoothing down her skirt and praying the sleek knot she’d tied her hair into that morning hadn’t loosened.
Queen Bee, as the other girls had nicknamed her in high school because of her snarky wit, and anal tendency to try to control everything. She never let her crown slip. Still, she couldn’t resist a quick check of her reflection in one of the framed photographs lining the gallery walls. Blonde hair perfectly slicked into a twist, blue-grey eyes with only a touch of mascara since she didn’t want to emphasize the shadows underneath them caused by restless nights since Harley’s arrival, and strawberry-pink lip gloss that matched the logoed Bree’s Curios tee shirt she wore.
She’d reached the halfway point across her gallery when the bell above the door tinkled. Fixing her expression into one of polite indifference, she turned.
“Brianna.” Harley lounged in the doorway, lips curving in a smile that was the genetic marker of all the Komeke males—open, warm, and with a hint of cheeky intentions. And in Harley’s case, a smile that caused a woman to imagine all sorts of ways for him to keep her warm.
“It’s Bree.”
“It was Brianna at art school.” His smile didn’t falter. “You said our friends calling us Bree and Lee sounded too cutesy.”
“The College of Creative Fine Arts & Design was ten years ago, and I’m not pretentious enough to go by Brianna anymore.” God, was that her, enunciating like a stilted school teacher? Tension zig-zagged back and forth across her torso, tightening around her ribcage like a Victorian corset.
A dimple appeared in Harley’s cheek as his grin widened. “Yeah, you are.”
He straightened, stepped onto the polished wooden floor of her gallery. A sprinkling of plaster dust and grit sifted through the air and settled around his battered work boots. Anyone who didn’t know he was a highly successful artist taking a sabbatical from his work would assume he was a chippy—a down-on-his-luck carpenter.
Bree held up a palm. “Stay right there unless you plan to lick my floor clean.”
Harley’s eyelids crinkled over his grey irises—ghost eyes, she’d once teased him.
“Lick the floor, huh?” He advanced another step. More dust drifted down. “What images are swimming around in that pretty head of yours to make the word lick rise to the surface?”
Prickles spread like a heat rash down her spine at the way his full lips formed the word “lick”. What images, indeed. Harley with his mouth on her skin, his tongue tracing liquid fire between her breasts, down her stomach…
Bree angled her chin. “Are you here for a purpose, or just to”—she nearly said poke at me until her brain-to-mouth editor slammed on the brakes—“slack off from work?”
Harley remained silent, watching her in that way he had that made her feel like a lonely and vulnerable teenager again. A steady gaze that spoke of all her secrets he’d once discovered…and his silent dismissal of them.
He dipped his head in a quick nod. “The water’s being turned off next door for the rest of today. Likely some of tomorrow, too. We wondered if we could use your bathroom and water until it’s on again.”
“Of course,” she said, because although the thought of Harley using the tiny bathroom in her apartment upstairs was a cringe-worthy idea—it was easier to agree than explain to Ford and the other guys why she was being unreasonable over such a small request. “Just come through the studio door ‘round back.”
“No tracking dirt through the gallery. Gotcha.”
For a moment, the exchanged words fell away, the only sounds the rhythmic hammering from next door, and the endless wash of waves hissing up Halfmoon Bay beach.
“You okay? You look tired.”
The drop in pitch, the thread of concern in his voice caught Bree off guard. Harley being his normal, confident, charismatic self, she could freeze out. Harley showing simple human compassion melted the edges of the glacier covering the piece of her he’d once frozen then smashed to bits.
She arched a brow. “You’ve woken me at six every morning for the last week with your banging and crashing.”
“Only time the boys can work—before the day jobs. Maybe you should tuck yourself into bed earlier at night?”
“I go to bed at a very reasonable hour. Anyway, for all your reputed charm with women, I would’ve thought you’d have learned never to tell one she looks tired.”
A flash of his straight white teeth. “Still got that stinger, haven’t you, Queenie?”
Before she could invent a cutting quip in return, he rolled his shoulders and pulled a face. “You may want to check the mirror before you come downstairs next time.”
Then he left with a swagger that wasn’t even deliberate. Just the walk of a man who knew who he was, what he was capable of, and who oozed restrained sexuality in every confident stride.
Bree ducked through the wide double doorway at the rear of the gallery, which led into her studio. A long workbench underneath a bank of windows gave the studio an airy feel, plus provided ventilation for when she—or some of the island’s resident artists—used the space. Stocked with blank canvases, paints, brushes and other necessary artistic supplies, the studio also had a tiny darkroom built at one end where she developed her own art—though her mother debated photography being a real art to death.
A wall mirror—placed strategically in the studio so Bree could leave the double doors open while keeping an eye on customers out front—revealed her hair and makeup remained perfect. A sudden panic that her floaty skirt might’ve become hooked in her panties dissipated as she skimmed her hands over her butt. Thank God for small mercies. Her gaze skimmed down, caught on the plain cotton knit covering her right breast. Plain—where an embroidered logo of Bree’s Curios should’ve been. Obviously, the large mug of coffee sipped at her kitchen counter to the piercing shriek of a circular saw hadn’t woken her up enough. Bree slipped her arms out of her tee shirt and yanked it around so she wasn’t wearing it back to front.
Dammit.
She could blame construction for waking her up an hour before her normal rising time. She could blame stress over the financial future of Bree’s Curios for her mind gnawing at the problem instead of easily falling asleep. But the childish desire to stay hidden under her bedcovers with her eyes squeezed tight, praying, wishing, willing that one reckless night with Harley five weeks ago hadn’t happened?
Playing For Fun: Stewart Island Book 6 Page 28
