by JM Stewart
“Look.” She extended her arm.
He followed her finger. In the corner of the room, Becca lay sound asleep in an overstuffed chair. She’d used one of the arms for a pillow while her legs dangled over the other. The sight of her tugged at him. She’d taken his advice and raided his closet after dinner. The woman hijacked his favorite robe. The dark blue terrycloth swamped her slender form. The hands resting on her stomach became lost in the sleeves.
What Becca wore underneath, only she knew. During her sleep, one end of the robe had slipped open, revealing the top of a taut thigh. For a moment, that bare limb caught him, and all he could do was stare. And want and need. Far too many months had passed since he last saw the tops of those thighs. Too damn long since he last had the pleasure of running his hands over her smooth, creamy flesh and following those thighs to the juncture between. Since Becca had even allowed him to touch her. It was times like these when he missed the simplicity of their relationship, how easy it used to be between them. He half wondered where in the hell they’d gone wrong, but he knew the answer.
“You better put her to bed, Daddy.” Allie’s whispered demand jarred him from his thoughts. He turned to look at her. The expression on her face made him want to laugh, yet tugged at a painful place. With her brow puckered and her mouth pursed, her expression was motherly and stern. Lord, she looked so much like Becca when she did that.
“Right you are, sweet pea.” He offered her a soft smile before prying himself off the sofa and crossing the room.
When he lifted Becca out of the chair, a quiet, sleepy moan of protest slipped from her lips, a frown puckering her brow. A soft, whispered breath later, she relaxed, curling into him and nestling her head into the curve of his neck.
The sweet smell of her hair rushed over him and the warmth of her body radiated through him. A tidal wave of memories threatened to drown him, but he shoved them back down before they fully took root. He wouldn’t, couldn’t, go there. Not now, with Allie in the room.
As he turned to carry Becca from the room, he glanced at the clock on the wall above the sofa, then down at Allie. “You’re next, sweetheart. As soon as the movie’s over, it’s off to bed, all right?”
She nodded, her gaze on the television. “Okay.”
As he made his way through the house, he managed to stifle the urge to do what he’d teased Becca about earlier and carry her to his room. To rid himself of the temptation, he carried her to the guest room farthest from his. She’d be more comfortable there, anyway.
As he gently laid her on the bed and pulled the quilt over her, the sight of her mesmerized him. Her golden lashes fanned her cheeks. Her chest rose and fell at a slow, even pace. She looked peaceful, angelic. Anger didn’t contort her features, now cast in shadows from the soft light drifting in from the hallway. Her eyes weren’t narrowed in warning because he’d said something he shouldn’t have, which made her all the more beautiful now.
This time, he couldn’t stop the soft swell of emotion making his chest ache. The urge to crawl in beside her hit him hard, nearly pulling his knees out from beneath him. Unlike the surge of desire he normally felt in her presence, this emotion was simpler, more basic. A deep-seated need to hold her while they slept. He missed crawling into bed at the end of a long day and curling around her warm curves.
The emotion, the woman, left him at odds with himself. He remembered all too well a time when he’d made a silent pact never to get married. The institution of marriage meant having children, and he’d been damn sure he didn’t ever want to do that. He refused to be responsible for screwing up someone else’s life. Damned if he’d risk doing to someone else what his parents had done to him. He had no desire to discover if he’d become the coldhearted man his father had been.
When he met Becca, his entire view of the world shifted. She was the first woman he’d allowed himself to fall in love with. Watching her leave had killed him, reminded him too much of his parents’ careless attitudes, how many times they’d pushed him out of their lives over the years. With Becca he’d allowed himself to dream, to trust, to believe. To hope maybe once in his life he could depend on someone to be there, simply be there. Someone who accepted him as he was, despite his faults. When she left, she blew the trust, the dream, to smithereens. Made him wonder if he’d kidded himself to think he could have perfection.
After she left, he’d spent several hundred dollars determined to rid the house of her delicate scent. He replaced darn near everything in the bedroom they’d shared, from the sheets and pillowcases to the comforter right down to the mattress. The empty house provided a far too painful reminder of everything he’d lost.
Except seeing her lying there, he was reminded too much of everything he’d done wrong in their marriage. Becca’s earlier words, when she’d left him standing in the kitchen entrance with his heart in his hands, had wiggled their way into that painful place in his chest.
It had taken him months after she left to realize that, despite his best intentions, he’d become his father. She was right. He’d never talked to her, because his father had drilled it into his head that a gentleman doesn’t burden his lady with emotional nonsense. That’s what his father had always called emotion—useless nonsense. His parents had never shown him a measure of kindness beyond polite conversation. He’d never been hugged or kissed or told he was loved. He wasn’t even sure they did love him.
And he flat out had no idea how to show Becca what she meant to him, how to share the emotions he held closest to his heart. That she and Allie were his whole world. Instead, terrified to lose these wonderful beings God had somehow seen to grant him, he’d reverted to what he knew. Namely, working his tail off to give them the life he thought they deserved. He’d worked hard making his business a success, because in his family, success meant love.
He’d only just gotten used to living without her, and now here she was, filling the house with her scent and once again dumping his carefully planned life on its ear. Except this time he knew. He couldn’t stand by and watch her leave again. Somehow, he had to find a way to stop her.
***
The following morning, Becca stood beside the kitchen’s center island with the little kitten, Fred, asleep in the crook of her arm. Out in the hallway, bare feet padded across the wood flooring, slow and meandering, yet each step distinct. With every step, Becca’s stomach tightened further. Allie usually came down the hallway in the mornings with her eyes half open, shuffling her feet, which meant there could only be one person heading in her direction. Jackson. He never slept late, even on weekends. He got up early every morning, almost like clockwork, because “life doesn’t wait for you,” as he so often put it.
She let out an exhausted breath and stroked Fred’s tiny little head. He looked so content, resting his forehead on her arm, breathing deep and even. A feeling she sincerely wished she shared. “Oh, to sleep like you, Freddy boy.”
She’d hoped to get at least her second cup of coffee in her before she had to face Jackson this morning. She was barely halfway through her first. Waking in this house had left her at odds, once again edgy. She was entirely too aware that this wasn’t home anymore. Too aware that she essentially had nothing. Nothing but the clothes on her back. She’d spent the last ten minutes pacing the kitchen and petting the cat while the coffee brewed, trying to find some semblance of normal. Trying not to go there, to the painful place where emotions she no longer wished to face lived. Things like regret and pain. All being back in this house did was make her yearn for everything she’d never have. She loved this house, but it was his now, and the very thought made her want to sit down and weep for everything she’d lost.
“Morning, Beck. How’s our boy doin’?”
Despite the footsteps signaling his approach, Jackson’s voice, deep and gravelly from sleep, still managed to startle her. Her heart jumped and she pivoted to face the kitchen doorway. He leaned against the frame
, crossed one ankle over the other, and folded his arms.
It didn’t escape her notice that he wasn’t wearing a shirt. His gloriously bare chest was out on display. Jackson worked out religiously, five days a week, and his body was all lean, sculpted muscle.
God, she hadn’t prepared for that. She’d forgotten that Jackson didn’t sleep with a shirt on, no matter the time of year. He always got too hot. How many times had she slid her hands over him, following the hills and valleys of solid muscle and smooth, warm skin, simply for the pleasure of it? How many times had she been cold and pressed herself into his arms just to absorb some of his natural body heat? God, if she closed her eyes, she could still feel the texture of the triangular patch of golden curls between his pecs, coarse yet soft beneath her cheek. Her eyes followed the trail as the downy hair ran the length of his flat stomach, then disappeared below the waistband of his navy pajama pants. The line of hair looked like an arrow that started at his . . .
Great. Not only had she ogled his chest like a sex-starved teenager, but she’d stared at his groin, too.
Heat crept up her neck until she was sure her face had caught on fire, and she dropped her gaze to Fred. “He’s doing fine. I woke up to him prancing on my chest. He’s had his breakfast and he knows where his litter box is. Happy and full, he’s gone back to sleep.”
“Good. What about you? Did you sleep well?” The tone of his voice drifted across the expanse of the kitchen all too relaxed and casual, like her presence didn’t bother him in the least.
Becca swallowed a snarky response. No. She hadn’t slept well. At all. She’d woken in the guest room with little idea how she’d gotten there, aroused and still exhausted. Her thoughts the night before were correct. Having no other choice, she’d taken his offer and raided his closet after dinner last night. She’d unknowingly chosen the top to the pajama bottoms he was currently wearing, thinking he never wore it, then grabbed his robe to cover herself. She’d woken this morning to find herself in one of the guest bedrooms, still wearing the robe.
Sleeping in his robe felt too much like she’d slept wrapped in him. The material still smelled like him. Like soap and musk. She’d tossed and turned, tortured by the wickedest of dreams. She woke this morning with an ache not easily soothed, at least not without a certain Southerner’s touch. The scent had bothered her so much she’d taken the robe off first thing, tossing it over a chair in the breakfast nook before starting the coffee. Being a good head taller, his shirt fell to midthigh, plus she was still wearing her panties. It wasn’t like she was naked.
Now, however, she wished she’d kept it on, because his gaze flicked over her, taking her in.
Desperate not to let him know he was unsettling her—because he’d take that little tidbit and run with it—she turned to her coffee mug, seated on the counter. “I slept fine, but I’d be better if you’d put a shirt on.”
As soon as the words left her mouth, she wished she could suck them back. She swallowed a miserable groan, and closed her eyes as regret sank in her stomach and her cheeks caught fire. Great. Now he knows you were ogling him.
“Allie will be up soon.” She rushed to add the amendment, hoping to save face, and turned to set Fred on the floor. He let out a silent meow, rubbed against her leg, then slunk off toward the breakfast nook. “Thank you for putting me to bed.”
She picked up her discarded cup and refilled it from the pot for something to do with her shaking hands. If he caught her slip he’d no doubt have something cocky to say in return. God, how he loved to rile her.
When a chuckle rumbled out of him, her heart picked up pace, hammering like a runaway freight train. Becca’s mug trembled in her fingers as she lifted it to her lips and peered across the kitchen.
Jackson’s blue eyes twinkled with mischief, as if he read her mind and knew the naughty thoughts running rampant, and her stomach did flip-flops. Yeah, he’d noticed all right.
“I could put a shirt on, but you’d have to take it off first.” He winked and pushed away from the doorframe, moving toward her with a casual stroll. “And you’re welcome. I couldn’t very well leave you to sleep in that chair, now could I? It gives you a wicked crick in the neck.”
As he moved in her direction, his gaze trailed the length of her. His slow perusal made every inch of her prickle with awareness. When they dated, his openness with his desire had swept her clean off her feet. Nobody had ever found her desirable. She was a tomboy and had grown up with three older brothers. She was more comfortable hanging with the boys than trying to kiss them. She’d never been feminine. She didn’t do dresses or high heels. But Jackson would look at her like she was a meal he wanted to devour, and everything inside of her would melt.
When he stopped in front of her, she squared her shoulders, resisting the urge to go get his robe and put it back on. It wasn’t like she was naked, for crying out loud, but the heat of his gaze stripped her bare in two seconds flat. While her brain screamed, “Do something!” all she could manage was to stand there and try not to drop her coffee. Because those eyes had zeroed in on her, and her pulse reacted, launching into orbit.
“You know . . .” He fingered one lapel of the nightshirt, the warmth of his hand radiating through the all-too-thin silk. “. . . I recall you wearing this on one of those weekends we spent at the cabin. Our second anniversary. Do you remember? You wore it then, too, when you made breakfast the next morning.”
A twinge of melancholy shot through her chest. Jackson owned a private cabin out on Puget Sound. Up until Allie was born, they spent almost every weekend there. She didn’t miss the meaning behind his statement, either. Here she stood, wearing the top to his pajamas. The way she used to after they spent the night making love.
She glanced at the navy-blue silk swamping her frame. The memory of going into his bedroom the night before hit her full force. The room used to be theirs but now held no trace of her. She should have expected it, but somehow, the realization had only shaken her. The same jolt of pain slammed into her again. She thought she’d put aside the heartache until she’d entered his bedroom. She didn’t want to think about all the years she’d believed her love would be enough. All the years she’d hoped one day he’d finally utter the three words she longed to hear the most: I love you.
Over the years she’d convinced herself those words weren’t important, but actions speak louder than words, as the saying went, and his had ended up telling her a lot. The distinct lack of those words in his vocabulary only seemed to go along with everything else that told her she wasn’t a priority in her husband’s life. That made her eventually wonder if he didn’t say them because he didn’t feel them. That he worked so much had always made her wonder if he did it to avoid having to come home to her.
It didn’t help, either, that she was essentially homeless, having to rely on him again, yet there he was, tossing his teasing at her. Avoiding the subjects they needed to discuss. Like always.
Gathering strength from the irrational mix of anger, pain, and betrayal swelling in her chest, she swatted his hand away.
“You’d do well to remember I’m only staying here for Allie’s sake. We’re still divorced, and I like it that way.” She narrowed her eyes and jabbed a finger at his chest. “Keep your hands and your eyes to yourself and we’ll get along just fine. Otherwise, you’ll find yourself missing few body parts.”
God, it was such a bitchy thing to say to him, but damn it, he was frustrating. Being in this house with him again was driving her crazy, and all she’d done was spend the night. How on earth would she stay sane living with him until she found a new place? It could take months.
She shoved past him and marched to the fridge opposite her, but even the firmness of her words did nothing to dissipate the odd stir in her stomach.
“You keep saying that but have yet to actually do anything about it.”
The amused challenge in his voice halted her hal
fway to the fridge. Now standing on the other side of the center island, she pivoted to face him. He’d moved, now in front of the coffeemaker a few feet from her, pouring himself a cup. Like he hadn’t just tossed a challenge at her.
“Would you like me to?” She tossed the challenge right back at him, because it made her feel not quite so vulnerable, but her lowered voice lacked the punch she’d hoped for.
Jackson turned and leaned back against the kitchen counter. He raised his brows as he brought his mug to his mouth, pausing to grin at her over the rim. “Please?”
She dropped her arms, unsure whether she wanted to laugh or scream. Most guys found her skills sexy. Almost every guy she’d dated before she met him had wanted to see how flexible she was. Oh, she knew what they meant. They all wanted to know if she could get her feet behind her head, or how many interesting positions they could put her in. Some had even been arrogant enough to say so. When she wouldn’t sleep with them, however, she usually stopped hearing from them.
Not Jackson. They’d met on a darkened street in downtown Seattle. She’d been making her way back to her car after a martial arts expo when a man had attempted to mug her. Jackson, thinking to play the hero, had run over to help . . . in time to watch her flip her would-be assailant onto the ground and plant her foot on his throat.
No, Jackson found her skills amusing. Cute, he’d once told her. And she’d definitely heard from him again, because he’d asked her name, then asked her to have coffee with him. She’d turned him down, of course, but somehow, he’d found her anyway. He’d gotten her to go out with him using the exact humor he attempted now. Because his audaciousness had made her laugh and she hadn’t been able to resist.
“You have to be the most infuriating man I’ve ever known. Do you know that?” She planted her hands on her hips. The man knew every single hot button she had, every way around every wall she put up against him, and always managed to melt her defenses. “I’ve lost everything, Jackson. Everything. My entire world was in that house, and all you can think about is sex?”
