by Jenna Sutton
“I definitely think you should include the short ribs with espresso-bourbon sauce in your cookbook,” he said.
Looking up from her notepad, she asked, “You liked them?”
“What does Amelia say? Orgasmically great?”
She giggled. “Orgasmically delicious.”
He nodded. “They were orgasmically delicious.”
She uncrossed her long legs and extended them out in front of her. Stretchy black pants covered them, denying him the delectable sight of her lean thighs and shapely calves. Too bad she’d put her pants back on after he’d had his way with her on the kitchen island.
When his cock twitched eagerly, he reminded himself bedtime was only a couple of hours away. Then he could strip her out of those tight pants and make himself at home inside her. He told himself he could survive the wait, but his erect cock said otherwise.
“Did you like the short ribs as much as the pork tenderloin with bourbon-spiced apples?” she asked, completely oblivious to his lecherous thoughts.
“I’m not sure. They’re hard to compare.”
“I have too many beef recipes. I need to come up with more chicken dishes.” She tapped her pen against her bottom lip. “Maybe something with pears. Do you like pears?”
Apparently, he was a perfect guinea pig to test her recipes. More often than not, he came home from work to find her in the kitchen, an apron tied around her slender waist and a pile of dirty dishes in the sink. Somehow, he always ended up cleaning up her mess, but he figured that was only fair since she did the cooking.
She hooked the pen onto the notepad and dropped it in her lap. “Okay, I’m ready for the next song.”
He pressed play, and a woman’s voice filled the living room: “‘Pack Your Bags’ by Julia Swearingen.”
“Julia is one of the best songwriters in Nashville, and she also has a great voice.” Ava Grace said. “This should be good.”
The first notes of the demo floated from the speakers, light and airy. Then the song turned dark and heavy. Julia’s sharp-edged voice filled the room, completely different from Ava Grace’s husky sound.
Ava Grace hummed along with the melody, her foot moving to the beat as Julia berated some poor guy and told him to pack his bags and get the hell out. When the song was over, Beck pressed the pause button.
“Damn,” he swore. “That woman is pissed off.”
“She went through a bad breakup a few years ago. Her fiancé cheated on her.”
“That sucks.”
He remembered how he’d found Olivia in her office, bent over her desk with her skirt around her waist and her boss pumping away behind her. No matter how hard he’d tried to forget it, the image was burned on his brain.
Ava Grace shrugged. “Some people aren’t made for monogamy.”
I am.
He wasn’t one of those guys who fought to stay footloose and fancy-free. He wanted to be tied down.
So why are you wasting your time with a woman who doesn’t want that? a voice whispered inside him.
But then another voice chimed in: How do you know she doesn’t want to be tied down? Maybe she just hasn’t found the right guy. Maybe you’re the right guy.
“Julia’s fiancé slept with her mother.” Ava Grace grimaced. “Double whammy.”
“That’s definitely a country song.” He eyed her. “Are your songs about your personal experiences?”
“Some of them.”
“Is ‘Lost and Found’?” he asked, referring to her first big hit. The love song was a favorite at weddings.
“No. I got the idea for ‘Lost and Found’ from a magazine article I read at my dentist’s office.”
“That kind of takes the romance out of it,” he noted dryly.
She laughed. “The article was very romantic.”
“What inspired ‘Empty Places’?”
She’d sung “Empty Places” at Quinn and Amelia’s wedding reception. Like everyone there, Beck had been enthralled by her singing.
“I got the idea for ‘Empty Places’ from a conversation Millie and I had about Quinn. I asked if he made her happy, and she said he filled all the empty places inside her.” Her eyes locked on him. “That’s a lot better than happiness, don’t you think?”
He nodded slowly, unable to look away from her penetrating gaze. “A lot better.”
“Do you have empty places inside you, Jonah?”
Deflecting her question, he said, “Everybody has a few empty places inside them.”
Her pink lips tipped up in an almost imperceptible smile. “That’s true.”
His mouth opened before he could order his brain to shut it. “Do you have empty places inside you?”
“I used to have more.” She stared unblinkingly for several heartbeats. “Being with you has filled most of them.”
He sucked in a surprised breath. Had he heard her correctly? He filled her empty places?
He clenched his hand around the remote to his sound system. “What—” His voice cracked, and he cleared his throat. “What do you mean?”
“You—”
Suddenly, a man’s voice blared from the speakers, and they both jerked in surprise. Beck’s tight grip on the remote had accidentally pressed play, and another demo had begun.
Chicken jumped up from his position next to Beck and growled. By the time Beck found the pause button, the growls had escalated to a full-fledged bark.
“Shh, Chicken, it’s nothing,” Ava Grace soothed, and finally the dog flopped down.
She picked up her notepad. “What do you think about Julia’s song? Maybe, no, or hell no?”
He didn’t want to talk about Julia’s song. He wanted to talk about Ava Grace’s empty places and his own. No matter how much he tried to deny it, she filled a lot of the empty places inside him too.
But when she moved on … when he came home to an empty apartment and went to sleep in an empty bed … those empty places would feel even emptier because he’d remember how good it felt when she’d filled them.
He abruptly decided he’d rather talk about Julia’s demo than empty places. “I liked the song, but I don’t think it’s right for you.”
It was too hard. Too bitter. Too hateful. Ava Grace wasn’t any of those things.
She nodded. “I’m going to mark it hell no.”
“Do you know all the songwriters we’ve heard tonight?”
“I’ve met most of them, but I don’t know any very well, except Mercy. You can’t go anywhere in Nashville without running into someone in the business.” She waved her hand toward the remote. “I think we have only a couple demos left.”
He pressed play and tried to focus on the song instead of how much he’d miss nights like this. When the demo was over, Ava Grace looked at him, her eyebrows arched.
“Hell no?” she asked.
“Hell no.”
She wrinkled her nose. “Greg’s not a very good songwriter, but he’s an incredible guitarist. I’ve played with him before. He studied at Juilliard, and he has this custom guitar that cost nearly ten grand.” She gave a self-deprecating laugh. “He said my technique was sloppy and advised me to stick to vocals.”
Beck could tell Greg’s comments had hurt her, and he had a momentary fantasy of hunting down the guitarist and breaking his fingers. Of course, he’d never actually cause the man bodily harm. But he wouldn’t hesitate to smash Greg’s one-of-a-kind guitar on the ground for upsetting Ava Grace.
“There’s only one reason why he said that—you have more natural talent than he does, and he was jealous.”
So what if Ava Grace hadn’t attended one of the best music schools in the world? It was obvious to Beck that she was just as good as Greg. And if she’d received formal training, she would’ve been better than the snobby guitarist.
“I still can’t believe you taught yourself to play the guitar by reading instructional books and watching old videos from the school library,” he said.
She shrugged. “No one gave guitar l
essons in Electra. And even if someone had, I didn’t have the money.”
He’d been astonished when he found out she’d taught herself. He admired her perseverance and resourcefulness. He didn’t know anyone else with her determination.
She glanced at the sound system. “That was the last demo, thank God.” She flashed him a toothy smile. “Thank you for listening with me, handsome. I really appreciate it.”
“No problem.”
She rose gracefully from the sofa and tossed the notepad on the cocktail table. “I’m going to take a shower.”
He watched as she walked away, her tight pants clinging to her perfect ass. He wanted to join her in the shower. He wanted to lather sweet-smelling body wash onto her smooth skin and run his hands all over her slippery curves. Then he wanted to slide into her snug, welcoming body and stay there.
He’d already had her twice today, and it wasn’t enough. No matter how much time he spent inside her, he wanted more. He couldn’t get enough of her body … or her imperfect smiles, her husky voice, her soft laughter, her dry sense of humor…
He couldn’t get enough of her.
That realization was enough to keep him on the sofa. He turned on the TV and did his best to pay attention to the baseball game instead of thinking about what Ava Grace looked like in the shower with warm water trickling over her willowy body.
Two hours later, the game was over. The Giants had come out on top, beating the Dodgers five to three. Ava Grace had crawled into bed after she showered and hadn’t made a peep since.
After turning off the TV, Beck rose from the sofa, checked to make sure the front door was locked, and plugged his phone into the charger. He headed to the bathroom, and as he passed the bed, he stopped and looked down at the beautiful blonde who filled his empty places.
She was asleep in the middle of the mattress, the beige comforter tangled around her feet. Chicken was snuggled up beside her, snoring softly.
Beck’s gaze slid over her black-and-white-polka-dot pajama tank and matching bottoms. Hot pink lace edged the square neckline and the bottom of the tank, as well as the hem of the loose pants.
The lace straps of her top called attention to her delicate collarbone, which just happened to be one of his favorite parts of her body. He spotted a faint mark on her creamy skin—a mark he’d put there with his mouth.
He carefully untangled the comforter, trying not to wake her. But as he pulled it over her and Chicken, she rolled toward him and opened her eyes.
“Jonah?”
Crouching next to the bed, he stroked his fingers over the soft skin of her cheek. “Yeah, sugar?”
“Are you coming to bed?” she asked, blinking sleepily.
“In a few minutes. Go back to sleep.”
“Okay, g’night.” She closed her eyes and threw her arm over Chicken. “Love you.”
Beck’s heart stuttered, and he stopped breathing. Something bright and intense flared to life inside him.
“Chicken,” she murmured, finishing her sentence.
She doesn’t love me. She loves my dog.
Taking a deep breath, he slowly stood and stalked into the bathroom. He made sure to close the door quietly before jerking his T-shirt over his head.
With disappointment and anger churning in his gut, he turned on the faucets in the shower. After shucking his cargo pants and underwear, he stepped inside. Bracing his palms against the cold tile, he dropped his head forward and let the hot water pour over him.
You’re such a fucking idiot, he told himself. This thing with Ava Grace isn’t about love. She doesn’t love you.
A voice inside him whispered, But you want her to.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
“You lied to me,” Ava Grace accused, gazing up at the night sky.
Beck turned his head toward her. “About what?”
Rolling to her side, she rested her head on her forearm so she could look at him. Fortunately, the inflatable pad and sleeping bag provided enough cushion she couldn’t feel the cold, hard ground.
She stared into his eyes, catching a glimpse of the campfire reflected in his coffee-colored irises. “You said camping wasn’t romantic. That was a giant whopper of a lie.”
He laughed softly. “You didn’t think it was romantic when hundreds of mosquitoes were dive-bombing you a couple of hours ago.”
“Ugh.” She grimaced. “It’s almost October. Why are they still buzzing around?”
“Because Northern California has Indian summers. September and October are the warmest months.”
She harrumphed. “I don’t understand why they attacked me and left you alone.”
He shifted to face her and touched his thumb to her lower lip. “Because you taste better than I do,” he murmured before settling his mouth over hers.
His lips brushed back and forth in a teasing caress. She cupped her hand around the back of his neck, the silky strands of his hair cool against her fingertips, and he changed the angle of the kiss, covering her mouth more completely.
As he stroked his tongue across her bottom lip in a wet, luscious slide, a warm ache spread throughout her belly and lower pelvis. She let her lips fall open, inviting him in, but he continued to lick and nibble her lips instead of giving his tongue to her.
He seemed perfectly content to keep things easy and slow. To her surprise, he drew back instead of deepening their kiss and rolled onto his back. She snuggled up against his side, her head on his chest.
“Thank you for taking me camping.”
She could feel the laugh rumble in his chest. “Sugar, you’ve told me thank you at least twenty times. You need to stop it now.”
She’d woken up this morning to find Beck perched on the side of the bed, a mischievous grin on his handsome face. He’d planned a surprise for her but refused to tell her anything except the number of days they’d be gone. He’d conspired with Wally to make sure her schedule was clear.
Beck had packed everything she’d need for the trip. The only thing she’d had to do was take a shower, forego her usual body lotion and perfume, and wear the clothes and shoes he’d provided.
The lightweight khaki pants, long-sleeved purple T-shirt and matching fleece jacket, and hiking boots had clued her into the fact he’d planned something outdoorsy. He’d even thought to buy moisture-wicking socks and a bucket hat to shield her face from the sun.
He’d already packed his Jeep with everything they’d need, and while she’d gotten ready, he dropped off Chicken with Ren and Gatsby. When he’d returned to the apartment, he handed her a bag of muffins from her favorite bakery and an extra-large to-go coffee.
Is it any wonder I adore Jonah Beck and want to have his babies?
He’d reserved an isolated campsite in Big Basin Redwoods State Park, the oldest state park in California. Majestic redwoods filled the 18,000-acre park, which was located about two hours south of San Francisco.
Once they’d arrived at the park, they ate a picnic lunch before unpacking their gear and setting up camp. It’d been easier than she expected. Beck was an experienced camper, and he’d organized the outing like a five-star general.
Afterward, they went for a long hike through the woods, made out next to a waterfall, and ate handfuls of trail mix on the way back to the campsite. He cooked dinner for her—hotdogs over the campfire—and once they’d cleaned up, they stretched out under the starry sky.
It had been one of the best days of her life. She could only think of one way it could’ve been better—if Beck had said “I love you,” dropped down on one knee, and asked her to marry him. Unfortunately, that was as unlikely as him asking her to take over Trinity.
Beck’s big hand slipped under her shirt and settled against her side. He traced little circles on her skin with the tips of his fingers, moving up toward the edge of her bra and then down to her waistband. Each feathery stroke warmed her from the inside out.
“It’s getting late,” he said. “We should probably move the pads and the sleeping bags in
to the tent.”
“Not yet. I like it out here.”
“I don’t want you to get cold.”
His touch, along with the campfire and the cozy down blanket, chased away the night chill. She was more than toasty. She was getting hot … in more ways than one.
“You don’t need to worry about me getting cold,” she assured him.
Lifting her head, she dropped kisses along his jaw. His stubble was prickly, and she rubbed her mouth over it. He turned his head, offering her better access, and she licked a trail along his neck before nuzzling her nose into the space behind his ear.
Underneath the pine trees, fresh air, and burning wood, she could smell him. She inhaled, letting his scent fill her lungs, musky and potent.
She caught his earlobe between her teeth and gave it a gentle nip. As his big body quivered against her, she laved his earlobe with little darts of her tongue before sucking it into her mouth. His fingers dug into her side, just below her ribcage, and she released his earlobe.
Placing her lips against his ear, she whispered, “Take off your shirt.”
He shook his head. “It’s too cold out here.”
She slipped her hand under the hem of his long-sleeved T-shirt. The tight muscles of his six-pack jumped reflexively, and she traced the dense ridges of his abdomen before sliding her hand toward his chest.
“I’ll keep you warm,” she promised, shaping his firm pectoral muscles with her fingers. “Now take off your shirt.”
“Before I met you, I had no problem saying no. It might have been my favorite word.” He sighed gustily. “I think you’ve made me soft.”
She skimmed her hand from his chest to his fly. “You feel hard to me,” she murmured, tracing his erection through his cargo pants.
He laughed breathlessly. “Okay, I’ll take off my shirt.”
“And your pants.” She lightly squeezed his erection. “Yes?”
“Yes.”
