by Meg Tilly
“Glad you enjoyed it,” Luke said, topping up Maggie’s wineglass. “Steak, baked potato, and grilled asparagus. Nothing fancy.” He stood up to clear the table.
She flirted with the idea of helping with the cleanup, but she had slipped off Eve’s borrowed heels while they sat at the dinner table. Besides, this was his apology dinner, so why ruin a good thing?
“It tasted good,” she said, taking a sip of her wine. “Sometimes simple is best.”
He carried the dirty dishes over to the deep farmhouse sink with its polished-chrome culinary faucet. Her dream sink.
Actually, she thought, leaning back in her chair, if she had spent hours poring over kitchen magazines, ripping out pages of her favorite designs, none of them would have come close to this one. His kitchen was perfection. Long stretches of uncluttered surfaces, mostly white marble shot through with strands of gray. But there was also a lower countertop of beautiful wood. Which must be where he kneaded and shaped his bread. There was a stainless-steel countertop as well, which would be fabulous when dealing with chicken or fish and so on.
And then, of course, Maggie thought with a smirk, the ultimate cooking accessory: a gorgeous, long-limbed, hungry panther of a man. She took another sip of her wine and enjoyed the view: the way he moved; his crisp, white button-down shirt with sleeves rolled up; faded jeans that clung in all the right places. The man had a good ass, and he looked mighty fine coming or going.
“That’s generous of you to say. Actually, I make amazing bread, but the rest of my culinary skills are pretty basic. I’m a one-trick pony,” he said, rinsing off the plates and placing them in the dishwasher.
Oh, I doubt that, she thought, feeling way too turned on for someone who was supposed to be recovering from a broken heart.
He ambled over to the fridge, slightly favoring his left leg.
Has he pulled a muscle, or is it something more permanent?
“Would you like a slice of cheesecake?” he asked, opening the refrigerator and taking out a bakery box. “It’s pretty good. Comes with raspberry compote.”
“Sure,” she said. “Far be it from me to turn down cheesecake.”
She watched him plate the dessert. The way the man maneuvered in his kitchen was sexy as hell. She took another sip of her cab, savoring the hints of oak and black cherry and the spicy finish that lingered in the mouth.
She wondered what he would taste like.
She took another sip of wine. Given the direction of her thoughts, she probably should have put her wineglass down, but she didn’t. The wine was too delicious. Complex. Smooth. Expensive. He must have used a good portion of his bread profits to pay for it. She wiggled her bare toes under the table and took another sip, because not drinking this wine would be a crime against all that was holy.
“Whipped cream?” he asked.
“Hell yeah,” she said with a grin. She felt really good and warm inside. This was fun. Eve was right. She should get out more. Date a little.
Maggie was quite pleased that she had managed to make it from her car and into his house without tripping. This was a bit of a feat, because Eve’s feet were a size and a half larger than Maggie’s. However, Eve’s suede stilettos matched perfectly with the dress she had lent her. So they’d stuffed a wad of toilet paper into the toes of the pumps and stuck double-sided tape on the back of her heels. Worked like a charm.
When Eve had begun assembling her outfit, Maggie was concerned that she might appear overdressed. But when she got out of the car and walked toward Luke, she knew, by the look on his face and the predatory hunger that flared in his eyes, that Eve had been one hundred percent correct.
It felt nice to be pretty.
* * *
• • •
“YEAH, IT WAS pretty tough,” she was saying, and it wasn’t that Luke wasn’t listening, or didn’t care. He was listening, and he did care, and if he ever ran into her ex, the asshole would be sorry. But Jesus, Luke was finding it hard to focus. “In hindsight,” she continued, “I realize he did me a favor. Better that his true nature came out before the wedding rather than after.”
“Yes, definitely,” Luke said, watching as her lips closed around another morsel of cheesecake smeared with whipped cream. Then the fork slowly slid out of her mouth, her eyelids falling to half-mast.
He shifted, needing to make room in his jeans for his cock, which had moved beyond moderate swelling.
“Mmm . . .” she moaned, the tip of her pink tongue darting out to capture a drop of raspberry compote that lingered on her lush lower lip.
Okay, he was in trouble. There was certainly nothing moderate about what was going on in his pants now.
“So good,” she murmured. She sighed happily, opened her eyes, and leaned back in her chair, her arms stretching up as she arched like a contented kitty. Which, unfortunately, served to thrust her pert breasts out and upward, only exacerbating the already desperate matters. “Anyway,” she said, with a half yawn, apparently oblivious to the effect she was having on him, “that’s why I’m not looking to dive into another relationship. Not now. Maybe never.”
She paused, clearly replaying that last sentence in her head. Her face flushed, she moved her hands to her lap as her spine yanked all the languor out of her.
“Not that you are,” she said hastily. “Looking for a relationship, that is.” Her words tripped over one another as her face got rosier and rosier. “I didn’t mean to insinuate you were. Or, if you were, that it would be me you were looking at. I know we’re just friends. Not even friends—acquaintances, really, seeing as how I just met you last week. Ha ha ha!” She was making laughter noises, but he could see embarrassed misery in her beautiful eyes.
He reached across the table and snagged the hand that had flailed in the air with the ha-ha-ha noise. The rightness of her hand in his made every cell in his body slam to a halt. He knew he should let go, but he couldn’t seem to make his hand release hers.
However, she wasn’t pulling away. It was like everything in her had paused as well, although her eyes seemed to grow even bigger in her face. He could drown in those eyes.
“Maggie,” he said carefully, gently. “No pressure.” She reminded him of a wounded woodland creature that he didn’t want to spook. “But,” he continued, “just to clarify, I would be lying if I said I wasn’t interested in pursuing a more intimate relationship with you.”
She swallowed.
“I understand, given your circumstances, that you don’t feel ready.”
“Yeah.” She nodded, and he saw a flash of uncertainty and sorrow flicker across her face.
“No worries,” he said. “I’m not going anywhere. If you want a friend, so be it. If you decide you’d like to try for more, I’m your man.”
“Thanks,” she said.
He let go of her hand and watched it disappear under the table, back into her lap. And he envied her hand. Wished it were him sliding under the table, nestling his head where her hand was now resting. Actually, a bit higher than where it was resting.
The kitchen was silent.
There was a muffled clatter behind the freezer door as the ice maker dumped a new batch of ice, and then came the sound of water running as it refilled.
Smooth, Benson, he thought, disgusted with himself. Way to mess it up before you even get started.
* * *
• • •
MAGGIE’S MIND WAS spinning. He wanted her? He was interested in an intimate relationship with her?
Holy mother of God.
Now what?
She felt almost dizzy with need. Which didn’t make sense at all. Need for what? Disappointment between the sheets was all that she knew. And yet mixed in with the caution and fear was a jubilation, too. I’m a woman, she thought. I’m attractive. Over the last five and a half years, Brett had repeatedly pointed out her defects, her unfuckabili
ty. And yet. Even knowing she sucked in the sack, she had an inexplicable desire to climb over the table and attach her mouth to Luke’s. She almost laughed at the thought. Wouldn’t he be surprised?
Wouldn’t she? Maggie had never done anything like that in her entire life.
“What?” he asked, looking at her with those dark, intense eyes.
“Oh,” she said. She must have smiled. “I just . . .” She suddenly felt shy. “I wanted to thank you. I know that’s not why you said the things you did. And I’m sorry I’m at such a messed-up place in my life. But . . .”
She looked at him, wishing they were closer and, at the same time, glad that they weren’t. Because if they had been . . . oh my. She would sift her fingers through that unruly, wavy lock of chocolate-brown hair that had fallen onto his forehead. And maybe trace a finger along the peak of his ear for good measure. He had handsome ears.
“Anyway, thank you,” she said.
* * *
• • •
FOR WHAT? HE thought. I don’t know what she’s thanking me for. How do I respond? He was trying to figure that out when she placed her hand on his, where it was resting palm down on the table.
Both of his hands were positioned there.
On the table.
Palms down.
Luke was trying to keep them in line. Didn’t want them to do something stupid like grab her again.
“I can’t tell you,” she continued, “how much it healed my heart, hearing you say you desired me.”
Suddenly, he wanted to punch something. Her ex’s face, if he ever met the bastard. “You’re a beautiful, smart, sexy woman. Why in the world would you think otherwise?”
“It’s just . . .” Her voice cracked. She wouldn’t, couldn’t lift her gaze to him. But he didn’t need to read her eyes, because he saw first one and then another tear make a slow descent down her cheek.
Forget keeping your hands on the table. The woman needs a hug. He rounded the table. “Come here,” he said, extending his hands.
He wanted to scoop her up, wrap his arms around her tight. But in this particular instance, permission was required.
“Just friends,” he said.
She tipped her head up, studied his face with her tear-filled eyes. She must have seen that he was speaking the truth, because she smiled faintly and took his hands. Once she was standing, he wrapped his arms around her and tucked her head up against his chest. And it was as if the physical contact caused some deeply held sorrow to break free, because she started crying in earnest.
So he stood there, his head bowed over hers, holding her close.
Almost as if they had become one person, and she was grieving for what had happened to both of them, because he wasn’t able to.
Fifteen
MAGGIE WASN’T CRYING anymore, but she didn’t want to leave the comforting shelter of Luke’s arms, tucked up against his chest. He smelled good. The steady thump of his heart was reassuring. She exhaled.
“How are you doing?” he asked, his voice rumbling in his chest.
“Good,” she said, releasing her grip on Luke’s shirt. It wasn’t so crisp or clean any longer. She tried to smooth the wrinkles with her hand, but they were pretty entrenched. His body seemed to stiffen. Maybe he had glanced down and seen the tearstains and wrinkles, too. She hadn’t pegged him to be anal about that kind of thing. However, sometimes it was hard to know what would piss somebody off until you were too deep in a relationship.
“Sorry,” she said. “I made a mess of your shirt.”
“Not to worry,” he answered. “It’s just a shirt.” He sounded like he meant it, too.
Oh, she thought, gladness filling her heart. This is another way he isn’t like Brett.
“Hold on a sec,” he said. He reached one arm behind her, and the next thing she knew, he had tucked a couple of tissues into her hand. “Just in case.”
There was no in case about it. Her eyes needed mopping, and her nose, too.
She felt a little embarrassed wiping her nose in front of him, but at the same time, she was thankful for the tissues.
When she was done, he held out his hand. “Here,” he said.
Hell no! She was not putting those goopy things in his hand. “I’ll do it,” Maggie said. “Where’s the trash?”
“Under the sink.”
She threw the used tissues away, even though it had meant leaving the warmth of his arms.
“Do you want tea or coffee?” he asked. He looked so adorable, with his tearstained shirt and rumpled hair.
“No, thanks,” she said. “I’d better get going.”
She crossed to the table and stuck a foot under it, sweeping around until she made contact with one shoe and then the second. She scooted them out from under the table with her foot, stood the shoes upright, and slipped them on.
They felt bigger than she remembered.
Luke was looking down with a puzzled smile. “Uh . . . I think you dropped something,” he said, pointing under the table.
Maggie glanced down. Oh Jesus. The two little scrunched-up wads of toilet paper that she had stuffed into the toes of Eve’s shoes were staring back at her. They looked a little worse for wear.
“Oh my,” she said, snatching them up. She lunged for her purse on the counter, wanting to shove the toilet paper inside. But without the toilet paper stuffed into the toes, the shoes were way too loose. She wobbled on her heels, took one step, and tripped.
She did manage to snag the handle of her purse on her downward journey and stuff the toilet paper inside.
Unfortunately, when she shoved the toilet paper inside, the streamer of gold-foil-wrapped condoms flew out.
“Oh no!” She watched in horror as the condoms soared up into the air.
An inelegant grunt escaped as her body landed hard, knocking the breath out of her lungs. Didn’t matter. She was on the move. She flipped onto her belly and tried to grab the condoms, but the damn things skittered out of reach across the polished wood floor until they came to their final resting place . . .
At the toe of Luke’s sexy-as-hell, well-worn boot.
Shit.
He looked down at the shimmering gold packets lying at his feet. No way to miss them. It was a long strand of condoms.
“Hmm,” he said. “I’m good. But . . . uh . . .” He paused and cleared his throat. The corners of his mouth were struggling not to break into an all-out grin. “Ten times in one night might be just . . . uh . . . a bit beyond even my capabilities”—he looked over at Maggie sprawled out on his floor—“but I’m happy to give it a go.”
“Kill me now.” Maggie groaned, rolling onto her back and squeezing her eyes shut tight.
Sixteen
MAGGIE COULDN’T SEE Luke anymore, but she could feel him gazing down at her with a quizzical look on his face. It was clear that the sophisticated, woman-of-the-world persona she had been trying to pull off had been shot to hell. She must now shift into problem-solving mode. She could (a) repurpose the skanky wads of toilet paper she had stuffed in her purse, (b) go to Luke’s powder room and get some more toilet paper to restuff the toes of Eve’s shoes so they would stay on her feet, or (c) casually pretend to be a free-spirited flower child and gambol barefoot to her car.
She made the executive decision to go with option C and carry Eve’s shoes to her car.
“You might want to put your shoes on,” Luke said as they reached the front door.
“Oh no,” Maggie assured him breezily. “I’m a country girl at heart. Love going barefoot, feeling the ground beneath my feet.”
“Yes, but—” His hand rose up, resting against the door.
Stupid men, always thinking they are the boss of me, Maggie thought rebelliously. She grabbed the doorknob and tugged on the door. “Stop leaning on the door, Luke. Sheesh! I had no idea you were such a stuffed shir
t. You need to lighten up.”
He sighed. Stepped away and the door swung open.
Out Maggie marched, her nose tipped into the air, cheeks flaming. Onto the wide wooden porch, down the steps, and onto—
“Ouch! What the—”
“Gravel,” Luke said dryly. “Tried to warn you—”
Damn. Maggie managed a nonchalant shrug. “I knew it was gravel,” she said. “I walked in this way. Was wanting an opportunity to toughen up my feet.” Did I just say that? She shook her head in disgust. Way to go, Harris. Super-seductive image to leave him with, your soon-to-be-toughened, callused feet!
She braced herself and began the careful hobble across the gravel drive to her car. Luke walked slowly beside her. Was he looking confused? Bemused? Like he wanted to run for the hills? Who the hell knew? It was pitch-dark outside. Did the good citizens of Solace Island, she thought grouchily, have something against outdoor lighting? Her feet were getting sore from the sharp rock fragments underfoot, cold and probably filthy, too.
Maggie sighed. Her eyes and nose had to be red and swollen from weeping. Her dress was probably wrinkly from her acrobatics on the floor. What a difference from the glorious goddess who arrived on his doorstep a short two hours—
Luke suddenly froze, listening hard. Then he spun into action. Scooped something off the ground, yanked her behind the far side of her car, his body surrounding her, a large rock in his hand.
“Jesus, Luke. What are you doing?”
“Hold on.”
A beat passed, and then she heard it, the heavy weight of a large body moving through underbrush. Oh shit. A bear.
Suddenly, she felt the tension leave his body. “Sorry,” he said, stepping back. He tossed the rock to the side of the drive and shoved his hands in his pockets. “False alarm. Just a deer.”
Maggie straightened. Over Luke’s shoulder she saw a large stag bound across the driveway, then disappear into the thick forest beyond. “You told me”—she turned to face him, hands on her hips—“there were no bears on this island.”
