When the Stars Come Out--A Cottonbloom Novel

by Laura Trentham

  Her mouth was parted as if in invitation. He leaned forward but before he got close to his destination, she gasped and laid her hand along his cheek.

  “Your face!”

  “What about it?”

  “You look terrible.” The way she said it, half worried, half exasperated, made him laugh, even though his cheek pulled painfully. She didn’t join him.

  Her wrist was too narrow and delicate to exhibit the strength he observed daily in the garage.

  “Not like I’m the good-looking twin.” It was an old joke between him and Wyatt. Jackson was two minutes older—and wiser—but Wyatt was better looking. Truth was, Jackson got plenty of attention—usually more than he was comfortable with—from the opposite sex. Dr. Mercier had made it clear at the vet’s office she would welcome a call from him not involving animals. Yet his interest in the pretty vet hovered at subzero.

  She made a huffy sound that registered as disbelief. “Seriously?”

  “Seriously, what? You don’t think Wyatt is good-looking?” He wanted to tease a smile out of her.

  “Sutton thinks so and that’s all that matters.” The corners of her mouth ticked up slightly. Maybe she wasn’t so mad. “You’re not bad either. When you’re not grossly swollen and turning blue, that is.”

  He hadn’t been looking for any affirmations, but her assessment stole a portion of his oxygen. He stifled the urge to fist pump.

  “Come on. I’ll drive you back to your place.” She tilted her head and gestured behind her. The bumper of her car was visible twenty feet down the road. She dropped her hand from his cheek, but her fingertips glanced over his jaw, the touch feather light.

  He forced his fingers around her wrist to uncurl. He didn’t want to let her go, so he tangled his fingers with hers. It should have been strange, yet felt completely natural.

  They broke apart when they reached her car, and he folded himself into the passenger seat for the second time that day. The Honda coughed like a lifelong smoker that needed an oxygen tank. The side mirror reflected the plume of black smoke trailing behind them.

  He had a feeling if he brought up helping pay for repairs again, Willa would clam up and shut the door on whatever brave new world he’d stepped into. Anyway, he was curious about something else entirely.

  “I saw you,” he said.

  “Huh?” She tossed him a glance but in the darkness of the cab and with her hat, he couldn’t tell if she was being intentionally obtuse.

  “Up on the hill, outside the fence. I saw you as I headed into that final turn.”

  “Are you blaming me for your wreck?” Her voice was as dry as his throat.

  He avoided answering, because she was to blame. Even before he’d spotted her, his head hadn’t been in the race. She had infected him like a virus. Probably not the kind of pretty words a woman wanted to hear.

  Racing a car around a half-mile dirt track with the threat of an accident looming at any second didn’t scare him. She did though. Not only had she shown up tonight, but she’d been coming to the track to watch him for some time. He didn’t like uncertainty. He preferred to know the odds before taking a chance.

  She parked on the side of the garage like she normally did even though no customers took up the spots out front.

  He laid his head against the back of the seat and did something he rarely did—lied. “I’m not feeling great actually. My head hurts”—not a total lie, although he’d had worse hangovers—“and I’m a little wobbly.” Total lie.

  “Is it a concussion? Do I need to take you to the hospital?” Her hand went back to the ignition, ready to pump life back into the car.

  Had he overplayed his hand? “Not a concussion. Just my cheek.”

  “Hang on and I’ll come around.” Worry threaded her voice and in the brief amount of time it took her to make it to his door, guilt made his headache worse. When she offered a hand and then notched herself under his arm to offer support he didn’t need, his body’s clamor for more drowned out any impulses to confess.

  He leaned into her, and her arm tightened around his waist. She was soft in all the right places. They made their way through the barn and trudged awkwardly up the stairs to the loft side by side. He flipped the light on. She stopped short and looked around.

  “Yep. Exactly what I pictured.”

  She’d never seen the loft even though they’d spent countless hours together in the shop next door. The second revelation that landed on his head like an anvil was her insinuation that she’d thought about where he lived. Did it mean anything?

  The skylights gave the loft an openness and charm counteracted by the utilitarian furniture. A worn couch and coffee table faced the wall with a flat-screen TV. At least the place was neat and orderly. Mostly because Wyatt had been spending his nights at Sutton’s. As much as he complained about his brother’s messiness, Jackson missed having him close at night like when they were kids.

  “You pictured this cold, lonely place?” Why had he said that? Maybe he had hit his head hard enough to give him a concussion.

  She hitched toward him, but between their height difference and her hat, he couldn’t see her face. He grabbed the bill, pulled her hat off, and tossed it toward the couch.

  “Hey, you can’t keep doing that.” She ran a hand through her hair and ruffled the back.

  “You look better without it.”

  She kept smoothing her hand over the top of her hair until he stopped her, grabbing her wrist and pulling her hand away.

  “You don’t have to be nice. My hair looks terrible,” she said softly.

  “I’m not being nice.” He ignored the ironic bent to the declaration. Nice wasn’t on the spectrum of what he was feeling. He fingered the end of one wave at her nape. Her hair was soft but thick. “I’ll bet it would be even prettier long.”

  She touched the ends, her fingers close to his. “It used to be long. I cut it.”

  “Why?”

  Her brows drew in and her gaze shifted. “To leave the old me behind, I guess.”

  He’d expected a trite answer and cocked his head. Was this an opening to push for more information or would she turn tail and run like a fox? Unwilling to risk it, he pasted his lips together and practiced patience.

  * * *

  Why had she let that little nugget slip out? He was examining her as if she were a damaged engine to be flagged for either renovation or the junkyard. What he thought was important to her. Her sanity would be safer if it wasn’t.

  “It could use some evening out, but it’s cute. I like it short,” he said.

  “Do you?” Her long hair had been her vanity. She’d spent countless hours at the mirror primping to attract attention. Derrick, her first and only boyfriend and destroyer of dreams, had loved it and that was a big reason she’d hacked it all off.

  “Short hair suits you. It’s—” He looked to the ceiling for a moment before dropping his gaze back to hers. “Spunky. Unique.”

  Spunky? It made her think of an annoying, precocious child. The expression on her face must have been obvious.

  His laugh rumbled like the leading edge of a storm, still miles away with plenty of time to take shelter. Yet all she wanted was to stand still and wait for the onslaught.

  “Okay, how about tough and sexy?”

  Sexy? The assessment was like a lightning bolt. Sizzling and scary. She had a difficult time coordinating her throat muscles. Her ability to handle men and attraction had been stunted at nineteen, and she felt her inexperience keenly. Her goal the past five years had been to hide her sexy.

  And she’d done it. Alone. Having learned her lesson, she’d denied herself any meaningful contact with men, and appearing as unattractive as possible had made that easier. Could Jackson really see past her chopped-off hair and secondhand clothes?

  He was good-looking and confident and could have his pick of the prettiest women in Cottonbloom. Even the casual linking of Jackson’s name with a woman’s had made her insides cramp. It would be a
game of which one was not like the others if you threw Willa in with the other women he’d dated.

  She put a few feet between them and crossed her arms under her breasts. “You don’t have to be mean.”

  His brows twitched, which according to the reference book her brain had compiled over the past two years meant he was annoyed. Although she had no idea why. Facts were facts, and all things being equal, she was the one with the strongest claim to annoyance.

  She plowed on. “I know I’m not like the other women you’ve stepped out with. Not like Dr. Mercier at the vet office. Not like Sutton. You should see if she can hook you up with one of her friends. Or call the vet. She was definitely interested.” Throwing other women in his path was the last thing she wanted, yet she couldn’t stop her word vomit.

  “I told you once already, I’m not interested in Dr. Mercier.” He took a step toward her. She took one backward.

  “Why not?” She took another step, this one even bigger, but he matched her retreat with his advance.

  “Because I’m interested in someone else.”

  Two more steps and her back hit the wall with nowhere else to go. He caged her in, his hands flat next to her shoulders. She trailed her gaze from one of his big, callused hands up his roped forearm and the bulge of his biceps to his eyes.

  She might be naïve and in denial, but she wasn’t dumb. The last two weeks of dancing around one another had led her to one startling and unexpected conclusion. Finally, Jackson saw her as a woman and wanted her. It was the stuff of her dreams and nightmares.

  “We shouldn’t,” she said weakly, unable to keep her hand from touching his chest. The muscle jumped under her fingertips, his heart strong and steady and pounding fast. Not as fast as hers though. Her head was swimmy with nerves and anticipation and dread.

  “Why not?” He tossed her question back with a smile big enough to showcase his dimples. When he smiled like that, worries and responsibilities sloughed off like rust and revealed a younger, impossibly handsome man.

  Her irritation morphed into something else entirely. Something that made her want to bite his bottom lip until he pushed her up against the wall with his body. It was probably good he didn’t smile more often or the female population in a twenty-mile radius would be a constant puddle of hormones.

  Things she hadn’t allowed herself to feel in years came back in a flood. No, a flood implied a slow rise. This was a tsunami. One that called for a blaring alarm and a frantic escape.

  She tried again. “I don’t want to.”

  Except her other hand rose to join the first and curl around the thick muscle of his side. Stupid hands.

  “I can tell you don’t want to at all.” His gravelly voice rushed through her as he leaned closer.

  “Damn straight I don’t.” She pulled him closer until their lips were inches apart.

  He ran a hand down her arm to her wrist, his fingers stroking the soft skin over her thrumming pulse. He maneuvered their hands until they were pressed palm to palm. His hand was so much bigger than hers. Capable. Confident. Strong.

  She wanted to burrow in his arms. But even more than the physical closeness, she longed to lay her troubles on his broad shoulders and unflappable spirit. She wanted to confess everything from the moment she’d met Derrick to the reasons she was still hiding. But he would hate her weakness and lies.

  “You don’t really know me.” Her small truth whispered between them.

  “I might not know anything about your past, but that doesn’t mean I don’t know you, Willa Brown.”

  The fact he didn’t even know her real name was a deep cut on her heart. He deserved honesty, which was the one thing she couldn’t give him. She took a breath to tell him just that. Before she got a word out, his lips silenced her.

  She didn’t fight the kiss, which only underscored her selfish weakness. To save them both future heartache, she should push him away, but instead, she tipped closer to him, her free hand skimming up his chest to pull at his neck. He wrapped his arm around her waist and fused their bodies from chest to hips.

  As if he sensed her uncertainty, his lips were gentle on hers, giving and not demanding anything in return. She squeezed her eyes shut. What if she allowed herself this one fantasy come true? A memory to hold on to when times got bad. It was only a kiss.

  The justifications blurred the line between right and wrong. She touched her tongue to his bottom lip. A rumbly groan vibrated his chest against hers, and her breasts grew achy and sensitive.

  He pushed her back against the wall and lodged his thigh between her legs. A kiss. She could only allow herself a kiss. The rest of her body ignored the order.

  Heat cascaded through her, centering between her legs. She squirmed, but instead of relief, the emptiness grew acute. The evidence of his arousal pressed into her belly. Her knees wobbled and more of her weight fell onto his hard thigh, only magnifying what she really wanted.

  She drew in a deep breath. His scent was a combination of cars and clean laundry with the earthy hint of adrenaline-fueled sweat. It was good. No, better than good. It should be bottled and sold, except she wanted to keep him to herself like a greedy miser.

  On an exhale, he touched his tongue to the seam of her lips, and like whispering the magic word, her lips parted for him. Just a kiss. The words were a mantra. She wouldn’t let it go any further.

  Except she had imagined countless times what it would be like to be with Jackson. Would he be gentle or rough? Would he talk to her or take her in a flurry of silence? Would he hold her afterward or leave?

  The reality was here and more intense than she’d ever imagined. He pressed their joined hands over her head, she played in the hair at his nape with her other hand. How many days had she stared at the back of his neck wanting to lean in to lay a kiss where his hair flipped up at the ends when he let it get too long? How many days had she wanted to stroke a finger over his stubbled jaw?

  Their tongues danced, stroking and seducing the doubts from her head, until the word scrolling was more, more, more. A sound came from her throat. One she didn’t recognize that fell between frustration and a plea.

  She wasn’t completely inexperienced, but one thing became starkly clear. Her experience was that of a teenaged girl enthralled with her first boyfriend. Whatever was happening between her and Jackson was on a different level. A level that she’d never come close to touching much less had a chance to explore.

  He ground himself against her. Instinct had her rotating her hips against his thigh. Slanting his mouth over hers, he raised the stakes, the friction of their lips and tongues and bodies stoking a wildfire. His expertise both frightened and excited her. She clutched him closer and arched her back to try to satisfy the ache growing through her body like a sickness with only one cure.

  If she gave in, what would happen in the morning? A sliver of logic infused her sex-charged body. The lies between them were living, breathing entities, haunting her.

  “No,” she said against his mouth. With difficulty she turned her head, breaking the kiss.

  He lifted a few scant inches and brought their joined hands down next to her head. Staring at their linked fingers, she fought a wave of despair. They could have sex, but they could never be together. She had ruined any chance of that five years ago, and her lies since only compounded the impossibility.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I don’t want this.”

  An eternity of silence passed. She opened her hand and tugged. The tendons along his hand tensed, but he released her. She took a step to the side, freeing herself from the gravitational pull he had on her, her hand still tingling.

  He scrubbed his hands over his face and didn’t speak. What was he thinking? Nothing from her constant examination of him gave her a clue. Was he mad? Hurt? Maybe he thought she was a tease or playing games. Was there a game called smashed hearts and lies? Because she was winning.

  Instead of facing the consequences, she did what she did best. Cowardice hea
ped with a healthy dollop of self-preservation sent her running out of his loft and to her car. A glance over her shoulder revealed no one. He hadn’t given chase. Why would he? She wasn’t worth it.

  Was he like the other men who’d preyed on her because she was in their power and seemingly weak? She tried to summon righteous anger, but none came. He wasn’t like any man she’d ever met.

  Once she was on the road back to her trailer, she touched her lips. No matter what happened, at least she had the memory of their kiss.

  Chapter Eight

  Monday morning, Jackson kept his eye on the door, waiting for Willa to make an appearance. If she didn’t show in the next five minutes, he was going to hunt her down and make her talk to him.

  He’d spent fruitless, frustrating hours replaying their kiss. As kisses went, it had knocked his world into a new trajectory. One that seemed to be spinning faster. He wasn’t sure what the kiss or what her running had meant.

  He should have followed her. He muttered a curse. His body had been at war with his mind and his doubts had won.

  Jackson stared at the hunk of metal under the hood of his aunts’ Crown Victoria. He normally tried to avoid working on their car, not because he didn’t love his aunts Hyacinth and Hazel, but the car posed no challenge. They brought it in on a regular basis for fluid changes or to report nonexistent noises under the hood.

  It was a thin ploy to keep tabs on all the brothers. The aunts had stepped in after their mother ran off when Jackson and Wyatt were still in diapers. Since Ford had up and vanished a few weeks earlier, the aunts had been in more often.

  Wyatt strolled over, cleaning a socket wrench with a blue shop towel. “Why didn’t you tell me you wrecked Saturday night? I had to hear it from Randall.”

  “I forgot.”

  “You forgot that for the first time ever you screwed up on the track?” The sarcasm was thicker than the air on a July day.

  Why hadn’t he mentioned it? Embarrassment, but also the knowledge that Wyatt wouldn’t be able to let it go.