by Candis Terry
“That might be easier. But my parents can’t afford it, and neither can I.” How much money she did or didn’t have was nobody’s business. But even that wasn’t the issue. Until she figured out what to do with the rest of her life, she had to be careful. Eventually, she wanted to buy another house—a home actually. Not just four cold, sterile walls like the ones she’d shared with Mark Rich.
The man owned two residences, and neither exuded any warmth. Several times she’d tried to bring things in to make them cozier or to personalize the spaces. But each time, the following day the new object would disappear without a word. When she’d finally gotten up the courage to ask why he’d disposed of them, he’d told her they were tacky and didn’t suit his lifestyle.
She didn’t suit his lifestyle either. He’d made that clear. Just like the lovely cashmere throw she’d found for the foot of the bed or the hand-embroidered pillows she’d picked up for the den, he’d disposed of her as well.
“I wasn’t trying to pry about your finances,” Jackson said, bringing her thoughts back to the here and now.
“I didn’t think you were.” She slid the paper from his fingers and looked at it again. “This is a pretty convoluted list. Maybe I should break it up into projects.”
“You on a time crunch?”
“Not really.” Not at all.
“Good.”
Good? She searched his eyes and found he was a difficult man to read anymore. Maybe too much time had passed for them to ever reestablish the connection they’d once shared. But then what did he mean by good? Could he, deep down, be happy she was back? Dare she allow her heart to go down that path?
“Because some of these tasks are going to take a while to figure out and complete.”
“Oh.” Crash and burn.
“So maybe . . .” He reached out and gently lifted her hand with his big palm. She could swear something snapped.
Slowly, he took her list back without looking at it. “We get started by finding out what color of paint you want. And then . . . who knows. We’ll just go from there.”
Even after he’d retrieved the list, he still held on to her hand. The gradual smile he gave her suggested he might mean more than just faucets and laminate flooring.
“I’d like that.” Pleasure floated through her chest. “Very much.”
After closing time, Jackson carried several five-gallon buckets of Baked Scone paint to his truck, then came back for the boxes of drop cloths, brushes, masking tape, and cleanup rags. It had taken a couple hours for Abby to gather her supplies and decide on a neutral, updated color. In the end, her selections were classic and no doubt would make the house attractive to potential buyers.
On the other hand, every second she’d spent in the store heightened his senses, drew out surprising responses, and literally had him so distracted he barely recognized the moment she finally pulled her credit card out, paid, and left.
He’d had to sit down and compose himself with a cup of coffee before he could complete the task of closing up shop.
For the first time since she’d walked in, he’d been able to breathe without capturing the warmth of her scent. He’d been able to concentrate without all the little oohs and aahs she made as she pondered over various shades of beige.
She’d been his first in many pleasures of life. They’d shared a first kiss merely by being curious kids. At the time, she’d had braces, and the experiment between best friends had been ridiculous and so funny they’d both laughed their asses off. After that, they’d saved further experimentation for their significant—or at least temporary—others.
Unfortunately, Abby had a tendency to choose guys who walked all over her. When her so-called boyfriend had broken up with her the day before their junior prom she’d been so sad it had crushed his heart. Though he hadn’t planned to stick himself in a monkey suit and join all the other yahoos at their school for the ridiculous How Sweet It Is themed dance in the high-school gym, he’d done it for her. Afterward, they’d taken the bottle of sloe gin she’d snuck from her parents’ liquor cabinet out to their tree house. When they got a little tipsy, things got a little amorous. Clothes came off, and they became each other’s firsts. Even as a guy, he knew the experience had been something amazing and memorable.
That had been the first time something inside him had felt different with her. Something that at the time he’d tried not to look at too deeply.
The following day, after he’d battled a gnarly hangover and finished his chores around the ranch, he’d called her to talk it over. See how she felt about everything, so they could figure out where to go from there. At first there had been an awkward silence, then she’d made no mention of the night before. So he hadn’t either. Later in the conversation, she mentioned that the douche bag who’d dumped her before prom had called and wanted to get back together.
End of story.
They never discussed doing it. Never discussed how they felt about it or each other. She’d been his first, and yet she’d walked away from him without any mention that maybe, just maybe, that might have been a pretty important event in their lives.
Eventually, he pushed away the new feelings he’d discovered for her in order to dodge the relentless teasing from his brothers, and he moved forward.
Then college came, and they headed in different directions. With miles of separation, their friendship somehow endured, but it had never been the same as all those hours they’d spent together holed up in the tree house talking. After college, they’d both moved back to Sweet. They’d been focused on careers and jobs and everything in between. They might never have regained the rhythm of their friendship as it had been in those early years, but they hadn’t forgotten each other either, and somehow they’d managed to stay close.
When 9-11 happened, he and his brothers enlisted and headed off to boot camp. After the most mentally and physically challenging twelve weeks of his life, he and his brothers had graduated in San Diego. During those long, exhausting weeks, he and Abby had stayed as close as possible. When he’d come home before he deployed to Afghanistan, they’d gone out to the tree house to catch up on each other’s lives. Somehow they’d ended up in each other’s arms. And they’d made love.
He rubbed the ache in the center of his chest.
It hadn’t been until a few weeks later, when he’d been lying on a cot staring up at the canvas tent above his head, that he’d realized his feelings for her might have changed. But by then, it had been too damned late.
So here he was, trying to figure out how to move forward.
Today, the problem escalated when she realized her Mercedes might have been built for comfort and speed but not hauling hardware supplies. Without success, she’d tried to figure out how to get all her purchases inside the two-seater, and he’d found himself offering to drop everything off on his way home. He’d tried to assure himself that delivering purchases for her wasn’t any different than if she’d been Arlene Potter, president of the Sweet Apple Butter Festival. Or Ray Calhoun, local good guy. Or even Chester Banks, Sweet’s oldest living playboy.
He tried, but knew it was a damned lie.
He’d realized that the moment he’d reached for her shopping list and touched her hand instead.
He’d tried to ignore that she smelled as sweet and fresh as a field of bluebonnets. Or that her skin was so soft. Or that he could still remember how all that soft, scented skin felt beneath his young, greedy hands.
He slammed the tailgate shut on his truck, jumped in the cab, and hit the gas. Minutes later, as twilight burst across the sky in tequila-sunrise hues, he parked in front of the Morgan home, grabbed the buckets of paint, and headed up the walkway.
The front door stood open, and the hard-country edge of Jason Aldean’s “Take a Little Ride” spilled outside. With no door to knock on, Jackson walked into the living room, where he spotted Abby in the kitchen. She’d changed from the pair of silver-studded designer jeans she’d had on earlier to a ragged-at-the-knees p
air of Levi’s that fell loose over her slender hips and looked sexy as hell. Like all he had to do was slip his hands down the waistband and slide them off her long legs.
The expensive silk blouse she’d worn had been traded in for a cropped T-shirt that showed off a tanned wedge of firm belly and smooth skin. Her feet were bare, and her hair had been pulled up in a messy knot on top of her head.
His hands tightened around the handle grips on the buckets, while everything south of his belt came to life.
“Hey,” he called. She turned midsip of something pink and icy and gave him a warm smile.
His heart did a drop and roll.
Stupid heart.
What the hell did it know?
“Come on in,” she said.
He looked behind him at the open door. “Kinda am already.” He held up the buckets. “Where do you want these?”
“Just set them down right there. I’m not sure which room to start with yet.”
“There’s no way you’re going to be able to carry these heavy buckets upstairs.”
“Hmmm.” She came into the living room. “Maybe I should just have you carry one upstairs then. Do you mind?” She looked up, and those big blue eyes mesmerized him.
“Just tell me where you want it,” he said.
“If you don’t mind, could you put it in Annie’s room?”
“No problem.”
He fell in behind her on the way up the stairs, paying no attention to the steps beneath his feet and instead focusing on the rise and fall of the back pockets of her jeans. “Annie coming home to help you out?”
“No. She just found out she’s pregnant. Apparently, she has morning sickness pretty bad.”
“I remember when—” Damn. There’s no way he’d bring Fiona into this conversation.
Abby stopped on the step ahead of him, turned, and he found himself at face level with her high, firm breasts. “When what?” she asked.
“Nothing.”
“You don’t have to watch everything you say around me, you know.” Her delicate brows pulled together. “You might want to keep everything private, and I’ll respect that. But in case you’ve forgotten, this is Sweet. And gossip runs faster than water from a faucet around here.”
“Any gossip concerning me has been spent a long time ago,” he said.
She gave a little laugh, then continued up the stairs. “I wouldn’t bet on that if I were you.”
He followed her down the hall, knowing the layout of the house as well as he knew his own. He’d been there enough to feel like he belonged. To get to her sister’s room, they passed Abby’s. The light was on. An open suitcase sat on the vanity chair he’d once helped her reupholster. They’d antiqued the French-provincial frame, then put a pink-and-white floral print over the existing seat cover before Abby had added crystal beads.
At that point in time, Abby had been in a super girly bohemian mode. She’d worn gauzy floral dresses that hit just above her knees, and she’d finished off the look with cowboy boots and lots of dangly bracelets and earrings. She’d been pretty damned hot and never suffered for the lack of attention from the guys at school or around town. She’d just always been the good girl who seemed to pick the wrong guy.
“Just set the bucket anywhere,” she said. “I can drag it wherever I need to later.”
He set the paint near the door and laughed as he noticed the hot pink carnival prize monkey propped up in the center of her bed. It still held the long-stemmed daisy in its hand and still had the same silly grin as the night he’d won it for her at the fair.
“What’s so funny?” she asked.
He pointed. “The monkey. I can’t believe you still have that.”
She walked into the room, picked up the toy, and hugged it to her chest.
Good day to be a toy monkey, he thought.
“This is Cha-Cha.” She smiled first at the monkey, then at him. “Short for Chiquita—as in banana.”
He raised his eyebrows.
“You don’t remember I named her that?”
He shook his head.
“Then I guess you don’t remember what you wanted to call her.”
Again he shook his head.
“You wanted to call her Spank.”
“Ah.” He grinned. “I was an ingenious devil in those days.”
“Those days?”
“I know that the Wilder Boys have a reputation, but you can’t believe everything you hear.”
“True.” She settled the monkey back on the girly bedspread, then turned to him, arms folded across that really nice chest. “But some of us have seen you in action. And everyone knows that actions speaks louder than words.”
Annnnnd, time for a diversion.
“With all the furniture back in place, it’s hard to tell the house has been rented for a couple of years,” he said. “For the past couple of months, my mom’s been on a redecorating tear.”
“Don’t tell me she’s getting rid of the John Wayne stuff.”
“Hell, the Duke was the first thing to go. Mom got a little too cozy with Charli and—”
“Charli?”
“Charlotte Brooks, the host of My New Town. The folks at the senior center sent a letter into the show. You probably noticed the changes when you drove down Main Street.”
“I did. It looks great.”
“It was an adventure, all right. At least for Reno. Charli’s kind of a whirlwind of energy, and she swept Reno right off his stubborn foundation.”
“But I thought he and Diana were . . .”
“Yeah.” His chest tightened. “You missed that one, too. A few months after Dad died, Reno and Diana were set to get married. The week before the wedding, she and her sister were killed in a head-on on Highway 46.”
“Oh my God.” Her hand went to her mouth, and her eyes widened.
“Reno pretty much crawled inside himself after that. Charli found a way to bring him back to life.”
“She must be a very special woman.”
He nodded, knowing he’d thank that girl for the rest of his life for rescuing his big brother. “She’s a helluva decorator too. Mom took her up into the barn loft, and—”
“Ah. Your mom’s antique treasure trove.”
“Yep. Wasn’t long before mom was ripping out furniture, painting walls, and tossing the Duke out on his ear. She’s got a crazy sense of style, but, somehow, it all manages to work.”
“Well, whatever makes her happy, right?” The smile that lifted her luscious mouth zapped him with 220 volts.
At the moment, his mother’s new friend Martin Lane seemed to have accepted that job. He and his brothers still weren’t sure how they felt about that. “Guess I’d better let you get back to making dinner or whatever you were doing in the kitchen when I got here.”
“I had a protein shake earlier,” she said, leading the way back down the stairs. “Figured I’d start tonight deciding which pieces of furniture would be the best to stage the house for the sale. The rest will go into storage.”
“A protein shake?” When they reached the bottom of the stairs, he studied her and couldn’t seem to tear his eyes away from that wedge of skin bared between the bottom of her shirt and the top of her jeans. Before he’d left for Afghanistan she’d been all soft, rounded curves. Now she looked toned to the point of having her own fitness show. “Who the hell can survive on that?”
Her gaze cruised down his body. “It’s a sad truth that not all of us can afford to snarf down large quantities of food without paying the price at the altar of the elliptical gods.”
“Did you just call me fat?”
She laughed. “Quite the opposite.”
“You got shoes?”
“Shoes?”
“Yeah. Those things you wear on your feet.”
Her head tilted, and she looked at him like he’d taken too many hits to the head. “Of course.”
“Get them.”
“Why? I’m not going anywhere.”
“Y
eah.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out his truck keys. “You are.”
She folded her arms across her chest. “You’re not the boss of me, Jackson Wilder.”
He took a step closer, looked down into her eyes, and responded to the familiar obstinacy he found there. “You didn’t used to mind when I took charge.”
“Things have changed.”
“No shit.” He headed toward the door. “But I’m still taking you to get something to eat.”
“Why? You don’t even like me.”
He stopped and turned. “When did I say that?”
“Sometimes, words aren’t necessary.”
He shook his head. “Have you ever known me not to say what I’m thinking?”
“No.”
“Then why the hell would I start now?” He reached down and picked up the pair of high heels she’d obviously kicked off earlier. “If you don’t want to wear these or go barefoot, you’d best grab another pair.”
“Why are you doing this?”
“Because a protein shake isn’t a meal. And with all the manual labor you’re about to put in on this house, you need to build up your energy.”
“I hate to disappoint you, but protein shakes are filled with vitamins and—”
“Yeah. I know. Protein.” He leaned close and pressed the high heels against her chest. “Shoes. Now. Then get in my truck.”
Her eyes narrowed. “What are you going to do if I refuse?”
Hell, he had a million solutions to that problem.
“Are you refusing?”
Five seconds of jutted chin silence gave him his answer.
God, the woman drove him crazy.
Completely destroyed him.
Melted him like he was a goddamned bar of cocoa butter in the tropical sun.
He tossed her shoes on the floor, then picked her up in his arms.
“What are you doing?” Her voice squeaked an octave higher.
“Taking action.” He closed the front door behind them. “Because that’s the kind of guy I am.”
“I need my purse. My keys!”
