by Barbara Lohr
“I’m sorry, Phoebe. So damn sorry.”
When had Ryder Branson ever said he was sorry about anything?
“There’s no excuse for what I did, for how I hurt you. We were both so busy back then. You were opening your salon.”
“I was half crazy. Got that building for next to nothing.”
“And it looked like it. You had work to do.”
“I was gone a lot.”
“Nothing seemed right.”
Thinking back, she remembered nights when she’d come home so tired. And he was exhausted too, working long hours before they hired Mick. “Guess a marriage doesn’t work right when you’re both too tired to talk to each other.”
“Right.” Truth was, after a while they were too tired to do a lot of things. Tears brimmed in her eyes. Trying to turn away so he wouldn’t see, she only made it partway. This darn cast. “Only a few more minutes now,” she said, brushing at her tears.
He leaned closer. “Hey, Pheebs, are you crying?”
She wanted to dig a hole and crawl into it. “No.”
His hand squeezed her shoulder. “Look at me. Please.”
Something in his voice made her turn. Ryder was always in control, and she’d never heard that pleading before. He edged closer and she shrank, grateful for the fading light. Phoebe didn’t want him to see her like this. Didn’t want him to know how badly he’d hurt her. After all, she had her pride. No one could take that away. With a thumb, he whisked away the tear.
“If I could turn back time,” he said, sounding so sad. Then he stopped. “Hey, wasn’t that a song?”
She punched him. “It was and you know it was.” He couldn’t even be original. But that was Ryder. He wasn’t polished. He wasn't perfect. Never had been. Like his dad, he was rough around the edges. Heck, rough like her own dad, if she were honest.
“Aw, Pheebs.” His palm cupped her face. She sank into that warmth, as if she were coming home. Her body came alive. More. More. But she spotted a horrified Carolyn hovering just beyond Ryder’s shoulder. Watch it, Phoebe. Don’t you weaken.
How could this be bad? Squeezing her eyes tight, Phoebe imagined how that hand would feel on her skin and, okay, the spots lower than her chin.
Closer, closer. But the cast pinned her in place. Her body failed to yield like warm taffy, the way it always had. No matter, Ryder kept coming. But the poor man was cautious about it, as if he were afraid she’d push him away.
How could she? She longed to touch him. Reaching out, Phoebe traced his profile with one finger. “I always liked your nose.”
Somehow he managed to kiss the finger skating over his face. “That nose has been broken plenty.” He closed his eyes, as if he really enjoyed her touch. “Not my best feature, I’m afraid.”
“Yeah, I can understand how it got broken.” But she was kidding. Football was the cause, not some bar brawl. Phoebe knew that. She’d heard the whole story of the game that left him bleeding in the locker room. Stanley had insisted that the crooked nose added character. “No matter, it’s your best feature. Well, one of them, I mean.”
His body heat warmed her. Ryder had always been a walking furnace. When he exhaled, she breathed him in. Let his scent fill her until her heart pounded so fast, so loud. She could swear his heartbeat quickened into the same rhythm. Flattening her hand on his chest, she checked. Yep.
He cupped one hand over hers. “What’s another one of my best features?”
“Your eyes,” she said, searching their gray depths. “That’s easy.”
He wrinkled his nose. “They’re just eyes.”
“They’re gray suede. I want to…well, I used to want to wrap myself in your eyes.”
“But you can’t do that.”
“No. No I can’t.” What was she saying? What were they doing? She slipped her hand out from under his.
“My mother’s eyes,” he said.
“You never told me that.”
“Stanley’s eyes are blue. I don’t remember a lot of details about my mom. I hate that.” The sadness in his face made her want to hug him. She fought the urge. “But I remember her eyes. They were gray.”
“I’ll bet she was pretty.”
“Beautiful. At least, I thought so. My sisters kind of look like her.”
She couldn’t imagine how it would feel to grow up without a mother. “You must have missed her a lot.”
“Yeah, well. Sure.” Now she’d embarrassed him.
“Your eyes are great, but don’t tell Stanley I said that.” She socked him playfully to shake him from the dark mood she’d caused.
“What’ll you give me if I keep that secret?” Leaning closer, he nuzzled her neck.
Phoebe’s breath caught in her throat. The sun had set. Darkness cloaked the beach. Even the gulls had gathered in clusters for the night.
When Ryder kissed her, his lips felt familiar, yet new.
And God help her, she kissed him back. Just took leave of her senses. With a groan, she kissed him hard and wide and wet. Their tongues explored, reckless and hungry. Finally she drew back, just to breathe. “Ryder, I...” Her chest was heaving.
Ryder held her chin in the palm of his hand. May as well have been her heart. “Don’t. Please. Just a kiss. Please.”
So she didn’t say no. Not no to the kiss. Not no when his hands wandered from her face. It felt so long since she’d been kissed or touched as if she were some precious thing.
“Watermelon,” Ryder said, after a while.
“What?” she blinked up at him.
“You still wear watermelon lip stuff. I’ve thought about that a lot.”
“You have?” The comment turned her to mush.
But when she tried to move closer, her cast brought her to her senses. And she could swear she saw Carolyn frowning at her over Ryder’s shoulder. Her finger ticked at Phoebe, like no, no, no.
She pulled her cardigan tighter. “We should go up.”
The whites of his eyes widened. “You mean…” Hope flickered.
“No, that’s not what I mean, Ryder.” Had she let this go too far? Carolyn was nodding in agreement. Too far, Phoebe. Good girl. Put a stop to this now.
“Yep, time to go back up.” He got the message. Jumping up, he helped her stand.
Silly fools, they both smiled all the way back up to the cottage.
“Want to play checkers?” she asked when they reached the back door.
“Sure.” And tonight? This time they actually played.
Chapter 14
All night the beach replayed in Phoebe’s dreams. She woke up exhausted. Every time she’d tried to get comfortable, gritty sand greeted her in the sheets. Apparently she’d brought the beach back with her.
Outside Ryder was hard at work. The thump, thump of his brush on the siding shook the house. And he was singing. Something about a night shift. Phoebe smiled, picturing hip thrusts and gyrations. Ryder couldn’t sing but the man sure could dance.
When she pushed a hand through her hair, her fingers came away coated with sand. That did it. Throwing back the covers, she limped down the hall to grab a black garbage bag and a roll of duct tape from the kitchen.
Back in the bathroom, she maneuvered her leg into the bag and then taped it to her thigh. Duct tape was a wonderful invention. Reaching into the shower, she turned on the water. When they were first married, Ryder had a friend install the shower over her protests. They couldn’t afford it. Now she sure appreciated it.
Knowing that Ryder probably wouldn’t approve, she stepped in quickly to move things along. “Yikes!” Freezing water hit her. Teeth chattering, she worked the knobs until the spray began to feel so darn good. How she’d miss a hot shower. But when the soap slid from her fingers, she groaned. “Now what?”
No way could she bend over to find it. Besides, the black bag was slipping. Maybe she’d just work on her hair. Massaging the shampoo into her scalp, she let the warm water stream over her. Cocking on eye open, she spotted Ryder’s Irish Spring
. He wouldn’t mind, would he?
The curved green bar felt forbidden in her hands. After lathering up, she soaped the upper part of her body while her imagination went into overdrive. Oh yeah, his soap was enough to do that to her. The smell took her back to the days when they’d shower together. Just when her small bathroom began smelling orgasmic, Ryder yelled through the closed door. “What are you doing in there, Phoebe?”
Cripes. “Nothing.” She slid his soap back onto the holder.
The door to the bathroom banged open and cool air chilled her. “This sure doesn’t look like nothing. What if you fell?” The shower curtain was yanked back with a metallic screech. Trying to turn away, Phoebe slipped.
He caught her. “You’re going to kill yourself.” But Ryder didn’t sound mad. Amazed, amused but not mad. Water cascaded over both of them.
Reaching behind her, Ryder twisted until the water stopped. “You sh-shouldn’t be in here, Phoebe.”
“Neither should you.”
“I know.” He helped her out until they both stood dripping on the bathmat.
“You’re soaked,” she told him, laughing. His wet T-shirt was molded to his body. Wet curls framed his devilish gray eyes.
“So are you.”
“Don’t look.”
“I’m trying not to.” His arms tightened around her.
“The sand was making me crazy.”
“You’re making me crazy.” Lowering his head, he nuzzled her left ear. “You still ticklish here?”
“Yes. Is that a good thing?”
“Could be. It all depends.” Eyes averted, Ryder yanked a towel from the bar so hard that the rack came off.
“Cripes, Ryder. I’m going to need a handyman.”
“You already have one.” He wrapped the towel around her.
“I do?” she squeaked.
“Yep. Me. And this is probably the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. It’s way above my pay grade. Or maybe it’s below it.”
Phoebe started to giggle again. “You sound confused.”
“I am.” His eyes went on a rampage, from her hair on down until they rested on her leg. “Duct tape?”
“Right.” She felt pretty proud. “Even stays tight in water.”
“So how were you going to get it off?”
Phoebe worked her bottom lip with her teeth. “I hadn’t gotten that far.”
“Guess it’s up to me.” Flipping the top down on the toilet, he said, “Sit right here while I look for something to take off that adhesive. You have very sensitive skin.”
“I know.” Ripping it off didn’t seem like a good option.
He sniffed and smiled. “Hey, did you use my soap?”
“Yes, are you mad?”
“I’m flattered. It always turned me on when you used my soap.”
“You never told me.”
“Sweet Cheeks, I never told you a lot of things.” His gray eyes found hers and there it was. Everything she wanted to see. I want you. I need you. I love you.
Of course he didn’t say any of that.
Wait until she told Fernando about this.
Opening the medicine chest, Ryder studied the bottles and tubes. “What’s this pink stuff?”
“Nail polish remover.”
“Might just work.” He grabbed some cotton balls. Ten minutes later the black bag was in the wastebasket.
She stared down at her white cast, rimmed with pink skin. “That wasn’t so hard.”
“It sure as hell was.” It was kind of cute how he tried not to look at her.
“You’re panting.”
“I’m leaving.”
Back in her own room, her imagination went into overdrive. The beach, the shower. Didn’t matter where they were or what they were doing, she was still wildly attracted to her ex-husband. Pulling on her denim mini skirt and a Silver Beach T-shirt, she stumbled into the kitchen and slotted a mug into the coffee machine.
Grabbing her coffee, she took a sip. “Ouch!”
Her lower lip pulsed. What was that saying about being twice burned? Panicked, she looked around. Her stomach was churning so she definitely didn’t want food. But energy pulsed in her body. Maybe she’d organize her kitchen. Isn’t that what her mother used to do when she got stressed out?
Throwing open the cabinet doors, she started pulling glasses and plates from the shelves. How she loved her Fiesta crockery in blues and greens, plus lime. Then she turned to the spices, which she never used. This would keep her busy for a while.
When Ryder walked in for lunch around noon, he stared at the crowded counters. “What’s all this?”
“I’m organizing.” She pushed back a wave of hair. “This is one thing I can do standing up.”
“Yeah, but you never organize stuff.” Hands on those trim hips, he glanced around.
“That’s the old me. The new me? Organized.”
His shoulders sank. “But I liked the old you, Pheebs.”
That comment got her right in the stomach and twisted.
Coming closer, he had a cautious look in his eye. “You know, the you from last night.”
She backed up until the counter etched a ridge in her back. “Last night was a surprise. I don’t think we should...”
When he put a hand gently over her mouth, she could taste the paint. It wasn’t bad. “Don’t, okay?” He dropped the hand.
She licked her lips. “All right, but I’m turning over a new leaf. A woman should know where to go for anything in her kitchen.”
“Really?” Ryder didn’t look convinced. After all, her kitchen was more a scavenger hunt than a Martha Stewart makeover.
Quietly, he set about making sandwiches, including one for her. While they ate, she planned on one of her yellow notebook pads. What did her mother used to say? The plates and glasses should always be close to the dishwasher? Or maybe that was the garbage.
After they finished lunch, she kept working, putting her piles together below each cabinet. By three o’clock she still hadn’t gotten anywhere and it was naptime. But she couldn’t sleep.
Lying there on the bed that afternoon and watching the fan circling lazily above didn’t bring answers. Instead it brought arousing dreams that made her wish she were back on the beach. When Phoebe woke up, her face burned from what she’d been doing in her dream. And she’d enjoyed it. Patting the empty pillow next to hers, she was disappointed to find she was alone in bed. Ryder was supposed to be there with her.
Phoebe, Phoebe. Carolyn’s image perched on the edge of the bed, and she was shaking her head with sad disapproval. You have to organize more than your kitchen, girlfriend. Okay, Carolyn was right. What Phoebe had now was a roaring relapse.
But a wonderful smell drifted down the hallway from the kitchen. A quick glance at the clock told her it was time for supper. Well, all right then. Time to freshen up. The evenings turned chilly so instead of a sundress, she pulled a extra-large T-shirt over her head. This one said Silver Beach. St. Joe, Michigan. Together, Phoebe and Ryder had visited just about every town along the Lake Michigan shore. Silver Beach in St. Joe held special memories. After dabbing mascara on her lashes, she swiped watermelon pink gloss over her lips. Then she zipped her denim miniskirt up the side. Where would she be without it?
Well, she couldn’t go there. Because she knew where she’d be. Back in bed with Ryder and she couldn’t let that happen. What you need, girl, is a chastity belt. Carolyn wouldn’t let up. Maybe that’s what friends are for. Metal chastity belt?
Ouch. She’d rather work at being good.
When she reached the kitchen, she came to a halt. Only Ryder Branson could look this cute in a full-length, pink polka dot apron with lime green trim.
“I had no choice, okay?” With that he lowered the top part of the apron. His pristine white T-shirt was speckled with some kind of brown sauce.
“Your efforts are appreciated,” she said between giggles.
The afternoon had brought rain so Ryder had set the kitchen table,
instead of the table on the porch. The man had even thought of candles and it didn’t matter that they were Christmas red. Teal green cloth napkins matched the placemats.
“Wine?” He held up an empty glass.
“Sounds good. I'm not on my pain medication anymore so there won't be any problems.”
“How do you feel?” He poured a ruby merlot for each of them.
“Better every day.” More confused by the minute.
After handing her the wine, he raised his glass. Looking at that handsome face being so serious, something turned inside of her. He was trying so hard. “To you,” he said but his eyes held so much more. “The prettiest girl of...all.”
“To our project.” And she clinked her glass to his. A shadow passed over his face as he sipped.
Now what was that about? “Should I light the candles?”
“Sure.” He handed her the lighter. One flick and the candles cast an intimate glow in the small cottage. Sometimes they used to eat like this, just two of them. It could be broasted chicken from the Roadhouse or a shrimp salad from Whistle Stop, they’d take it slow, knowing where the whole evening was going to end.
She missed that. She missed him.
Thumping over to the pot, she picked up the lid and peered inside. “My, this looks and smells delicious. What is it?” She knew very well what it was.
Concentration tightened Ryder’s features. “Chicken something or other.” He blanked out.
“Looks and smells like chicken cacciatore to me.” This had been one of Stanley’s Sunday specials. Time to poke the bear. “Where did you get the recipe?”
He glanced around. “The newspaper.”
“Last Sunday's newspaper?” She didn’t get the daily paper, just the weekend version.
Ryder gave a nod. His nose should be a foot long by now.
Stanley was helping his son out, and his fatherly concern touched her heart. She just hoped Ryder appreciated the effort.
“Delicious,” she said halfway through the meal. You can never miss with Italian food.
