This Love of Mine

by Miranda Liasson

  He pulled the car over and took off his sunglasses. “Did you expect me to sit out there and honk?”

  His sharp tone threw her. “No, it was just that I put you in a bad situation.” Suddenly, an image of her brother appeared in front of her. Laughing, joking around. What on earth would he have to say about how his death had created such a senseless rift between two families? That same pang of sad, desperate yearning she felt from his loss at least once every day walloped her in the stomach. “I’m sorry,” she said in a low voice, staring unseeingly out the passenger window. As always, she wished she could mention Patrick’s name, tell Ben what she was feeling. Her brother’s death seemed like a giant boulder between them blocking their way.

  Ben reached over and touched her right cheek, applying steady, gentle pressure with his fingers until she was forced to turn and look at him. “I came over because I wanted to save you the trouble of running all the way back to your place just to spare my feelings. The situation wasn’t your fault. It was mine, from a long time ago. But I’m not a tactless teenage boy without the guts to knock on a door.”

  “I never thought you were,” she said slowly, scanning his face, desperate to make him understand she’d never thought badly of him, never blamed him like her mother and sister did.

  A flicker of anguish dented his brow. A dogged, determined look appeared in his eyes, making them appear darker and more dangerous than usual. Before she could say more, he spoke again. “Besides, you’re giving up your weekend for me, and I don’t want you to feel it’s going to be work. I’m excited to have you see this place, experience the fun.”

  Meg released a pent-up breath, relieved at the change in subject. Wishing she could say something funny to lighten the mood. And more than a little touched that he was worried about her. As Ben pulled away from the curb, she frowned, and it wasn’t from heading west into the afternoon sun. “What exactly is your idea of fun? Canoeing? Archery? Crafts?” She strained to think of things kids did at camp but came up lacking.

  That made him laugh. “Tough Mudder competition with lots of mud.”

  She stared at him in horror.

  He grinned and eased the car onto the country road that led to the highway. “I’m teasing. There’s no mud involved—not today, anyway. So you can stay all pretty looking.”

  As they left town behind, Meg felt the tension between her shoulders start to ease, and thoughts of her embarrassing family faded mercifully into the background. Ben wanted her to have fun. He’d called her pretty. All the worries that plagued her about being klutzy and awful at outdoor activities fled and were replaced by a much more dangerous thought. The more time she spent with him, the more she liked him as a person. Not the perfect fantasy guy she’d imagined in her dreams. Or the irresistible older boy she’d known from a long time ago. But the man that he was here and now. And that was the scariest thought of all.

  CHAPTER 11

  “What do you mean, you didn’t book a second room?” Meg stood in the middle of the rustic room at the Looking Glass Lodge. Judging by the way her face was changing colors, Ben figured her anger was notching up the scale from slightly peeved to very livid. It was a shame, because after the disastrous beginning to the weekend, the car ride had been . . . pleasant. He’d been filled with that same sense of hopeful expectancy that never failed to surprise him, but that he was actually coming to accept as normal in her presence.

  Ben dropped their bags and perused the room, which came complete with a big sleigh bed plumped up with a cushy green plaid comforter and about a dozen foofy pillows he never would understand the use of. Fragrant cedar paneling lined the walls, and across from the bed stood a giant stone fireplace that turned on at the flick of a switch. All they needed was a bottle of bubbly to complete the ambience of Honeymoon Suite Central.

  He gave her the eyeball, prepared to go head-to-head if necessary. “You didn’t tell me you were coming until Tuesday. When I called for another reservation, they were booked.” He focused on her, not the bed. Because some very unprofessional thoughts were invading his mind. Involving turning that fireplace on and tumbling those sheets and scattering all those ridiculous pillows to the floor.

  Meg stood in front of the bed, arms akimbo, looking pissed. And extremely hot in loopy earrings and cute little camp shorts that showed off her shapely legs. “So you just happened not to mention the fact that we’d be sharing a room together all weekend?” She walked forward and got in his face.

  He couldn’t think with her in his grill like that, all big, angry eyes and a whopping dose of sass. She was right about his reluctance to tell her. He heaved a sigh and put his hands in the air. “I could’ve told you when I found out. But I was afraid you’d stress about it and ask one of the other women to room with you and then everyone would know we’re not really together. So I’m sorry.” There, he’d said it.

  Anger simmered in the depths of her emerald eyes, but she fidgeted, shifting her weight from one foot to the other, fisting and unfisting her slender hands. “Fine. We’ll make do.” Did he detect an edge of nerves? He’d bet there was a good chance she was feeling the same trepidation he was. Which stemmed from this crazy attraction that seemed to bounce and reflect off both of them like sunshine on chrome. Because being horny and stuck for two nights in close quarters with her was a recipe for disaster and anyone with an ounce of brain would know it.

  “You can get that look off your face,” he said.

  “What look?”

  “That look like you’re worried I can’t keep my hands off you.”

  She shrugged. “You’re a guy, and it’s an opportunity.”

  “Maybe I’m more worried you’re going to take advantage of me.”

  She snorted. “Like I said. An opportunity is an opportunity. Unless you’re gay?”

  “I’m not gay,” he said definitively. But he almost wished he was. Because everything about her was turning him on, from the way her gorgeous ass looked in those shorts to those intent little frown lines on her forehead. And that vanilla scent she was wearing wasn’t helping.

  He pointed to the couch. “Look, I’ll sleep over there. It’s not a problem.” His legs and feet would dangle off like a fishing pole from a dock, but that was the price he’d pay.

  She sat down cautiously on the very edge of the bed, as if she hated to crease the perfectly done-up comforter.

  Tense. Everything between them was so damn tense. When he’d picked her up, he could sense her thinking about Patrick, but of course neither of them mentioned him. His memory was the elephant between them. How could it not be?

  He’d learned a long time ago not to shirk away from what was uncomfortable. Maybe he could never fully atone for his past but he sure as hell wasn’t going to run away from it. Even if her mother would never give him the time of day again.

  Who could blame her after what had happened to her eighteen-year-old son? His gut clenched at the wish he’d wished at least once every day of his life since that night, that if he could go back and redo his actions, he would. Yes, he would. But life didn’t give anybody do-overs.

  “It’s okay to sit on the bed,” he said, looking at her rigid, uncomfortable posture as she balanced on the edge.

  She shot him a puzzled look. “I am sitting on the bed.”

  “If you call that sitting. With one butt cheek.”

  She threw up her hands and made an irritated sound. “I just walked into this romantic room with a bed made for a honeymoon couple and was wondering how the hell I got myself into this mess with you. I couldn’t possibly be reliving that nightmare of a dinner last weekend. Maybe just for a moment I want to keep things perfect and undisturbed instead of messy and ridiculous.”

  He looked at her then. Really looked. Her eyes sparked. There wasn’t a cell in her body not passionately on fire, and he loved it. In his mind, he conceded the fact that she was absolutely right. They were in a bizarre situation.

  “Life is messy, Meggie,” he said quietly. “Sometimes
you’ve just got to wade in with both feet.”

  Her mouth opened and then snapped shut as she chewed on that. She got up and started to turn away but he caught her elbow.

  “Do you know what you need?” he asked in a wicked tone.

  She turned fifty shades of scarlet.

  “I could help you with that,” he said. “But I was actually referring to someone maybe removing that giant stick up your ass.”

  Meg rolled her eyes. “And do you know what you need?” She picked up a pillow and tossed it at his head. “Someone to control that overconfident, giant ego of yours.”

  Before she could grab another one, he pushed her down atop the bed and let himself fall with her. The down comforter billowed around them like a sail. For a flash, he looked down at her, and his breath stole away. She lay there, her dark hair swirled around her like a mermaid’s, lips full and pink and open in surprise and shock. She was so beautiful it hurt him in the chest.

  Meg started to rise up on her elbows, but before she could recover her senses, he picked up a pillow with a moose head on it and let it loose. It hit her in the side of the head.

  For one second, her eyes registered a what-the-hell-just-happened look. A beat later, her brows knit down with purpose. Next thing he knew, the pillow whirled back at him, then another and another. Being the youngest boy in a family of mostly brothers meant he’d learned to defend himself early. So he launched them right back.

  Her ponytail loosened and fell out. Moose and reindeer and elk flew through the air, and when those ran out, white bed pillows followed.

  Meg got up and ran to the other side of the bed, a giant down pillow in her hand, and he pursued. When he got close, she hauled off and smacked him across the ribs. The pillow burst open and a cloud of goose feathers filled the air like snowflakes.

  She blew at the feathers, waved her hands in the air to clear it. A gallant effort, to be sure, but this was war.

  He picked up the discarded pillow and turned it upside down so the rest of the feathers rained down over her head. She stood there like she was stuck in a blizzard, arms outstretched to catch the flakes that were drifting everywhere.

  “This reminds me of when we were kids and tilted our heads back and stuck out our tongues to catch the snowflakes.” As he demonstrated, a feather landed on his tongue and he reached up to brush it off. “Gross,” he said.

  She stared at him, the flakes settling like a snow globe that had lost momentum. Then she laughed. Not a delicate gale of giggles but a raucous, snorty laugh. The incongruousness of the sound coming out of her petite body started him laughing, too. She collapsed onto the bed, struggling for breath, and he landed next to her.

  When she giggled and snickered, she was luminous. Her eyes lit up like sunlight on the ocean. The planes of her face softened and relaxed and it made him wonder what she would look like fully unguarded, when all control had fled and every tense angle was subdued and softened.

  He had no idea if she’d had a boyfriend in the past who’d made her look like that when they’d made love. But if she was his, he certainly would have. Every night. He imagined being the one to scatter kisses on her neck, nuzzle under her jaw, then capture those soft full lips with his. She wouldn’t be laughing then.

  “Guess we mussed up the bed,” he said.

  “Guess so,” she whispered. Their gazes locked. He pushed back a strand of hair from her face. Her cheek was flushed and hot, and the softness of her skin felt like pure silk under his fingers.

  “I’m sorry I got you into this mess,” he said.

  “Don’t be sorry,” she whispered, reaching up and grabbing his arm, which sent a sudden zing all through him. “We can make the best of it.”

  For a minute he froze. Looked into her sea-green eyes, so honest and sincere. One little tug was all it would take to get her in his arms. Then he was sure they’d find a million ways to make the best of it.

  Except she wasn’t one of his fly-by-night girls. He didn’t know exactly what she was, but he knew she was worth way more to him than just a good tumble in the sheets.

  Ben scootched back, breaking contact. “We better get these feathers cleaned up before we head down to the bonfire.”

  So making the best of it was likely to mean not being able to sleep a wink because of a permanent erection, and fantasizing about her sweet curves and all the things he wanted to do to her in that bed.

  Meg held her plate out to Stacy, gesturing for her to take one of two s’mores as they gathered around a makeshift picnic area with Jax and Cynthia, watching fifty or so kids eat hot dogs, corn, and tater tots as they got excited for tonight’s big bonfire.

  “Oh, how did you know I really needed one of those?” Stacy asked from her seat in a canvas camp chair.

  “You just had that look,” Meg said.

  “That’s her usual look when food passes by,” Jax said, nudging her with his elbow. Stacy punched him in the arm.

  “Want a hot dog?” Meg asked, passing a platter to Cynthia, who had come without Paul.

  “I’m vegan,” she said with a drip of disdain.

  “Um, okay. How about a bun, then?” Oops, that was a bit snarky. It had slipped out before she could catch it, and she’d better watch it. She didn’t want to anger Cynthia and have her go after Ben to retaliate.

  Fortunately, Cynthia ignored the comment. “Why do we have to do a Light Ceremony, anyway? I spent an hour hiking around the woods for those stupid pinecones. I’m going to tell Dr. Donaldson it’s dangerous for these kids to toss pinecones into the fire. This has nothing to do with practicing medicine.”

  “Um—maybe you shouldn’t,” Meg said, restraining her with her hand.

  “Why not?” Cynthia looked down her long aquiline nose at her as if she’d just eaten a chipmunk.

  “Well, because this is a huge end-of-summer tradition for the kids. Maybe you should see it all the way through and then decide. You know, catch more bees with honey and all that.”

  A voice whispered in her ear. “There you go, aiding the enemy again.”

  Meg spun around to see Ben dressed in a Camp Mohican T-shirt and shorts. Several campers were clinging onto his arms and one little boy was on his back, his chubby little hands around Ben’s neck. Seeing him interact and laugh with the kids was almost as fun as seeing him without his shirt on, its own crazy kind of crack.

  Ben’s hungry gaze swept slowly over her, from her sneakers to her jean shorts to the bulky sweatshirt she’d tied around her waist, to her simple gray T-shirt. A mischievous twinkle alit in the depths of his cocoa-brown eyes. How could she be wearing the most modest of clothing yet feel naked under his perusal? How could her limbs feel heavy and weighted down, clumsy and awkward as if she were sixteen again? Getting out of the confines of that damn room and into the fresh air was not helping the situation as she’d prayed it would.

  Cynthia rolled her eyes at Ben. “Please tell me you aren’t going to lead those stupid songs we had to practice.”

  Ben stood with his legs apart, arms folded. Then he made an upside-down M with his fingers, the Camp Mohican special hand symbol, and then flipped it over into a peace sign. “I come in peace, Cynthia,” he said in a deep baritone. “No worries. The songs go along with the pinecone ceremony and the lantern lighting for the canoes. You’ll love it.”

  Cynthia scowled and headed over to the carrots.

  “I think she’s hungry,” Meg said. “The food here isn’t really accommodating for people with special dietary needs.”

  Ben shook his head. “They have two dieticians on staff for the kids. And it is if you ask. We could tell her that. Or we could just let her forage in the woods for nuts and berries.” His mouth tipped up in the slightest smile, and she couldn’t help smiling back.

  “Want to share my s’more?” she finally asked after she’d caught him eyeing it. “I’d offer the whole thing, but I’m chocolate deprived.” She took a bite and then offered him one from the other end, which he surprisingly took. He
bent his head low, all the well-cut layers in his thick head of hair catching light from the low sun. Meg had the urge to run her hands through those rich dark locks but she was frozen in place. Because as he took a bite, his eyes drilled into her the entire time. Her toes curled in her sneakers. Her breath came in little fits. Damn it all, the man was setting her on fire with one sultry look.

  “Exactly how chocolate deprived are you?” Ben asked, his beautiful face close, his eyes searching hers. He smelled a little smoky from the fire and soapy from a shower, too, an irresistible combination. She took in the warmth of his eyes, his definitive brows, the strong, set jawline, the mischievous tilt of his mouth. She fought the urge to cup her hand over his cheek, prove that the bristle of his beard was as rough as she thought it might be.

  “Dangerously deprived.”

  “That right? Chocolate’s good for you. How come you haven’t had any lately?”

  She took one more bite and handed him the rest. “I’m a very discerning chocolate eater.”

  “I see. No chocolate for the sake of chocolate, then?”

  She shook her head. “Not for me.”

  “So it has to be special chocolate.”

  “Yep. Chocolate I love. How about you?”

  His mouth turned up in a smirk, but his eyes looked wary. “Some chocolate’s too forbidden to touch.”

  “Maybe it’s not as forbidden as you think.” Wow, had she just said that? Well, why not? She’d sworn she was going to put herself out there. Be bold and daring. Take risks.

  His eyes searched hers, but walls had already come up, shutters had slammed closed. She opened her mouth to speak, but words failed, and she deflected to the mundane. “You’ve got some marshmallow right there.” She pointed to the corner of his mouth.

  He tried to reach it with his tongue.