by Toni Blake
“Hmm,” Rachel mused. “Cat whisperer.”
And Amy actually looked a little jealous—being the chief cat lover in the group. “How’d you do that?”
Tessa just shrugged, and Rachel said, “Maybe you could come over and talk to Shakespeare. Tell him to stop getting on the counter and eating Mike’s food while he’s still fixing it—before Mike kills him.”
But Tessa had a feeling that wouldn’t work—she just felt an odd little attachment to shy, skittish Brontë and was compelled to help the cat live a more enjoyable life.
On Sunday, Tessa took the day off. No work at the bookstore, no work at Lucky’s. She suspected he was probably home if she’d wanted to do some painting, maybe choose a wall color for his son’s room—but it felt like a good idea to put a little space between them, and the weekend was providing just that space.
The fact was, the more she thought about Lucky not making a move on her, not trying to kiss her, or something—the more it bothered her. It would be one thing if he just wasn’t into her, but that hadn’t been a banana in his pocket when she’d fallen back against him—and besides, sometimes you could just sense when you had chemistry with a guy. It was like . . . electricity in the air, a strange sizzle and pop even when you were both completely still. It crackled through your whole body, and part of that was because you could physically sense it crackling through his, too. And she’d sensed the crackling. And she’d wanted to use all that sizzling and crackling to . . . build a fire or something. So why hadn’t Lucky accepted that silent invitation?
She found herself curled up on the couch in a cami and gray jogging pants, hugging a throw pillow, and selecting the most recent Ellen show from the offerings on her DVR. She had a tattoo she was too embarrassed to show anyone, she still felt life was passing her by, and she was even more sexually frustrated than usual—it seemed like a good time to let Ellen cheer her up.
And it worked. Ellen’s monologue made her smile, and when Ellen talked about positive thinking, it reminded Tessa to try to do that—think positive, look on the bright side. In totally practical ways, life really was looking up lately—she’d been feeling better and she had a paying job. And if the past few years had taught her anything, it was not to take things for granted.
Then Ellen began to dance. She danced on the show almost every day and sometimes spoke about why, noting that it was great exercise and just made you feel good. Hmm. Tessa thought she could probably use some exercise. And back in her college years, she’d loved to go dancing—she just hadn’t done it lately. Well, except for that day Def Leppard had come on the radio. That had made her feel kind of good—until Lucky showed up, that is.
So as Ellen moved up and down the aisles of her studio audience to Rick James’s “Give it to me, Baby,” Tessa made a split decision—to cast aside her pillow and get to her feet. Then she danced along with Ellen in her living room.
She glanced toward the windows, of course—just to make sure Lucky wasn’t going to sneak up on her again—but all was clear. And the truth was—even if it felt a little wacky to dance by herself, she also immediately felt . . . uplifted. Like her problems were surmountable. Her health was manageable. And she had a job. And even if Lucky didn’t want her, well . . . maybe someone would eventually, maybe even someone she would want in return.
That last part was the hardest to talk herself into believing—but she did it. And she kept dancing along with Ellen until, soon, she wasn’t thinking about anything except dancing. And it was . . . fun. Wow. Still a little weird by herself—but she felt far better when she finished dancing than she had when she’d started.
By the time Ellen’s show was over, she felt all-around energized, ready to make her day more than just one of sitting around pouting. The sun had risen high in the sky, creating another pretty spring day that beckoned her outdoors.
Slipping on shoes and a long cardigan sweater, she ventured onto her deck to check her seed containers and was thrilled to see the first little bits of green growth poking up through the soil in several pots. She found herself running her fingertips gingerly through the dirt surrounding the first zinnia sprouts, then gliding them over the rim of the clay pot, the terra-cotta warm from the sun.
Leaving the deck, she stooped to drink in the fragrance of her hyacinth and admire the pretty pink tulips that grew in friendly clumps alongside them. Then she headed to her daisy seed bed at the edge of the woods. Like in the pots, the first hints of green had appeared in the dark, rich soil, and thinking of the daisies she’d have here for years to come made her smile.
The gentle shushing sound of the waterfall back in the trees led her to glance in that direction, the sound soothing to her. Despite the soft spot she’d developed for her new neighbor, she felt thankful he hadn’t had any customers on motorcycles this weekend—at least not when she’d been home. The cadence of the rushing water delivered exactly what she’d moved out here to find—a sense of peace and nature.
Without really planning it, she walked into the woods, toward Whisper Falls. The trees overhead made the air cooler, so she hugged her sweater around her, tying the sash in front. She’d come to sit by the falls many times since buying the cabin, but not since last autumn. The crashing water grew louder as she approached, until finally she reached her favorite spot—she lowered herself onto a large, wide rock near the base of the falls that always seemed to her as if it had been placed here on purpose, like it was God’s park bench.
Shards of sunlight sifted through the trees to cast a vague glow on the small waterfall. The cascade descended only ten feet or so, but the rocky shelf it flowed over stretched across a wide part of the stream, spanning probably twenty feet. Sometimes she climbed the short, steep hill next to the falls to the top, to look across the smooth, placid water there, but today she felt like watching the crash and swirl of Whisper Falls from below. Both views were peaceful to her in different ways, but this one felt . . . well, somehow comforting yet turbulent, like a slightly wilder part of the gentle setting here—and it suited her mood lately, her need to reach out and grab life, to no longer sit sedentary here in the woods by herself.
“Hey.”
She flinched at the sound and glanced up—to find Lucky standing a few feet away. Clearly the rush of the falls had masked the noise of his steps through the trees. And—oh God. As usual, he looked ferociously sexy, the breeze coming off the falls blowing his long, dark hair back from his face. And despite the dim light and the shadows cast by the trees, she was reminded of something she’d noticed the first time she’d met him—what amazing eyes he had. Her heartbeat kicked up. “Hey.”
“Sorry to sneak up on you.”
Oh crap—did that mean she looked nervous again? “You didn’t. I mean . . . no problem.”
“I was getting ready to mow the lawn and decided to finally check out these falls.”
For some reason, she liked thinking of Lucky doing something as ordinary as mowing the lawn. It made him seem . . . all the more safe, all the more like her and everyone else she knew. Even if he wasn’t in a lot of ways. She motioned to Whisper Falls and confided, “This has become one of my favorite places.”
He nodded. “It’s nice. Kind of just . . . hidden back here.”
She slid over on her rock bench, making more room, and said, “Even comes with a built-in seat.”
Please, please sit next to me. She’d been trying to get him off her mind, trying to not want him anymore, but now that he was this close again, it was impossible. That spark that moved between them was already sizzling once more and Whisper Falls instantly became the most seductive place she’d ever been. The fresh green leaves bursting forth suddenly felt lush and sensual, the shade created a deep, dense privacy, and the sound of the tumbling water rushed over her in an intoxicating way.
So when Lucky sat down, his muscular body taking up all the space she’d freed and more, she didn’t scoot away. Their arms touched, and their thighs, too. She could smell that musky scent of hi
s mingling with the aroma of new growth all around them.
They sat quietly for a moment, Lucky taking in the falls, Tessa watching him in her peripheral vision and hoping he couldn’t tell. He wore ripped blue jeans and a puffy down vest over a hooded sweatshirt, and everything about him exuded warmth right now. Although it surprised her to discover she missed seeing his tattoos—they were such a large part of his identity in her mind. Then she smiled quietly to herself, wondering if Lucky would like the daisy chain around her ankle, and it hit her that he was perhaps the one person she knew who would understand why she’d gotten it.
“So why is it called Whisper Falls?” he asked.
Most people in Destiny knew this already, but apparently Lucky had never heard it when growing up here. She pointed to the top. “The story goes that if you stand up there on one side and whisper something, someone standing on the other side will hear you, even over the noise of the water.”
He glanced down at her, clearly intrigued. “Ever try it?”
She shook her head. “It’s an old story. Years ago, people used to come out here more, up an old trail by the bridge.” She pointed over her shoulder toward a stretch of Whisper Falls Road that curved across the creek—just before the ascent that led to their homes. Then she laughed softly. “My mom tried it when she was young and said it didn’t work. Or maybe you both have to be standing at just the right spot, or maybe the wind has to be blowing the right way or something nutty like that. Or maybe it’s just an old legend someone made up.”
Next to her, he shrugged. “It’s a nice story anyway.”
They sat in companionable silence for a moment—until Tessa’s palms began to sweat. Suddenly, every part of her body felt highly sensitized, yearning for touch. She realized she wanted to kiss him so badly she could barely breathe—and it was all she could do not to reach out to his arm, or his shoulder. So instead she spoke—just to break the tension building within her. “If you’re going to be around tomorrow, I’ll start working in Johnny’s room.”
He nodded, then glanced down slightly. “I’ll be around.” His voice had come out lower than usual, though, and when their eyes met, she caught it in his gaze—the knowledge, once again, that this went both ways. Oh. My. Her stomach fluttered and her breasts tingled. And maybe all this meant she should just do it, just kiss him herself—but whatever mysterious thing was holding him back made her hold back, too. She didn’t want to be pushed away.
So she just bit her lip and wished she could banish the sensuous ache at the small of her back—and tried for more conversation. “Do you forgive me?” she heard herself ask. “For coming into the room and finding out about your son?”
When he looked down at her now, their faces came closer together, and for the first time, she saw true vulnerability in big, bad Lucky Romo’s eyes. His voice dropped even further, to a low, raspy timbre. “Yeah. As long as you haven’t told anybody.”
She didn’t break the gaze—she couldn’t. She just shook her head. “I haven’t. I won’t.” Her whole body rippled with want.
And he whispered, “Thank you”—and then his eyes drifted . . . to her lips.
She sucked in her breath, let it back out—but it came slow, thready. She went a little lightheaded. She’d never been so drawn toward a man, physically, so much as if her body had taken over her brain.
That’s why she found herself leaning just a little nearer to him, aware that he’d moved closer now, too. That’s why the whole world stopped in that moment, and why it felt as if nothing else existed but them.
“Lucky,” she murmured, knowing that, at last, he was going to kiss her.
. . . with my veins running fire, and my heart beating faster than I can count its throbs.
Charlotte Brontë, Jane Eyre
Seven
His breath mingled with hers, warming her lips, as she closed her eyes, anticipating heaven. The ache, the need, roared all through her, desperate and hungry—and thank God he was finally going to ease that ache.
“I should go,” he said then, pushing to his feet—and Tessa nearly fell over sideways since, somewhere along the way, she’d begun leaning against him.
She simply stared up at him, wide-eyed, her mouth hanging open. “Huh?”
“I . . . have stuff I gotta do,” he said, eyes resolute even if slightly troubled as he started to depart. But then he stopped, met her gaze, and spoke low. “Sorry, hot stuff,” he told her, sounding . . . almost a little ashamed, she thought.
And then he was gone, tramping off through the spring green woods back toward his house to leave her sitting there feeling far more alone than she had before he’d shown up.
Whoa. What the hell had just happened here? He’d come so close to kissing her—she knew it. She couldn’t have invented something like that. And she certainly hadn’t invented that erection a few days ago, either.
She had no idea what had sent him dashing off through the trees away from her. All she knew was that she hadn’t felt this deflated in a long time.
On Tuesday, Tessa painted three walls of Johnny’s room a warm shade of blue pulled from the NASCAR wallpaper border. Blue was soothing, and that was good, since she needed to be soothed after Lucky’s disappearing act at the falls on Sunday.
She’d worked in the house the previous day, too—but mostly, he’d avoided her, staying out in the garage. And yet, every moment they had been in each other’s presence, she’d still felt that undeniable heat moving between them. What’s going on here, Lucky?
It was Wednesday afternoon when she headed back up the hill, ready to work on refinishing some of Lucky’s living-room furniture. Like painting and wallpaper, this was a task she could do herself to keep her expenses low and her profits high. Southern rock echoed from the garage, drawing her to it, and like when she’d found him there before, he looked deeply involved in his work—today deftly painting a white skull on a black gas tank—so she stayed quiet until he reached a stopping point.
“Hey,” she said. She didn’t smile, though. She couldn’t. She officially felt weird around him now—and oh how quickly things had changed. Not long ago she’d been nervous because he scared her a little; now things were strange because she was dying for him to make a move on her and he wouldn’t.
Lucky, however, did smile at her—a little anyway. It looked forced, like he was trying to get past the awkwardness, but it still made her heart beat faster. Damn it.
“Hey, hot stuff.” He said it like nothing was wrong—like they hadn’t come painfully close to kissing a few days ago.
But she still didn’t smile. “Just wanted to let you know I’m here. I’m going to start on your end tables.”
He nodded, but dropped the grin, as well—apparently deciding it wasn’t working. “Thanks.” And as she started toward the door that led into the house, he asked, “You mad at me?”
When she stopped and turned back to him, his eyes remained on the gas tank, not looking at her. “No,” she said. “Just confused.” Maybe it was time for yet more honesty here.
He still didn’t look her way, though. Just kept his eyes on that skull as he began to airbrush a red glow around it. “You wouldn’t be the first person to be confused by me,” he informed her matter-of-factly.
Huh. That was a hell of an answer. Or non-answer, she thought. And that was it? All he was going to say? She was beginning to have a little more sympathy for the Romo family at this point. If Lucky had spent his whole life running so hot and cold, no wonder there’d been problems. “I can only imagine,” she bit off more sharply than intended.
And when he said nothing more, she opened the side door and went inside, down the hall past Lucky’s bedroom, as well as the space that would soon belong to his son. But then she stopped, backed up. Something had caught her eye in Johnny’s room.
And when she walked in, she gasped. Lucky had painted the fourth wall—with a mural, as he’d promised. Just since yesterday! And what a mural it was!
A little taken ab
ack, she lowered herself onto the bed and studied what he’d created. It was a work of airbrush art. He’d painted a scene as if viewed from a car on the racetrack, the wall showing in bright hues what a driver would see through the windshield: the asphalt track curving away before him, the infield to one side, the crowd in the stands on the other. Checkered flags and the repair pit were visible, and other cars dotted the road ahead. Any NASCAR fan would love it, and Johnny would surely see in it how much his father cared about pleasing him.
She couldn’t believe Lucky had done the entire thing overnight. And then not even mentioned it just now. In fact, it compelled her to walk back out, down the hall, planning to say, You didn’t even tell me about the mural. It’s amazing.
But then she stopped—just before opening the door.
She’d sensed all along that Lucky was more complex than she knew. And for a little while, she’d thought he was letting her begin to see inside him, to understand a few of those complexities. Yet now she was forced to remember . . . all the things Rachel and Amy had worried about. His past, possibly in a biker gang. All those missing years. The potential criminal activity. It was difficult not to revisit all that now and wonder if her friends’ warnings were worth reconsidering, heeding.
Either way, one thing was becoming scathingly clear: Lucky Romo was not a simple man. And he didn’t want to let her any deeper into his life than she already was.
As for asking him about the mural—it suddenly seemed like a bad idea. It implied that they were . . . close in some way, that they shared something beyond a professional relationship. And other than the fact that she knew about his son, they . . . didn’t. Not really.
