by Vicki Hinze
Silence.
“Opposed to baths?”
Still, no answer.
“Cleanliness is a noble aspiration, isn’t it?” Her pulse throbbed in her neck. She’d cut loose on him any second. Anticipation burned deeply, exciting him. When Maggie got fired up, few could match her spirit. That’s when he most wanted to paint her, rosy-skinned, eyes shining, nostrils flaring ever so softly. Breathtaking. Fantasy-making...
Still no answer.
He wouldn’t let her get away with it. Not this time. “Running, Maggie? Does the prospect of sharing a bathtub with me terrify you that much?”
“No. Nothing about you terrifies me, MacGregor. I’m just not sure it’d be in my best interest to do it, that’s all.”
“Your best interest?”
She looked down at the ground, then back up at him. “Look, I don’t know what I think about it, and don’t nag at me, because that’s the truth.”
If her words got any stiffer they’d crack. “I asked what you think about it, not what you intend to do about it.” She should at least be able to commit to thoughts—if she would.
“Quit pushing, will you?” She gave him a frown that made her stiff voice seem smooth and easy. “I just told you not to nag. Didn’t I tell you not to nag? You know I hate it.”
But she didn’t hate him. “I’m not nagging. You’re running.”
“I’m not.” She glared at him.
Cranky, but cute. “You are.” She was, which proved the woman a lot wiser than he, because if he had half an ounce of sense he’d be running like Hell pushed hard at his heels.
“Okay, okay. I want you.” She jerked her hand free of his. “There. The big secret’s out. I said it. Satisfied?”
It was one of the hardest things he’d had to do. He wanted to shout the news from Seascape’s widow’s walk, wanted to scoop her into his arms and kiss her until her knees gave out. Instead, he masked his expression and, forcing a blasé tone shrugged. “I knew it.” He had, of course. She thought he’d meant to taunt her into confessing a weakness. But, pure and simple, he’d just needed for her to give him the words. He stood on shaky ground in this non-relationship relationship and he’d needed a little reassurance. He also needed his head examined for allowing there to be a relationship.
“I knew it?” she mimicked him. “Has, anyone ever told you that you are a Class-A, arrogant jerk, MacGregor?”
He dragged a fingertip down his jaw. “I believe you’ve mentioned it several times now.”
“Well, consider it mentioned again.”
God, but she fired his blood. The hint of a grin tugged at his lip and, to keep her from seeing it, he pressed a kiss to her temple, reaching for the proverbial laurel leaf, then breathed against her temper-warmed skin. “Maggie, honey.”
“What?” She nearly spat the word out.
“Would you tell me again—without yelling?”
“Ah, geez, MacGregor.”
She stiffened, clearly to resist him. To heighten temptation, he lifted his arms and circled her shoulders. “Please.”
With a resigned groan, she pulled away and looked him straight in the eye. “I want you, MacGregor. In fact, I’m sick with wanting you.” Agitated, she swiped her hair back from her face. “Hell, maybe I’m just plain sick.”
No danger of getting an overinflated ego around her. That was for sure. “Charming, honey.”
“Glad you approve. I’ve been studying with a master.”
Absorbing her angry words without comment, T.J. looked up at the sky. Swirling, gray clouds took on a yellowish cast and slanted strange hues into rain-laden ones, and even stranger shadows spilled onto the ground. She didn’t mean it. It was fear talking. She wanted him, and she feared wanting him or anyone else because she’d seen what wanting her father had done to her mother. Maggie feared control, not T.J. MacGregor. She’d proven that often enough. And, if they survived all this, maybe he’d have the chance to prove he was nothing like her father. Maybe.
“So are we going to do this crossing, or what?”
He gave her a frown because it was expected, though he had to work at not hugging and kissing her and giving her soothing, reassuring words that would help ease her fears and hopefully his own. Would he endanger her simply by caring for her? “Ready when you are.”
She reached out and grabbed his hand. She was shaking. “Let’s do it, then.”
T.J. nodded, his stomach flip-flopping as ferociously as the ends of her wind-whipped hair. Detecting a glint of light, he visually followed it. “Wait.”
“What is it now?”
He sighed. “Batty Beaulah’s at four o’clock—near the crooked oak—with her binoculars.”
“Ah, I see her. Is that George and Aaron Butler with her?”
“Yeah.” Hearing chirping, T.J. looked over to a branch about five yards south. A squirrel and a raccoon were engaged in a territorial Mexican standoff.
“What’s Aaron holding?”
“His dad’s antique spy glass.” T.J. grimaced, hoping the animals didn’t start battling. From the looks of them, neither was willing to compromise an inch. Was the little squirrel nuts? The raccoon would kill it. “Aaron hangs on to Beaulah’s every word. Thinking some of her ‘wild tales’ about Seascape might be true fascinates him.”
“Mmm. He breaks that glass and Bill’s apt to fascinate him with a truth or two.”
“More likely, Leslie. She’s the disciplinarian in the family. Bill’s too tender. His poet’s soul, Leslie says.” The squirrel, showing a spurt of sense, leaped to another tree then scurried down its trunk to the ground.
“They look happy, don’t they?”
Maggie sounded wistful, as if remembering her own childhood and finding her memories less pleasant than the ones Aaron and George were currently making. T.J. hated that. “Yeah, they do.”
“That’s how it should be for kids. Happy. No worries. No response—” She stopped suddenly and cut herself off. “Sorry.” She slid her glance past him to the pond, clearly embarrassed by the longing in her tone. “You ready?”
Ready to hold her? Yes. Ready to make love with her? Most definitely. Ready to love her? No, it was far too risky. Ready to cross the line? “Not really.”
“Why not?”
He forked his fingers at his temple and dragged them over his skull. “I don’t want to kiss the dust in front of an audience.”
Maggie clicked her tongue to the roof of her mouth. A weak shadow streaked over her chin. “Geez, have a little faith, MacGregor. If you expect failure, that’s certainly what you’re going to get.”
“Easy for you to say, Hoggett. You haven’t flunked at this for nine months.”
“No, I haven’t.” She laced their fingers and pressed their palms. “But we have succeeded a—”
“We succeeded together,” he interjected. “And that worked once. Who’s to say it’ll work again?” His doubt crept into his voice, and he hated it. Hated it for being there, and for knowing Maggie would hear it, too.
“Me.” She hiked her chin and genuine anger burned in her eyes. “I say it.”
“Well.” He waved offhandedly. “Now that we’ve established you’re on the job, hey, that sets any questions about this to rest, doesn’t it?”
“Yep. That’s about how I see it.”
Tossing his own words back at him. Figured. He frowned. “I was being sarcastic.”
“Really? And here I thought you were expressing unconditional faith in me.” She shook her head. “From where I stand, that bath is looking very doubtful.”
Beautiful liar. That bath was all but fait accompli. “Knock it off, Maggie. This is serious.”
“Ah, geez.” She sighed and slapped at her hip. “Here we go with the snarl and the attitude again. You know, MacGregor, you require an awful lot of work.”
Where in the world was she going with this? Wherever it was, he hoped it lasted long enough for Beaulah and Bill’s kids to take off. “Oh?”
“Yeah,
but I don’t mind. Seriously.”
She wanted him to ask why. Just to be contrary, he didn’t.
“Don’t you want to know why?”
Disappointed. He heard it in her tone. So she who hates it, nags. What the hell. In for a penny, in for a pound—though he knew he’d regret it. “Okay, why?”
“Because you’ve got good hands and cute buns,” she slid him a wicked smile, “for a former popsicle.”
“That’s paragon, not popsicle.”
“The spit it is.” She snorted. “You’re trying to weasel your way into my good graces because you’re maxed out on subtle revenge.”
Subtle revenge had zip to do with it. Lust, now, was a different matter. “You have good graces?”
“You’re not going to do it, MacGregor. I’m not going to get ticked.” She crooked a slender finger at him. “I’ve got your number.”
She did. But it’d been worth a shot. “So you expect me to have a little faith, huh?” He snapped his fingers. “Just like that?”
“Just like that.” She snapped her fingers back at him, then turned to look him in the eye. “What have you got to lose?”
“A lot.” Though the truth wouldn’t take a laundry list, he clamped his jaw shut to refrain from being more specific.
“A lot.” She pressed a fingertip to her lip. “Well, that narrows things down.”
God, but he hated it when she pushed. More so because she pushed without actually outright insisting. Just guilted him into telling her what she wanted to know. Why’d he let her do that? “When you only have a little left and you lose anything at all, it’s a lot, Maggie.”
The smirk curling her lip faded and her gaze grew solemn. “Yes, I know.” She stepped up to the line and lifted their clasped hands to her cheek, as if somehow shielding him. “Now, you’ve delayed with this nonsensical conversation long enough, MacGregor. I’ll be deducting two redemption points for this infraction, by the way. Trying to slip me a mickey.” She sniffed. “Batty Beaulah and the Butler boys have gone, so you can quit stalling and we can get this show on the road.”
She had his number, all right. And here he thought he’d been so clever. Heat surging up his neck, he dragged the tip of his shoe down the line in the sand, then glanced at her.
Why had she closed her eyes? Was she praying? “Maggie?”
She looked at him, but didn’t smile. Her eyes were glistening—not with tears, but with some secret known only to her. “Believe, Tyler,” she whispered. “Just... believe.”
The woman could have asked for the moon and stars and he’d have considered her wanting less than her asking him to risk the little he had left to lose. He wanted to be honest, to refuse her outright, but that secret shining in her eyes bore confidence and, because he sorely lacked it himself, he wanted—he needed—to trust it in her. “All right. Just this once, I’ll dare to believe.”
“You swear?”
Feeling that tender hitch he felt every time he recalled her dragging him, he crossed his heart with his fingertip and smiled. “It’s the best I can do. I wasn’t a Scout.”
She laughed. “I’ll take it—but only if you promise to toss salt over your shoulder as soon as we get back to the house.”
“Salt?”
“Forget it.” She rolled her gaze. “Family joke.”
“Well, it’s lacking.”
“So was the family.” As if only realizing she’d spoken aloud, she attempted a quick recovery. “Charming, MacGregor. Totally charming. And I’m taking notes.” She gave his arm a yank. “Come on.”
Sassy, head to heel, and a zero intimidation factor. Loving that, he twisted the wrist of their linked hands, then laced their fingers together. They stepped over the line, then stopped. Feeling nothing at all odd, he looked at Maggie. “Anything happening?”
A long second crept by, then she answered. “Nothing.” She sounded relieved.
“Good.” Understatement of the millennium. His throat as dry as a dust pit, he swallowed hard. “Me, neither.”
“Ease up on the death grip, MacGregor. You’re about to crack my bones.” Maggie winced. “I won’t forget and let go.”
“Sorry.” He loosened his hold on her hand, rubbed at the white marks he’d left imprinted with his thumb, and stepped onto the worn path beside the sand-dusted road that led into the village.
As quickly as they’d come, the claustrophobic feelings disappeared. Amazing. Had they been naturally or psychologically induced? He caught the fleshy part of his inner cheek between his teeth. Or maybe... entity-induced?
Regardless, they were gone now and, breathing easier, he squinted against a glare reflecting off a pothole puddle. The sun was shining. That hit him like a sledge. When had the clouds disappeared? “This is the first time in a week the sun’s been out.”
“Nice, isn’t it?” Maggie stretched her step to match his, her expression tight and worried, and in direct conflict with her light tone.
“What’s wrong?” Was she feeling effects of crossing, after all?
“You’re not serious.” She slid him an incredulous look. “What isn’t wrong?”
“Look, I agree it sounds like a stupid question, but it really isn’t—unless...” His stomach knotted. “It told you to come, didn’t it?”
She looked out over the water, avoiding his gaze.
“Maggie,” he growled from deep in his throat.
“I’m not sure.”
She hadn’t done this for him, or because she’d missed him. The entity had intervened. Again. Disappointment shafted through T.J. like a sharp arrow.
“I heard a whisper, but I can’t honestly say whose it was, MacGregor.” She sidestepped a large rock, took to the more level dirt path, then focused on the sheriff’s car. Rolling down Main Street, it headed toward the Blue Moon Cafe. “You know, this whole thing scares me in a way. Not in a boogeyman kind of way, because I don’t think the entity means to hurt us so long as we don’t cross it.”
“Hell, Maggie. If this didn’t scare you, I’d be worried about you. It’s bizarre.”
“You’re worried anyway.” Passing an oak, she plucked off a dead leaf. “What I mean is that this whole situation scares me because I feel as if it’s... life-altering.”
A shiver shot up his spine and a warm wind crawled over the back of his neck. She was right. He sensed it. Tasted its bitterness on his tongue. She crumbled the leaf in her free hand. It crackled and crunched.
“Life-altering,” he said, “can be good or bad.”
“I know.” She sighed and tossed the crumbled leaf onto the ground, then wiped the dust from her hand against her thigh. “That’s why I tried to leave here.”
Surprise followed the shiver, bolted up his backbone, then stung the roof of his mouth. “Tried? As in tried and failed?”
She nodded. “Three days ago.”
Why hadn’t she told him? Had she planned on leaving without even saying good-bye? “Car trouble?”
“No.” She looked away, stared at the big, rusty anchor leaning against the wall of the Blue Moon Cafe. “Closet trouble.” Underneath the outside staircase leading to a rooftop dining area, she paused and looked up at him. “I went to get my suitcase so I could pack. But when I tried taking it out of the closet, the door slammed shut and wouldn’t open.”
The closet didn’t have locks. No doubt she knew that, too. “How’d you get out?” He stopped walking and joined her under the stairs. When she responded, he wanted to see her face. The experience had to have rattled her and to accurately gauge how much he needed to see her eyes.
“I finally figured out it wasn’t me our entity objected to leaving the closet. It was my suitcase.” She pulled a blade of dead grass off his sleeve. “It was sending me a message, Tyler.”
“It’s not going to let you leave.”
“Right.” The pulse point at her throat throbbed. “No more so than it’s going to let you leave.”
He frowned down at her. “Yet, together, we have left.”
“And now you see why I’m worried. Why did it let us go? Do you have any idea?”
“No.” Unfortunately, that was the truth. But he suspected that, for some unknown reason, the entity wanted them together.
She stepped closer, away from the cobwebbed underside of the stairs. “Would you hate me if I admitted that in a way I’m glad it wouldn’t let me go? I know I shouldn’t admit it. You’ve got a godawful track record, what with dashing the hopes of seventeen possibles Miss Hattie’s offered up to you, but, well, would you hate me?”
His heart damn near burst. “No, Maggie, I wouldn’t hate you.” Did she mean she wanted to be with him? It sounded as if she did but, unsure of her answer, he didn’t dare to ask. “And those mismatched possibles have nothing to do with you.”
Her cheeks flushed. The sun shone brilliantly, dappling her in the slatted shade of the step rungs. “I don’t mind if you don’t like me, MacGregor. I just don’t want you to hate me, you know?”
She would mind, the beautiful little liar. He caught up her hand in his, saw marks in her palm from where she’d fisted her hand and dug in her nails. “Would you hate me if I admitted that part of me—a very selfish part—is relieved that you can’t go? I’m the one with the awful track record, and I know it.” His mother. Carolyn. Seventeen mismatches. He gripped Maggie’s upper arm with his free hand and rubbed it shoulder to elbow, sliding his hand up then down her smooth sleeve, stirring her sweet scent and praying for the right words. “I want you to be safe, but I don’t want to be here without you.”
“Me, too.” Her face burned brighter red. “Despite all the weirdness, for some goofy reason, I’m at peace here. It’s been a long time since I’ve had that luxury, and I don’t have to tell you how needing peace gnaws at your mind.”
“No, you don’t.” Had a peace pilgrimage been her mission here, then?
“Tyler, I—I—”
“Me, too.” Sensing they both needed it, he closed the circle of his arms around her slender shoulders and kissed her lips.
