by Skye Jordan
“Stupid sonofa—”
“Good morning, Trace,” Pearl answered, as bright as the sun filling the apartment. “George and I are enjoying coffee on the porch. Listen to this.”
Movement sounded over the phone; then music drifted over the line. Trace recognized the old song immediately—“You Send Me.” He didn’t know who sang it, but he sure recognized his father’s voice joining the lyrics, word for word.
“Baby, yoooou send me . . . honest you do . . . honest you do . . . honest you do. Ooooh . . .”
The sound swamped Trace’s chest with surprise and relief and a kind of bittersweet joy that tightened his throat. He closed his eyes and pressed a hand to his forehead as his grandmother came back on the line.
“Isn’t that amazing?” she asked.
Trace nodded, working to pull a breath into tight lungs. “Yes,” he managed with a rough laugh. “That’s amazing.”
“And he asked if you could bring home some of Avery’s apple turnovers. He actually said ‘Avery’s apple turnovers.’”
Trace lifted his brows. His father often didn’t recognize his own son when he came home from work. “Man. That’s . . . wow.” He shook his head. “I don’t know if Avery’s making turnovers today, but I’ll grab some if she is.”
After they said good-bye, Trace dropped back, threw his forearm over his eyes, and gave himself a few seconds to replay the last twelve hours.
God, he’d really lost his head last night. Sleeping with Avery . . . It was bound to happen. He’d been fighting it from day one. And, man, talk about unforgettable.
Trace caught his thoughts and turned them around. It couldn’t happen again. This had to be just another one-and-done. No harm, no foul. He had to let last night slip into the background of their friendship so they could both refocus on their goals.
Voices downstairs made Trace lift his arm and open his eyes. He recognized Cody’s drawl, the guy who was going to help replace the roof. Then Avery’s warm laugh.
“Shit.”
So much for relaxing a full sixty seconds. He rolled to his knees again and searched for his jeans. He found them folded at the foot of the foam pad. Along with his boxers, socks, and shirt. His work boots stood right beside them in a neat little package. The sight created a weird pinch in his chest that he ignored as he dressed in twenty seconds flat.
He took another ten seconds to run the water in the new bathroom sink, splash the cold liquid on his face, and run his hands through his hair. Then he looked at himself in the mirror. Damn, he sure looked better than he’d expected. He looked . . . refreshed, not haggard like usual from all the stress of his father, finances, and deadlines.
He turned off the water and reached for a towel but found them all on the floor where he and Avery had dropped them after drying each other off last night. Their shower flashed in his head, and lust flooded him like a waterfall. He saw her dark hair soaked and falling around her face as she dropped her head back, crying out in ecstasy while Trace hammered her against the tile.
He closed his eyes and gripped the sink to steady himself against the light-headed rush. That little girl had the least experience of any woman he’d ever slept with, yet had given him the most memorable night of his life.
Her voice pulled him back to reality. Last night was over. Now he had to let it all go, head downstairs, and make sure she’d let it all go, too. Then pray last night hadn’t screwed up their friendship or their professional relationship, even knowing that was probably too much to hope for.
Resigned, his stomach heavy, he shook off the night and headed downstairs. Halfway down the staircase, right about where he’d pushed fully into Avery’s sweet body for the first time, he heard her voice.
“I’m sure he’ll be right down,” she said. “We had a little problem with the plumbing in the new bathroom upstairs he was checking out. I’ll go see how it’s—” She turned up the staircase, saw him, and stopped, an uncertain smile wavering on her lush mouth. “Oh. Hey.”
They held each other’s gaze a long, hot second. A hot second that turned Trace’s mind 180 degrees.
He didn’t want to let anything go—not last night, not the bond they’d formed, and sure as shit not the gorgeous creature looking up at him.
Either she had clothes stashed somewhere here or she’d gone back to Phoebe’s and changed, because she was dressed in her typically adorable country casual again today. Her sweet little print dress was fitted at her breasts and fell in layers of sheer floral to midthigh. And she’d jumped back into her favorite cowboy boots, which she wore with some type of ruffled sock peeking from the top. The cool morning had her in a cropped sweater that fell open in front and off one shoulder.
The only uncharacteristic thing about her was that she had her hair down. In the kitchen, she always wore it up in a twist or ponytail or clip. But today it hung in loose spirals well past her shoulders.
And Trace’s mind went completely rogue and darted toward What if . . .
“I, um . . . Cody’s here.” She gestured, then twisted her hands together, her nervous tell. “I was just saying you’d be right down.”
Trace continued down the stairs, letting his gaze wander to the banister, where they’d both held tight and found heaven, before meeting her gaze again. He suddenly had a lot to say to her, but they certainly wouldn’t be talking about last night with Cody twenty feet away.
So he followed her lead and said, “Plumbing upstairs is good.”
Her smile relaxed and grew. The dimple in her right cheek peeked through. “Great news.”
Then she spun toward the kitchen again, and her dress lifted, giving Trace a glimpse of her thighs. Thighs he’d had wrapped around him in a number of unforgettable ways last night.
“You and Cody do your thing. I won’t be here long. I know you want to work on the kitchen, so I finished up some of my baking early. I’ll take my lunch orders to Phoebe’s.”
While she gathered up her supplies, Trace shook Cody’s hand. “Hey, man. Mind doing a walk-around? Check out the materials? They were delivered last week to the south side of the building. I’ll be out in a minute.”
“You got it.” Cody started toward the door. “Good to see you, Avery.”
“You, too,” she called with that cute smile. But as soon as Cody stepped out the door and they were alone, she turned serious, rushing to put all her things together. “Sorry, I was planning on getting out of your way earlier, but I always seem to underestimate the time I need.”
At the counter he braced his hands against the stainless steel. “Could it be because you woke up late like I did?”
A deep breath exited her lungs, and her lips scrunched sideways. “Might have been a little of that.”
“You should have woken me.”
Her gaze darted up, and a smile fluttered over her lips. Her eyes softened for a second. “Oh, but you looked so . . .” She shook her head, turning stoic again. “It all worked out fine. Okay, I think I have everything. Oh, your coffee.” She offered him a tall cup. “I left a few sandwiches in the fridge for you and Cody and George.”
She did this every morning. Made him coffee exactly the way he liked it. Put together food for everyone on whatever makeshift crew happened to be in that day and always made sure George was included. Trace’s mind drifted to the way she’d bent over backward—literally and figuratively—to please him in bed, let him sleep late this morning, folded all his clothes just so . . .
Instead of taking the coffee she offered, he grabbed her wrist gently.
Her pretty blue eyes jumped to his.
“Avery,” he said softly, stroking his thumb across her skin, “are we going to talk about last night?”
Unease shifted in her eyes. She pulled her hand away, dug her purse from beneath the counter, and slipped the strap over her shoulder. “Last night was . . . beyond amazing.” Then she smiled, a friendly, businesslike smile. “And it was last night. Today is today. I promised you no lingering ties, and I keep m
y promises. No worries there.”
Disappointment stabbed at his chest, and all the air leaked from his lungs.
Normally, those words were music to his ears the morning after. But it wasn’t happening that way today. Today a sense of panic gathered low in his gut, a sense of something really important slipping away. “Yeah, well, I know that was the plan, but last night—”
Her gaze jumped past him as footsteps sounded on the porch stairs.
His “something really special happened” never had a chance. He wasn’t going to be able to have any kind of conversation with her here. Not during the day with so much going on.
But maybe that was for the best. This wasn’t a good time to bring up the topic of “more” with Avery. Not after a night of blockbuster sex he wanted to repeat—like now. Not when she looked so damned adorable, all fresh and gorgeous the morning after. That was like shopping for groceries when he was starving.
Still, he turned to tell Cody to give him another few minutes so he could at least set up a time to talk with Avery later, but he found someone else at the door.
“Hi,” Avery said to the man stepping in, then added a surprised, “Mark Davis? Is that you?”
“Yeah. Hey, Avery.” He was dressed in Dockers and a button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up on his wrists. He was blond, Ivy League, and young, somewhere around Avery’s age.
“Oh my gosh, look at you.” She lifted her hand to her hair, tugging one long curl forward, a motion he’d never seen her make before. “Last time I saw you, you couldn’t fight your way out of a paper bag.”
She came out from behind the counter and planted one hand on the stainless steel, the other messing with that one length of hair. Was that a nervous habit? Or one of those hair-petting things young women did, like preening?
Mark gave Avery that schoolboy-with-a-crush grin. “Finally put on some weight and grew into my big hands and feet.”
He was a good-looking guy. The all-American hometown boy. And from what Trace knew of the Davis family, this kid was a lot like Huck Stevens. A guy who’d be really good for Avery. A guy she deserved after the shit she’d gone through with her ex.
“Man, you look great,” Mark told her. “I’ve been out of town, just heard you were back, and had to come say hi.”
He walked toward her, and Avery obliged him with a hug. Her hair shifted back and over her shoulder again, and that’s when Trace saw it—the hickey she was trying to hide. His mind flashed to the moment he’d left the mark, while he’d been teaching her how to ride him like a true cowgirl. And the memory of what an A-plus student she’d been made his blood rush south.
Trace crossed his arms over the new discomfort in his gut. He leaned back against the counter and forced himself to watch her with this other man. Watch the way she smiled up at him as Mark stroked his hands down her arms. Watch the way she lifted her hand to that one curl again, pulling it forward to hide all hints of her night with Trace. And hated the way that all made him fist his hands. Made his stomach ache like a hot coal burned there.
She stepped away from Mark and gestured toward Trace. “Mark, this is Trace.” She held Trace’s gaze an extra second when she said, “He’s making magic happen around here.”
If she’d been any other woman, he’d have chalked up her friendliness to Mark followed by a veiled innuendo to her night with Trace as head games. But he didn’t think Avery even knew how to play the games most women did.
Mark approached to shake Trace’s hand.
“Good to meet you,” Trace offered.
Avery’s gaze held on Trace, a nervous spark hinting in her eyes. When she looked back at Mark, she said, “Did I hear you bought the building across the street?”
“I did. Hanging out my own shingle.”
“Congratulations. An accountant, right?”
He laughed and nodded. “I see the Wildwood rumor mill is working well.”
“You must be planning on renovating to meet the standards of that visual nuisance ordinance the mayor put into effect this year.”
Mark rolled his eyes and pushed his hands into his pockets. “Stupid bullshit, but yeah. I have to remodel anyway, the place hasn’t been updated in decades.”
“Well, like I said, Trace has done amazing things here. You certainly can’t have him until he’s dotted all the i’s and crossed all the t’s for me, but if you need an awesome contractor, Trace is your man.”
Trace really liked the idea of dotting Avery’s i’s and crossing Avery’s t’s.
Mark’s attention returned to Trace, and the air between them shifted. He picked up an intangible vibe of competition.
Mark nodded. “Great to know. You from around here?”
“Santa Rosa, mostly.”
“Trace is Zane Hutton’s brother,” Avery said. “You know Zane.”
Ah crap. As soon as the words were out of Avery’s mouth, Trace knew what would come next, and he tightened his stomach for the inevitable hit of his ugly past.
“Oh, right, Zane . . . ,” Mark said, his gaze clicking with associations. “Didn’t I hear you had some trouble a few years back?”
Fucker. He was definitely interested in Avery. And he’d probably played sports in high school or college, because he’d gone straight for Trace’s knees.
Trace had tangled with men who would eat this kid for a morning snack, but he’d left all that behind when he’d walked beyond Folsom’s gates, so he offered a smile and a semi-amiable, “I see the Wildwood rumor mill is working well.”
Mark nodded, thoughts churning behind his dark eyes. “Where’d you end up?”
Trace’s fingers flexed. He deliberately tamped down the spurt of anger. “Folsom.”
“Hard time.”
Like you’d know, punk. “Very.”
“You still have your contractor’s license?”
“Sure do.”
“Good for you.”
Condescending prick.
The way Avery sidled closer told Trace she sensed the subtle confrontation. “Didn’t you buy the barber shop? Mr. Stein’s place?”
Mark grinned at her. “Good memory.”
“It’s where my dad used to get his hair cut.” She narrowed her eyes a little. “I don’t suppose that old piano is still there? I used to pound on it whenever my dad dragged me along.”
“As a matter of fact,” he said with a sour look as he rubbed the back of his neck, “it’s only one of the relics I’m going to have to get rid of.”
Her gaze darted to Trace for a split second, but he caught the spark of excitement before she refocused on Mark. “If you’re going to give the piano away, I’d love to take it off your hands.”
“Really?” Mark asked, hopeful. “Are you sure? I doubt it’s any good, and I don’t want to dump my trash on you.”
She lifted a shoulder. “I doubt it was played much, and we don’t have the temperature swings or the humidity that would cause a lot of damage. I’d be willing to take my chances.”
“Sounds like you know what you’re talking about.”
“Just enough to get into trouble. I played in school as a kid.”
“Well, I’d be happy to get it off my hands. It’s sitting in a corner gathering dust and taking up space.”
“Then it’s a deal.” Avery was beaming, and Trace knew exactly why she wanted that old piano—for his dad. The emotions that hit him when he’d come down the stairs returned, even more intense than before. “And I bet you’re probably going to need some nice cabinets right? Come look at my kitchen.” She pulled Mark by the arm. “Trace built all these himself. Everything’s custom.”
She went on about the wood, the hardware, how he’d had to jump through hoops to give her just the setup she’d wanted. And Trace was still wrangling inner turmoil when Mark glanced his way and offered a sincere, “Really nice work.”
Trace nodded. “Thanks.”
Mark turned, surveyed the butcher block, and planted a hand on the surface—right where Avery’s as
s had slid over the wood while Trace had eaten her out and Avery had begged him to make her come.
Trace’s cock was uncomfortably hard, and he had to shift on his feet to ease the pressure.
Mark stroked his hand across the surface. “This is great.”
Trace was already looking at Avery when her gaze cut toward him. “Yes, Trace . . . does amazing work.”
His mouth kicked up in a one-sided smile. “It’s all about making my client happy.”
Avery looked away, pressing her lips against a smile, her face turning bright pink.
“I may have you give me an estimate for a kitchen remodel at my house,” Mark said. “I just bought a place on Park Terrace.”
Ritzy area. The kid was doing well for himself. And he was exactly the kind of man Avery should be dating. Trace also realized Mark’s offer was exactly why he’d taken the café remodel at such a cut rate—to garner more work and get his own construction business under way again so he could stop all that shitty manual labor he’d been stuck with since he’d gotten out of prison. It was also exactly why he should never have slept with Avery.
He sobered, met Mark’s gaze, and said, “I’d be happy to come by.” He pulled out his wallet, slid a business card free, and handed it to the other man. “Call anytime.”
Mark shook Trace’s hand again. “Will do.”
“Well, it was good to see you, Mark,” Avery said. “I’m sorry to cut this short, but I’ve got to get out of this kitchen so Trace can get started.”
“Sure, no problem.”
Avery gathered her bags and Mark gallantly took several for her. On the porch, holding the screen open, Avery let Mark go ahead of her and glanced back at Trace with an excited grin and a thumbs-up. “For your dad?”
“It’s sweet, Avery, but I don’t have the money for the fixes, and I don’t know anything about pianos.”
