Hometown Hero

by Cate Cameron

  He looked down at the items. It wasn’t like he was buying condoms or something.

  She laughed. “Five different kinds of cheese? I didn’t even know we sold five different kinds of cheese, not if you aren’t counting slices or Cheez Whiz. And dark chocolate and strawberries? Damn. It’s a cliché, sure, but a good one. Who’s the lucky girl?”

  Cal shook his head. “Sometimes a guy just likes to treat himself right.”

  “Yeah, okay.” She looked over Cal’s head toward whoever was behind him in line and said, “Hey, Nancy. A single guy buys five kinds of cheese, dark chocolate, and strawberries. You think he’s eating all that himself?”

  Cal turned to see Nancy Ferguson, the pastor at the United Church, behind him in line. She looked at the items on the conveyer belt, then smiled at him. “Zara Hale? I heard you two were spending time together. Tell her hello for me, will you?”

  Thank God he hadn’t bought condoms. But now that he was busted, he might as well commit fully. He stepped around the register and defiantly grabbed the biggest, showiest bouquet from the collection of cut flowers by the exit door. He handed them to Maggie to have the barcode scanned and watched as her lips twitched gleefully. “Really? Zara Hale?” she whispered as she handed the flowers back to him.

  “They’re for me,” he replied, but he didn’t bother pretending she’d believe him.

  On the way out to the parking lot, his flowers got a wolf whistle from Andy Richards and an appreciative smile from two girls who looked young enough to be in high school, and as he unloaded the car at home, his neighbor stopped dog walking long enough to ask what the special occasion was. Cal just nodded his way through it all, answering as noncommittally as possible, and resisted the urge to flop back against his front door in relief once he was on the inside. He was safe. At least until Zara arrived.

  He smiled at the thought, then wondered if the way he felt after the town’s invasive interest in his life was how Zara felt after he asked her questions she thought were too personal. He’d have to be cool about the doctor’s appointment and not grill her for details. Easier said than done, but at least he’d try.

  The doorbell rang a minute or two after he’d slid his five-cheese chicken penne into the oven. Too early for the house to smell really good, but at least he’d finished most of the work.

  He strode to the front door and opened it to find Zara Hale wearing a dress. It was still fairly sporty, a simple black thing with a scoop neck, long sleeves, and a skirt short enough to show off her legs, but it was a dress. And she was wearing heels with it. Not super high, but not running shoes.

  Don’t react, his sense of self-preservation screamed at him. Play it cool, don’t comment until she mentions it. “Hey, come on in,” he said. So far, so good. “You look great.” That was neutral enough, wasn’t it?

  “I feel like an idiot,” she confessed. Except a true confession probably wouldn’t make it sound quite so much like she was blaming him for her state.

  “What? Why?”

  “For getting dressed up! I always feel like such a fake when I wear a dress!”

  “I’ve seen you wearing dresses before—like, for media stuff and interviews. . . .”

  “Yeah, and media stuff and interviews make me feel like a fake!”

  “Oh. Well, I can loan you some sweatpants and a T-shirt if you want. But I really hope you don’t—I think you look great.”

  She frowned thoughtfully at him and he cooperated by taking off his apron to show he was still wearing his dress shirt from work and had left his tie on, although he’d loosened it and shed his jacket. “You look good,” she admitted. “I’d feel like a slob if I was wearing sweats.”

  “Well, I can get changed, too, if you really want.”

  She looked at him thoughtfully, then reached out and wrapped his silk tie around her fist. She tugged him closer, leaned up, and her lips were soft but strong. She claimed his mouth, controlled the kiss, and made it instantly hot and wet and deep.

  When she stepped back, he staggered toward her, searching for more on instinct alone. She stopped him with the fingers of one hand, the tips braced hard against his chest. “I like the tie,” she declared. “So I’ll keep the dress.”

  “Perfect,” he said when he had recovered enough to speak. Then he pulled himself a little more together and said, “Something to drink? Wine? Beer?”

  “I’m in training,” she said. “Just water is good. Or juice or something, if you have it. No alcohol.”

  “Orange juice?”

  “Okay.”

  “You’re in training?” he asked as he busied himself with finding a glass and pouring the juice. She’d opened the door, so he could step in, couldn’t he? “So the medical went well?”

  “It went great,” she said, and he didn’t have to look in her direction to know that she’d squared her shoulders and was looking at him with her chin thrust out pugnaciously.

  The medical went well. That was all he needed to know, and clearly all she wanted to tell him. But he couldn’t help pushing for a little more. “What’d the doctor say about the dizziness?”

  “He wasn’t worried about it.”

  “Because he didn’t hear about it?”

  “Thanks for the juice,” she said, and walked into the dining area to look out through the picture window toward the lake. “You’re up higher than I thought. Is there a path down the cliff?”

  “Yeah. No lawn or any yard to look after up here, but there’s a good level spot at the bottom. There’s a deck down there, and a little boathouse.”

  “Nice.” She turned back toward him and he let himself enjoy watching her move. She was compact, balanced, and there was a graceful confidence to everything she did. Everything physical that she did. Emotionally or mentally? She still had power, he was pretty sure, but much less of an idea of how to use it.

  He picked the flowers up off the counter and said, “Oh. In case you feel silly wearing the dress, let me feel a bit silly by giving you flowers. Totally retro, right?”

  She was hesitant as she took the bouquet. “Flowers? Really?”

  “I saw them and thought of you.”

  She was quiet for a moment, then said, “Thank you.” She looked up from her flowers and blinked hard. “Nobody’s ever given me flowers before.”

  “Probably because you’re not living in the fifties.”

  “No. That’s not why.” She smelled the bouquet then held it out at arm’s length and turned the flowers around so she could admire them from all sides. By the end of her inspection, she was beaming. It shouldn’t have made Cal want to cry.

  He needed to get a grip on himself. Safe topic? “So what does it mean to be ‘in training’?” he asked. “What are you training for?”

  She shrugged, still looking at the flowers. “Another bout, eventually, but they haven’t got me on a card yet. They’re meeting on Monday to figure out the details for the next round. It’ll be a title fight, so they need to find someone who deserves a shot at it.”

  “But there’ll be another physical before then? I mean . . .” He’d done his reading. He knew concussions didn’t necessarily show up on MRIs or CT scans, knew that doctors relied heavily on patients self-reporting their symptoms. If Zara wasn’t going to report things . . . Damn it. He needed to let it go, at least for right then. “Yeah. So. Uh, have you talked to Zane lately?”

  He’d caught her off guard; he wasn’t sure if it was the topic change or the topic he’d chosen. “What do you mean?” she asked cautiously. “I saw him this morning, but he didn’t say much.”

  “Didn’t mention my name?”

  “No.” She wasn’t looking at the flowers anymore. “Why would he have?”

  “Well . . . he heard about you and me. I mean, not that there is a ‘you and me,’ like, in a big way. But he heard what everyone else is hearing, I guess.�
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  She was quiet for a moment, looking out at the lake. Then she said, “And? Was he mad?”

  “No.” Cal tried to remember the actual words Zane had used. “There were some basic threats obviously. But nothing big. Overall, he seemed okay with it.”

  She nodded slowly, then gave him a smile that was clearly forced. “It shouldn’t matter, right? I mean, he’s my brother. That’s all. It’s not some big . . .”

  She trailed off and he was around the counter before he knew it. Once he was close, he wasn’t sure how much touching was allowed, so he reached out and found her shoulder with his fingertips, like a nerdy seventh grader at his first dance. “He’s family. Trust me, I know about family. The push and pull, the desire to be close at the same time you want space and freedom . . . I get it. I do.”

  She stood frozen for a moment, and then, even with just the light contact of his fingertips, he felt her relax. “He was okay with it,” she said. “And everything else will just take care of itself.”

  “Or we’ll take care of it,” he said, managing to keep himself from tacking on the “together.” “It’ll be fine.”

  They moved to more neutral topics then, and it all went smoothly. They talked about themselves, told stories about friends and adventures, laughed about movies, and argued about books. They ate dinner, and Cal put the chocolate and some cream in a double boiler, and as he stirred, Zara peered around his shoulder, intrigued.

  “I should start cooking more,” she declared. “It doesn’t really look that hard.”

  “Well, I’m making it look easy because of my expertise.”

  “You’re stirring it. I could stir.”

  “Yeah, okay, you could melt chocolate. But did you know you should use a double boiler?”

  “There’s recipes, right? Wouldn’t the recipe say to use a double boiler? I could read, and use, and stir. No problem.”

  “Okay, then, you make us dinner next time.”

  “Uh, no. I think we’ve established a tradition here, and in this uncertain world, tradition is really important. We shouldn’t go breaking it without a really good reason.”

  He twisted around, brought his free hand to her neck, stretched his fingers out so he was touching from her shoulder right up past her ear, and kissed her. Nothing too crazy, just gentle and affectionate. Zara, of course, leaned in and intensified it a little, and it was hard to complain about that. He fumbled behind him for a washed strawberry, turned enough so he could see the chocolate and dip the berry, then lifted the treat slowly to Zara’s lips.

  She let him feed her, her lips soft as they wrapped around the berry. “The ladies at the grocery store said this was a cliché,” he told her, his voice husky.

  “Tradition,” she corrected, almost whispering. “Very, very important.”

  “In this uncertain world.”

  “Exactly.” She kissed him, not as deep this time, and he could taste the sweet, bitter, and tart on her lips. “Give me another.”

  “What about me? Aren’t you going to give me one?”

  “No.” She kissed him again. “They’re all for me.”

  He reached for another berry, dipped it, brought it toward her, and then popped it in his own mouth.

  Her jaw dropped in mock outrage. “What kind of host are you? I thought Montgomerys were supposed to be classy!”

  “No, we’re not. Not at all.” He dipped the next berry so thoroughly it was almost completely coated, then lifted it to his mouth and held it in his teeth, offering it to her.

  “Okay, the ladies in the store were right—this is a cliché.” But she stretched up anyway, found the berry, and bit it in two, their lips just brushing. Then they both chewed slowly, their gazes locked on each other.

  Zara brought her hands to his waist and tugged at his shirt until it came untucked. “You’re not going to pull your blushing virgin routine again tonight, are you?” she asked.

  “I think my self-control in that area is pretty well used up.” The way his body was reacting, his self-control in all areas seemed to have been used up.

  “Thank God.” She slid her hands under his shirt, her fingers cool against his abs. Then she grinned, happy and impish. “Another berry, please.”

  He found the berry, dipped it, and fed it to her. Two bites, nothing exaggerated or theatrical about her appreciation, and then she kissed him again and took a step backward. “Do you need to turn the heat off on that?” She waited until he did it, then said, “See? I’m great at cooking.”

  “You’re a master chef.”

  She was still smiling as she kissed him, a real kiss this time, long and deep, and their bodies molded together as closely as the berries and chocolate had.

  Damn it, Cal wanted this too much. And he wanted it too many different ways. He wanted hard and fast and rough, and he wanted slow and smooth and sweet. He wanted to take charge and make Zara follow him, in this one area, this one time. And he wanted to sit back and see what she would do, let her make the decisions and bring him pleasure. He wanted to kiss her lips, but he also wanted to drag his mouth lower, to discover her whole body. Too many wants, and if he didn’t get control of things, he wasn’t going to last long enough to satisfy half of them.

  So when she started tugging at his belt, he caught her hands and held them in his. “You first,” he murmured. And he reminded himself to make sure that was true for everything.

  She seemed surprised when he pulled away, but didn’t argue when he took her hand and led her toward the stairs, then up to the bedroom.

  He flipped the switch for the bedside lamps but not the overhead light, and she looked around the room with interest. “Big bed,” she finally said. Then she grinned. “Compensating for something?”

  He shook his head. “I honestly never knew someone could be such a total brat and so incredibly sexy at the same time.” He tugged at his tie, and nodded at her feet. “Shoes off,” he ordered.

  And she stepped out of them, easy as pie, no rebellion or even back talk. “Really?” he asked. “You’re not going to argue?”

  “No.” She stood still, her hands at her sides, relaxed and waiting. “I think you can be in charge. For a while.”

  God, he liked the sound of that. He kicked off his own shoes, pulled his tie over his head and dropped it on the floor, then stepped toward her, gripped her hips, and walked her backward until she ran into the wall. She looked good up against a wall, waiting for him.

  Whatever reticence or hesitations he’d had were gone now. Maybe she’d regret this, maybe he would, but that was too damn bad. It was too late to worry about that. He let his body cover hers, kissed her hard, slid a hand around her back, and pulled her forward while his other hand tangled in her hair and dragged her head back. Her body arched out toward him, sinuous and sweet. He kissed down her neck, pulled away long enough to tug at her dress and lift it over her head, and then had to take a moment to stand back and appreciate the view.

  She wasn’t as deliberately angular as some women he’d been with. Not skinny. Her ribs were only a faint line, but he could see her abs clearly, and muscles everywhere else, too. A thin layer of fat, enough to show she was a performance athlete, not a model or a bodybuilder. Her body was designed for use, and she’d worked hard to fine-tune it.

  “I could just go get one of my posters, if all you want to do is look,” she suggested dryly.

  “I want to do a hell of a lot more than look.” His voice sounded rough to his own ears, his desire overpowering his cultivation. “Besides, your posters don’t begin to do you justice.”

  “I’ve got about one more second of confidence here, and then I’m going to get really self-conscious.”

  Well, he didn’t want that. So he stepped back to her, kissed her deep, and let his hands run over her newly exposed skin. So warm, so smooth, and beneath it all, so strong.

  He
shrugged out of his shirt and let it fall to the floor, then reached behind her to find the clasp of her bra. He wanted skin on skin. And when he got it, he wanted more. “You’re perfect,” he murmured as he kissed his way to one warm, pale breast.

  “And I can cook.” Then his lips found their target and she gasped, arching her back without him asking for it this time, and she stopped talking.

  The softness of her breast was almost surprising, compared to how hard her body was everywhere else, and Cal let himself be almost hypnotized by the contrast. He explored her with his hands and his mouth, stood back up to kiss her, and finally, exquisitely, let himself grind into her, his hardness straining through two layers of fabric, seeking her warmth.

  But it wasn’t time for that, not yet. He tugged her panties down as he fell to his knees and let himself taste and explore. She gasped again as his tongue worked; she squirmed, pressed against him and opened to him. He felt like he was being given a gift. An honor. And he worked to earn it.

  He licked and nipped and sucked, let himself connect to her body and know what she was feeling. He brought her close to her climax and then backed away, brought her close again, and then felt her fingers tighten in his hair, a warning of what would happen if he teased her much more.

  And he was teasing himself almost as much. So he let himself go, let her go, sliding his fingers inside her and adding his thumb to the rhythm of his mouth. She came quickly, her whole body shaking and arching into him, and she pulled his hair anyway, even though he’d done what she wanted. He didn’t mind the pain, though, not when it came with the pleasure of knowing that he’d done this. He’d made Zara Hale lose control of her body, and she’d let him do it.

  She fell back against the wall and he kissed his way up her stomach, between her breasts, savoring her relaxation.

  “That was almost as good as the strawberries,” she murmured when he reached her mouth.

  He kissed her, then wrapped his hands under her ass and lifted her up, her body snuggling into his as he carried her to the bed. “Don’t tell me you’re going to sleep,” he said, and she looked up innocently.