Set the Night on Fire

by Laura Trentham

  “I should go.” She stared at the horizon, wishing the onslaught would get here already. Maybe a strike of lightning would put her out of her misery.

  “What about dinner?”

  “I thought…” She made a vague motion toward the garage and hoped he wasn’t cruel enough to make her explain.

  He tipped her face to his, forcing her to either look at him or close her eyes. She wasn’t a total coward and met his gaze, even though her knees trembled.

  “You thought I wouldn’t want to have dinner with you because I got mine?” He one-hand air-quoted the last words.

  “Something like that.”

  He shook his head. “I’ve acted like an asshole in many ways, but I would never treat any woman—especially you—like that. What kind of men have you been dating?”

  Especially you. What did he mean by that? Because they had to keep the business aspect of their relationship intact?

  “Date? What’s a date?” She attempted to joke her way out of the awkwardness. Her advantage in most situations hinged on the fact that men and women found her to be experienced and intimidating. It had been an important defense as part of her life in Jackson, and had served her well negotiating deals in Cottonbloom.

  “You’re telling me that the men in Cottonbloom haven’t been beating on your door?”

  Yes, men had come onto her. Single men. Married men. Divorced men. But none of them had asked her out on a date. Instead they had made assumptions about her. Wrong assumptions. She shrugged in what she hoped conveyed nonchalance. “I swore off men after my divorce.”

  Thunder rumbled in the distance and a raindrop hit her cheek. She shifted, not sure where to seek shelter—the garage, her car, his arms. Mack caught her hand and tugged her back around. More raindrops fell. One hit his temple and trailed down his jaw. Before she could stop herself, she followed its path with her fingertip.

  “What makes me so special?” The way he asked gave her pause. He wasn’t fishing for compliments or teasing her. If anything, he sounded a little hesitant and unsure of the answer. But for goodness’ sake, she couldn’t tell him what made him special. It would hand him too much power.

  “I’ve never been with anyone like you.” That much at least was true. She’d never been with a man who was as hard working, loyal, and stubborn as Mack Abbott.

  “What? You’ve never been with a blue-collar grease monkey?” His voice was half teasing and half combative.

  Her heart quickened, sensing the danger, but she wasn’t sure if it emanated from the coming storm or from the man. The raindrops were coming faster now, and she finger-combed her hair off her forehead.

  A crossroads approached, one answer led to safety and the other to a ROAD CLOSED sign. She could laugh and agree that all she wanted was a good time. Or she could admit that she was in over her head and terrified of how he made her feel.

  She did neither. Without letting go of his hand, she wrapped her arm around his neck and pulled him to her, settling her lips against his.

  It was a kiss like none other they’d shared. An exploration. An explanation. An apology.

  The sky opened up with a flash of lightning and a crack of thunder. She pulled away with a yelp. Hand in hand they made a run for his front porch, stopping to drip over his front mat. Mack laughed and shook his head, water droplets flying from his hair. His shirt molded across his broad chest. She was breathless from more than the scamper across his yard.

  The sound of the rain was deafening on his roof. It poured over the side of his porch like a curtain, concealing them from the world. A shiver passed through her as her wet clothes chilled.

  Somehow he noticed, like he seemed to notice everything, big and small. “Come on in. Let’s get you dry.”

  His door was unlocked, and he led the way, turning on lights as he went. She followed him to his bedroom. Trying not to let her curiosity shine too bright, she swept a glance around the room.

  Rain pelted the windows lining the back wall from floor to ceiling with no blinds or drapes. The dark, solid wood of his bed frame took up one wall. The covers on one side of the bed were tossed aside, but the other side was still made up, a quilt tucked under the pillow. A few items of clothes were scattered around the room, but otherwise it was neat.

  He opened the drawer and pulled out a flannel shirt, then rummaged through a different drawer and pulled out a pair of athletic shorts. He held them up. “This is the best I’ve got unfortunately.”

  She took his offerings. He grabbed a T-shirt and pair of jeans for himself and backed out the door. “Bathroom is through that door.”

  “Thanks.”

  He raised his chin in acknowledgment and left her alone. She shuffled to the bathroom, stopping by his dresser to pick up a picture. A thirtysomething-year-old man stood in front of a smaller-looking Abbott Garage, one hand propped on the cement corner and the other on his hip. A smile crested his face. It was obviously Hobart Abbott, the family patriarch. Mack favored him more than any of the other brothers.

  She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror and stopped short. Mascara smudged under both eyes, giving her a morning-after party-girl look. And her shirt—she would have at least placed in a wet T-shirt contest. Yet, Mack hadn’t made even a teasing comment. He was more a gentleman than any of the old-money, high-society men in Jackson.

  She stripped off her wet clothes, including her soaked bra. His shirt fit her like a dress, and she didn’t bother with the athletic shorts. The flannel was soft and well worn. One of his favorites? She buried her nose in the collar and took a deep breath. Heady.

  When had the smell of detergent on old flannel become intoxicating? Since Mack. All her senses had sharpened and become sensitized since the night she’d met him at Judge Mize’s New Year’s Eve party.

  She remembered every second of their blistering encounter from his aggressive handshake to the moment he’d advanced on her like an angry bear before sweeping out the door. She’d been rattled, true. But, the encounter had acted like a life-saving shock to her heart. She’d felt alive for the first time in too long.

  It was a big reason she’d stayed away from the garage at first. While she’d been worried for a repeat reaction, deep inside, she’d been even more worried that she’d imagined the entire episode. Turns out she’d underestimated her reaction to Mack.

  She washed her face clean and used her brush to get the tangles out of her hair, leaving it damp and loose around her shoulders. She examined herself in the mirror and before she could second-guess herself, she popped an extra button open on his shirt. After laying out her wet things to dry, she made her way barefoot toward the delicious smells emanating from his kitchen.

  Unlike the spaciousness of his bedroom, the kitchen was an old-fashioned narrow, galley-type with a small breakfast nook. He was barefoot and wearing an Abbott Brothers Garage T-shirt and jeans. No apron. He hadn’t noticed her, and she let her gaze wander over every inch of his body. She should be embarrassed knowing what she’d done to him in the darkness of the garage, but her overriding thought was that she wanted a repeat performance in the light.

  “No ‘Kiss the Cook’ apron?” She propped her shoulder against the door and put a hand on her hip, going for casual and sexy.

  He smiled and glanced toward her, then took a second, longer look. His smile faded as his gaze streaked up and down and back again. “Would you have taken advantage of the message?”

  “I’ve proved my lack of self-control where you’re concerned.” She wandered farther into the kitchen. “Can I help?”

  “You want to throw the salad together? Unless you’re high maintenance and want the dressing on the side.” He lifted a brow.

  “I’m not sure I qualify as low maintenance, but I love lots of dressing. What are you making?” She sidled closer and peeked over his arm. A box of pasta sat next to a boiling pot of water ready, to go in, while he sautéed peppers and onions and chicken strips. The spices were strong.

  “Cajun pasta.
Easy but tasty. Hope it’s not too simple for you.”

  “Simple? This is a treat.” She leaned closer and took a deep breath, her stomach already performing a celebratory dance. “I can’t cook worth a darn. I’m usually eating salads or frozen stuff or takeout.”

  “I’m shocked. I didn’t think there was anything you weren’t good at.”

  The compliment left her nonplussed. The only person in her life who’d ever built her up instead of tearing her down had been her brother, Grayson. And compliments from people—men especially—were always received with a healthy skepticism. Usually the giver was after money, connections, or sex. While no doubt Mack wanted sex, his compliment didn’t seem calculated to get it. He’d sounded earnest.

  “Believe me, there’s plenty I’m not good at.” Right now, she was struggling to maintain the illusion she was a healthy, mature adult.

  His side-eye glance was filled with curiosity, but he didn’t pursue the line of questioning. Instead, he poured the box of twirly pasta into the water and set the timer. “ETA of ten minutes. Do you want a drink?”

  He picked up a tumbler filled with ice and whiskey and took a sip. She tensed, her mind calculating how much was in the glass and wondering if it was his first.

  “No, thank you.” She needed to keep a clear head in case it became necessary to bolt.

  The tumbler hit the counter with a bang, and her gaze followed it the whole way.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing.” She forced herself to look in his face.

  “I call bullshit. I offer you a drink and all of a sudden you— Hang on, it’s my drink, isn’t it? Trevor is a drinker. Whiskey?”

  She dabbed her tongue along her bone-dry bottom lip. “Yes.”

  “Your stepdad too?”

  “Yes.” It was an evil irony that she’d escaped her alcoholic stepdad to marry another alcoholic. The liquor had brought out the worst in them both. Did the devil lurk in all men, waiting to be unleashed?

  He picked up the glass, and she took a step back as if the whiskey itself could hurt her. Instead of reacting in anger or making fun of her deep-rooted fear, he turned to the sink and poured the contents down the drain.

  “Better?” He set the empty glass down.

  The gesture may have been small, but it was meaningful. She relaxed against the counter. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. How about setting the table while I finish up. Everything is in that drawer.” He pointed with a wooden spoon.

  She pulled out silverware and headed into a small dining room off to the side. It had an unused feel to it, but the table was riddled with scratches and missing a few chips around the edges. She imagined a group of rambunctious boys eating here every night and rolling their Hot Wheels across the top.

  Place mats and napkins were stacked in the middle, and she set two places side by side. He brought out two plates, each loaded with the Cajun pasta and a mound of salad.

  “Water or sweet tea?”

  “Tea would be great.”

  He nodded and disappeared, but only for a minute, returning with two glasses. After setting them down, he pulled out a chair and gestured.

  She pulled at the hem of his borrowed flannel shirt and sat, pulling it as far to her knees as possible. He joined her, and they dug in without preamble.

  “This is really good,” she said between bites. She wasn’t being polite. The chicken was loaded with spices and paired with the creamy sauce well.

  “You don’t have to sound so surprised.” His lips quirked before settling into a more-somber curve. “Around here, it was either cook or starve.”

  She tilted her head to study him. He didn’t seem to be hiding any angst. “Because your mother left?”

  “Yeah. The aunts brought food by at least once a week, but you can imagine how long that lasted with four—five, if you counted Pop—males in the house. Leftovers were a foreign concept.”

  “Did your aunts teach you to cook?”

  “A little. Mostly though, I watched cooking shows on TV.”

  “You enjoy cooking.” Yet another new facet to appreciate in him.

  “I do. Wyatt and Jackson used to wander up from the barn a few nights a week to mooch. Not so much anymore. They’re busy with their own lives now. I’m happy for them.” Even though his declaration rang true, he couldn’t mask the bite of loneliness in his voice. It was a too-familiar demon.

  “Where do you find your recipes now?” Had his mother left old cookbooks or notes behind?

  He stabbed at his lettuce, his face averted, but now he was clean-shaven, the red on his cheeks signaled his embarrassment. “Pinterest,” he mumbled.

  “I’m sorry, I thought you said ‘Pinterest.’” She did her best to stifle a spate of giggles.

  “It’s good for recipes, okay?”

  Her giggles escaped as very unlady-like guffaws at the image of rough-and-ready Mack Abbott cruising Pinterest for recipes. He joined in, shaking his head. “Don’t tell my brothers or I’ll make you pay.”

  And in a blink, her laughter dried up. “How?”

  “How, what?”

  “How will you make me pay?” Too many naughty possibilities flashed for her to settle on one.

  “A spanking perhaps?” All his sheepish embarrassment had been burned away by an intensity that made her squirm. “I like you in my shirt, but I’m going to like you even better out of it.”

  She ran her fingers from the collar to where the first button was fastened between her breasts. A singular awareness of her near nakedness underneath squashed her appetite for pasta. She was ready to head straight to dessert.

  “Quit looking at me like that.” The warning in his voice only amped up her arousal.

  Chapter Fifteen

  “Like what?” She attempted to project innocence, but it was impossible, considering she’d been on her knees for him an hour earlier. She would do again, right here, right now, if he asked her to.

  An animalistic sound rumbled out of his chest. He stood up so fast his chair tipped over and banged into the wall. Her breath caught in her throat as she waited for his move. He grabbed her wrist and pulled her into his body, clamping his arm around her. He speared his hand into her hair and kissed her with a ferociousness that arched her over his arm.

  “I’ve been thinking about this for a long time.” Mack walked her backward, one hand on her hip and the other wandering over and under the flannel shirt to skim over her bottom. He squeezed, and she moaned against his neck.

  She wished she’d grabbed something lacey and seductive that morning, but she was wearing a pair of plain pink cotton panties. He didn’t stop until they were in his bedroom, a bedside lamp casting a soft light around the room. The heart of the storm had passed, leaving a steady patter of rain against the windows. The illusion of privacy and solitude relaxed her.

  He stopped at the foot of his bed and leaned against the tall bedpost, spreading his legs and pulling her in between. He cupped her bottom, teasing his fingers under the edges of her underwear.

  “This ass has been tormenting me for too long.”

  His stance put them close to eye level, and she rubbed her palm against his smooth cheek. Would she ever get enough of him? His multi-hued eyes were as complicated as their situation.

  “If we do this—”

  “If? This is happening, babe.” He worked a hand into the top band of her panties and fully cupped one buttock.

  The heat and roughness of his palm spiraled her into a fugue state of arousal where nothing mattered but her satisfaction. Tomorrow didn’t exist.

  “I want you.” It seemed important for her to state the obvious even though the direction his hand was headed would provide undeniable evidence.

  His finger slid through her core. She sagged into him and popped her butt up to give him better access.

  “I love how wet you are for me.”

  “I’ve been like this since the garage.”

  “You liked going do
wn on me?”

  She tensed, but when he forced her face up to his, no disgust or need to shame her was discernable. His eyes were bright and his color high.

  “How could I not like it? Next time though, I want you to let me finish you.”

  “Eff me,” he muttered.

  He was off-balance, and for a man as self-contained and confident and intimidating as Mack, she reveled in the fact. “That’s the plan.”

  Her confidence bloomed and instead of letting him retain control, she spun away from him and crawled onto his bed, sitting in the middle on her knees. He paced alongside like a panther ready to pounce.

  She shook her hair over her shoulders and touched the top button of his shirt. Did she dare strip for him? While her mind waffled in horrified indecision, her body was totally on board with the new and improved Ella. She popped the top button and let the fabric pull apart. He stopped and stared, his gaze glued to her chest, his hand pressed against the bulge in his pants.

  Her breathing increased as she moved to the next button. She released it and the next and the next until the shirt was unbuttoned and the inside curves of her breasts and a strip of skin was revealed. She spread her knees wider on the bed and let the shirt fall open another inch, enjoying the tease.

  “Drop it, woman.”

  “Or what? Are you ever going to follow through on any of your threats?”

  “You’re getting me riled up.” He jerked his T-shirt off and tossed it over his shoulder. Next up were his jeans. He unbuttoned and unzipped them. No underwear blocked her view of his erection, looking way bigger than it had felt earlier. She couldn’t tear her gaze away and rubbed her suddenly dry lips together.

  A sound halfway between a laugh and a groan came from his throat. He moved fast, taking her off guard, landing in front of her on his knees. She tightened her hands on hem of her shirt, holding it in place over her breasts.

  He ran his fingers down the edges, his touch skating along the sensitive skin of her inner breasts. “I’m naked, Ella.”

  Her gaze dipped to admire said nakedness. “I can see that.”