The One Who Stays

by Blake, Toni

  “Think I’ll run this brick back out to the shed while we’re on cleanup duty or I’ll forget and it’ll sit here for days,” she told him as he dried the pot with a dish towel.

  He nodded and said, “I’ll put this back up in the attic for you, too.”

  As she stepped out the back door, brick in hand, she tried to decide if she found that offer suspicious or not. Silly to, perhaps. There was nothing to find in the attic, after all—just attic stuff. So if for some reason he wanted to snoop around up there some more, he could have at it.

  * * *

  TIME. IT WASN’T on his side in this particular moment, but when else would he get the chance to be back in the attic? So use it wisely. Shoving the blue canning pot back onto the shelf it had come from, he scanned the area, hoping to catch sight of more books, or boxes labeled that way. Of course, maybe that made no sense—to think a book he’d hidden would end up in the attic, a place he’d never been when he was here before. But when he thought through all the variables, he still concluded it could be anywhere. Or nowhere.

  Keeping one eye on the entrance where Meg could pop up anytime as she had a few hours ago, he did his best to quickly rifle through things without messing them up. Some boxes contained old bric-a-brac, empty picture frames, Christmas ornaments. Another old papers, folders, maybe from Meg’s school days. He succeeded in finding another box of books, but they were more in the church hymnal and Sunday school study line. He looked quickly through them just the same, but of course didn’t find the volume he sought. Damn it.

  Letting out a sigh, he dropped the lid back on the box. And disliked himself for a second, for all this damn searching through this woman’s home.

  A victimless crime, though. Most of his crimes hadn’t been that way, so by that standard, this was nothing.

  The heat between them was downright palpable. He’d never dreamed making lilac water with someone could be so sexy—and he gave a soft chuckle thinking that making it with Meg had been a damn sight different than with his grandma. He’d never imagined standing over a pot together would be so tempting. But something about him and Meg together...just being with her brought out that side of him.

  Of course, some would argue all women did, that it was just how he was put together. Was there something different about this one? Hell. He didn’t know, and it wasn’t like him to over-examine such things. And this was a bad time for it anyway.

  A glance back toward the square of light that opened down into the second floor hallway made him decide it was time to go, not get caught here again looking through her belongings. He quietly descended the drop-down ladder, then folded it back up into the ceiling, feeling better for being back out in the open.

  The house lay still and quiet—no sound from below. Maybe she was still outside.

  And so it made sense to just head back downstairs—if she was outside, it would be good to have her find him back in the kitchen when she returned.

  But maybe it wouldn’t hurt to take just one quick glance into one particular room.

  * * *

  MEG DRIED THE stainless steel bowls resting in the dish drainer, then put them away in a bottom cabinet. She took in the sunny rustic look of her kitchen, soaking up the yellow. Then she bent to pet the calico cat who had just sauntered up to rub against her ankle.

  After which she lifted her gaze ceilingward, aware that Seth had had more than enough time to return the pot to the attic and come back down. She’d been waiting a few minutes now, in fact. Long enough that she felt herself drawn to the stairs.

  By the time she reached the landing halfway up, she could see the attic door was no longer open. And something about that made her heart beat a little faster. Snooping in the attic was one thing, but... She let out a sigh, reminded that the snooping had already extended beyond the attic, and that maybe she’d just been trying to forget about that or believe she’d misinterpreted it.

  As she reached the top of the stairs to find him nowhere in sight, she thought better of calling his name. If he was snooping, she wanted to catch him at it. Catch him at it enough that he wouldn’t be able to fluff it off with an excuse, enough that he’d have to explain himself.

  Zack wouldn’t like this. He might even tell her it was dangerous to go trying to catch someone in the act of doing something potentially wrong in her house, that it might endanger her. But the more time she’d spent with Seth, the less wary of him she’d felt, and the more she believed they were building a real connection.

  Don’t be naive, Maggie May. Serial killers and psychopaths lure people with their charm all the time—that’s how they get you. That was what Zack would say. But Zack wasn’t here.

  She walked quietly down the hallway, careful not to make any noise. Most of the upstairs doors were closed, same as when they were occupied by guests, but one stood open—as it often did during the months the inn stayed vacant.

  She approached the entry to her bedroom, stopping in the doorway. Seth stood across the room, on the far side of the bed where the turret created a curved space that held a cozy chair and a special rounded bookcase Zack had had built for her birthday two years ago—this was not a casual peek into the room. Seth looked up, and indeed appeared caught.

  “What are you doing?” she asked. Her voice came out smaller than intended, more worried than she wanted to sound.

  His Adam’s apple moved as he swallowed. “Something I shouldn’t be, I guess.”

  She simply stared at him, stuck for words. Because she’d expected more of them from him. He looked caught yet not quite guilty, leaving her as perplexed about him as ever.

  That was when he crossed the room, circling the bed, coming toward her.

  Zack would think he meant her harm. But again, Zack wasn’t here. So she stood her ground—until he was upon her. Until he was taking her face in his hands. Until he was kissing her. His mouth came down on hers with more passion and intent than any kiss she’d ever received.

  Her hands rose instinctively to his wrists, closing around them, as she grappled with herself amid the kiss—let this happen, or push him away?

  But he kept kissing her, soon pressing his tongue into her mouth.

  That was when a wave of surrender passed over her, consumed her, and her own tongue came to meet his. She gave up any internal struggle she’d been putting forth and let a stranger kiss her. Just as her grandmother once had.

  And she understood why now, fully.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  HER GRANDMOTHER HAD always told her that life was full of surprises. And while life on Summer Island had perhaps held less of them than she might have expected, they did indeed come along from time to time—and the fact that she was letting Seth Darden undress her was a big one.

  One minute it had only been kissing, kissing that felt at once wild but grounded, urgent yet moving in slow motion in her mind—and then he started to take off her clothes. First, his hands went under her shirt, exploring the planes of her back, his touch warm on her skin—almost even hot—as he smoothly began to push the fabric up, higher, higher, until he was removing it over her head with the help of her lifted arms. And then his fingers were at the opening to her jeans, and soon he was pulling them down, then closing his palms over her hips, fingers splayed—again heating her flesh with his touch. Every move seemed like slow motion in a way, and she felt a little outside herself, like she was watching it happen to someone else, maybe because she couldn’t quite believe she was letting it take place.

  But maybe all the messages of the last week or two had settled deep inside her—messages from Suzanne, messages from Zack—simply leading her to do what she wanted, what felt good and right in the moment.

  Of course the rightness lay not in the fact that she kept finding him in places she shouldn’t and that she still knew nothing about him other than that he was a skilled handyman who had a way with lilacs and smooth talk
ing. The rightness was about the way he looked at her, the way he smelled, the way his clothes hung on his body, the grin, the wink—and now, his touch.

  It spiraled all through her—and came as no surprise at all that the man knew how to use his hands on a woman’s body as well as on a paintbrush or screwdriver.

  The glide of his palm across her stomach, the graze of his fingertips down her arm, was as intoxicating as the scent of lilacs still filling her kitchen and now wafting vague and light through the whole house, rising the same way heat did, up and into the turret room as he lay her back onto her bed in only her bra and panties.

  Part of her wished she’d worn nicer ones, but how could she have known? And Suzanne claimed that most men didn’t really care about that anyway—they just wanted you naked.

  Soon enough she would be—and the mere knowledge, along with everything else happening, turned her breath thready. From both excitement and nervousness. But the former overcame the latter enough that she found herself pushing up his T-shirt as well, running her own hands over muscles—in his arms, on his chest, stomach—that she’d only admired with her eyes up to now.

  When he was shirtless—beautifully so—her hands dropped to the button on his blue jeans, as well. She bit her lip, aware of the hardness beneath her fingers, aware that she might lack the boldness to reveal it herself. When she hesitated, he took over, lowered his zipper, pushed the denim down. Her heart pounded against her rib cage almost painfully.

  “I’m a little nervous,” she confessed on a shaky breath. They lay face-to-face on her bed atop the covers.

  And he lifted his fingertips to her cheek, brushed hair back from her face as he looked into her eyes. “’Cause we haven’t known each other long, and my body is new to you,” he said.

  “Exactly,” she said around a slight lump in her throat, at once surprised a guy could grasp the issue so clearly and unable to articulate it further herself.

  “I love that about you, darlin’,” he said, “that it makes you a little nervous. But thing is—you can relax because...well, this is something you can’t mess up.”

  His soft smile wafted warmly through her, the perfect reassurance. It made her kiss him. It made her ready. For more.

  And as he removed her bra, raining dewdrop kisses across her breasts, she gave herself over to pleasure and forgot to be nervous anymore. As he lowered her panties, she found herself tugging his underwear down, too—driven more now by instinct than thought or decision. And yes, some instances still felt a little awkward—because here they were, two people who didn’t know each other well, suddenly connecting in the most intimate of ways. But the reassurance he’d given her made it okay.

  It had been like that with Zack, too—some awkwardness the first time—because it had happened even quicker with him. With Zack, it had come with bits of nervous laughter, aided by alcohol. With Seth, though, no laughter of any kind, no acknowledgment on his part that anything was any less than perfect. Which maybe made it...perfect.

  As he kissed his way down her stomach, that struck her. That perfection, as much as beauty, was in the eye of the beholder. That she could look for flaws in this moment, reasons it shouldn’t be, reasons to feel unsteady or lacking or worried or regretful—or she could choose to see the perfection in this man who had walked onto her island and into her life and into her bed all so easily.

  And that was how it stayed from that moment forward. When he parted her legs, it became easy to feel herself truly opening to him, opening for him. When he entered her, it became easy to accept him there—the pleasure, the fullness. When he began to move, it became easy to rise against him, meet his thrusts.

  He put her at ease with every touch of his hand, every kiss on her skin, every deep stroke inside her hungry body, every time his eyes met hers in that dark, warm way, reminding her once more of a fallen angel...who was taking her to heaven.

  And it was good.

  * * *

  MAYBE IT SHOULD have also surprised her how easy it was to lie cuddling with him afterward under the covers in her bed. She still had no idea what he was snooping around her house for, and that made him seem suspicious, no matter how you sliced it. And given that she’d been fretting over the hurt by another man mere days ago—hurt that lingered still now—it somehow felt tawdry to her that she’d slept with him. This wasn’t who she was, how she saw herself. So it seemed to her that lying silently with him afterward, the room dimly lit by her grandmother’s Tiffany lamp on the bedside table, should perhaps be even more awkward than the sex itself should have been.

  But just like the sex, it wasn’t.

  Neither had spoken since their last gasps of passion a few moments before, and when she saw him tilt his head toward hers on the pillow in her peripheral vision, she waited for the grin, the wink. So perhaps the biggest surprise of all was when neither came, and when, instead, he lifted one fingertip to a spot high on her chest, and asked in a low whisper, “What happened here, darlin’?”

  Though she didn’t have to look down to know what he was asking about. It was a scar so pale and thin now that she no longer saw it in the mirror, or thought about it. Gran had once called it her badge of courage. “It’s where my chemo port was.” And—odd—just saying the words took her back there in time, to the strangeness of having something under her skin that didn’t belong, and what it had been there for.

  “Chemo port?” The inquiry came with caution, like he wasn’t sure he should ask more, and she couldn’t help thinking how blessed he was to have never known someone who’d gone through chemotherapy. And how she was about to ruin that in a way. Because it was a loss of innocence, cancer. A threshold that, once you cross it, for yourself or someone close to you, you can never really go back to the simplicity of life before it. The scars it left behind were more than just physical.

  But she wanted to put him at ease, and it was an old subject, so she didn’t mind explaining. “When you have chemo, they surgically implant a port under your skin that leads directly into the veins. You get your chemo through it and any other injections or medicines you need—it keeps your veins from being damaged.”

  “I never knew that,” he said, then ran his finger the length of the thin white scar. “Did it hurt?”

  “It hurt when a needle was put in, and sometimes it just ached a little. Even when it didn’t hurt, though, I never really got used to it. Some people don’t mind having them, but I was always aware of mine—it protruded through my skin, like a hard bump. I tried to think of it as...well, like a friend, because it was the portal for medicine that would save my life—but I was so happy when they finally took it out.”

  He lifted his gaze to her eyes then, and something in his expression made her realize how open she’d just been. But she’d never thought about being any other way. Because hell, she’d just had sex with him, and she liked him, obviously, and whether or not it was wise, she felt a connection with him now. So being honest about this had come naturally.

  “What...was it like? Having cancer. Getting the treatment.” This question came in an even lower tone, like something forbidden. He clearly didn’t know if he should ask.

  And God knew it wasn’t a pleasant subject, but...had Zack ever asked her? About this? She’d told him stuff, especially around the time they’d been caring for Aunt Julia together—but had he ever actually asked, wanted to know, wanted to hear? It was long in the past, and yet also still a part of her, who she was—anyone who’d walked that road knew that; it became a part of the fabric of a person. So despite the darkness of it, she liked that Seth wanted to know.

  “It was the worst time of my life,” she confided. “Scary to be so young and suddenly not know if you’re going to live or die. And it was...humbling. I had everything going for me. One day I was wearing designer suits and heels to a high-rise office building, feeling on top of the world, planning a wedding, and looking forward to everything th
e future held. The next, all that was gone and I was lying on a couch just trying to hold on to any little bit of strength I had left inside me to keep going.”

  She watched him take a breath, let it back out. It was heavy and he was feeling that weight. But he didn’t look afraid of it, and he didn’t back away from it. “The chemo—it was as hard as people say?”

  She nodded against a lavender pillowcase. “It affects everyone differently, but for me it was rough. It zapped all my energy, and all my thoughts. The best way I can describe it is that it makes you feel like...nothing. I would just lie there, without the energy to even think. It’s hard to explain, but for me that was even worse than the physical depletion.”

  “Did you lose your hair?”

  Another nod. Another memory of what it was to be stripped down to your very core.

  Yet the weight of it all was getting too heavy now, even for her. She didn’t mind going back there on occasion, but no need to wallow in it. “The good news, though, is that I tolerated radiation better, and my hair grew back, and here I am, healthy and strong with all of that far behind me. When I came here to recuperate I was still pretty fragile, but Gran took good care of me, and the peacefulness of the place was very healing—it was an easy place to be at a hard time.” Talking about all this was reminding her of that part of it, too—restful afternoons curled up in a chair in the garden, wrapped in an old quilt, smelling flowers, listening to birds sing, reading books, and wearing one of Gran’s floppy sun hats over slowly growing hair.

  “Even if I’m thinking of leaving now, I’ll always be grateful that this island, and house, were both here for me when I needed someplace to retreat to.”

  “Seems like it really...changed your life. I mean, more than it does even for most people. It changed...everything about your life.”