by C L Cruz
“Always,” he answers.
We work our way through the donuts, and he asks me questions about my story and offers ridiculous plot twists that would turn it into a Die Hard script instead of a historical romance.
“She has to save herself,” I tell him. “Not from a bomb or a terrorist, but her own insecurities.”
“Maybe they aren’t meant to break up,” he suggests.
But I shake my head. “Everyone breaks up. It’s a fact of life. And romance novels.”
He taps his chin thoughtfully, drawing my attention to his lips. As I’m thinking of one fun way to distract myself, he says, “I have an idea.” He stands up and holds a hand out to me. “Come on.”
It turns out that his big idea is hard, manual labor. We set up a table saw in the area beneath the house, and he starts unloading a bunch of lumber from the bed of his truck.
“What are we building?” I ask as I help him measure boards.
“It’s a surprise,” is all he’ll tell me, handing me safety goggles to wear before he turns on the saw.
But as we measure and cut boards of wood down to their prescribed sizes, I find that I don’t really care what we’re building. I don’t have to see the big picture to lose myself in this kind of work. Sweat drips into my eyes and my arms ache, but for once, I’m not over-thinking anything.
“So, how did you start writing?” Roan asks as we’re staining the boards we’ve cut.
I dip the brush into the bucket and slide it over the board. “I moved around a lot as a kid,” I tell him. “My dad left before I could even remember him, and my mom bounced us around from town to town, following this boyfriend or that job. I didn’t have a lot of friends, so I turned to books. And when I couldn’t find a book I wanted to read, I wrote my own.”
“And you wanted to read Viking romance?” he teases.
I shoot him a glare, but he isn’t looking at me. He’s bent over a board, the muscles in his back rippling beneath his tight t-shirt as he works. I feel a tiny spark of inspiration—I want to write him, the way he looks right now, his confidence, his power.
Clearing my throat, I say, “I wanted the fantasy of it.”
“The fantasy?”
“You know…the barbarian lord turned gentle lover who protects and goes to any length for the woman he loves.”
“Ah, that fantasy,” he says with a laugh.
I examine the board in front of me, making sure it’s perfect before moving onto the next one.
“Where do you get your inspiration for these barbarian lords?” he asks after a few moments.
Finished staining, I lay the brush down and pull the goggles off of my face, blinking. “Certainly not real life,” I answer, and that’s been the case, at least up until now.
Roan stands up, taking off his own goggles followed by his shirt. I gape at his bare chest, at the muscles carved into his tanned flesh. Good grief. He really is like one of my Vikings come to life.
Turning to me, he flashes me a smile like he knows exactly what I’m thinking. “Come on,” he says. “Let’s go rinse off.”
“Rinse off?” I ask. “Where?”
“In the ocean,” he says, stepping out of his boots and his socks. Then, he starts to unbutton his pants. “Where else?”
“I still don’t have a swimsuit,” I confess, my voice trailing off as he slides his jeans down his hips, leaving him in only gray boxer briefs that squeeze his round ass as tightly as I want to.
“It didn’t stop you before.”
He pulls me to him and keeps his eyes on mine as he pulls my t-shirt over my head. I’m stunned, unable to resist, not that I want to. Then, he slides his thumbs into the elastic waistband of my shorts and slides them down, too, leaving me in my bra and panties. Again, I feel like I should cover myself, but I don’t want to. I want Roan to see all of me, and God knows I want to see all of Roan.
His hands skim my legs and my hips, trailing up my waist and over my stomach. My heart hammers as his index finger outlines my nipple through the thin material of my bra, making it pucker.
I expect him to pull it off of me—want him to pull it off of me—but instead, he releases me. “Come on, race you there.” With that, he turns and runs down the path to the beach.
It’s no competition really. With his long, fit legs, he reaches the ocean long before I do, kicking up sand and water as he runs into the surf. When he’s waist-deep, he turns around to wait for me. I make it out to him, and he takes my hand, wading out the rest of the way beside me, bracing us against the waves and laughing when one almost takes me down.
The sun is sinking low off to the west, painting the sky in a rainbow of colors. To the east, stars are already appearing in the indigo sky. After such a hot day, the water is warm but it still feels good against my sunburned skin. When we’re out past the waves, Roan reaches for me, pulling me into his arms, his hard chest pressing against me, water sloshing between us, filling in the gaps. I wrap my legs around his waist, letting him hold us both up as the waves rock us back and forth.
“It’s so beautiful out here,” I whisper.
“Not as beautiful as you,” he says, his face dead serious.
I still try to laugh it off. “People don’t really say things like that,” I scoff.
He slides his hands up my back, bracing them against my shoulders and pushing me forward. “I do,” he says.
Our lips crash together. There is nothing hesitant or gentle about this kiss—it’s demanding, desperate. My whole body feels alive, and I can feel his arousal pressing against my center. I gyrate my hips, seeking that friction, wanting to feel all of him.
“What would your barbarian lord do now?” he asks, gathering my wet hair at the nape of my neck and kissing his way down to my shoulder.
“He would take what he wants,” I answer, closing my eyes.
“Would he?” he asks. “Or would he make you scream his name first?”
“Roan,” I gasp, feeling his hand slide between us to cup me on the outside of my wet panties.
“I want you, Tara,” he breathes. His other hand lowers the strap of my bra off of my shoulder and tugs my breast free. “I want to touch you and taste you and feel you. I want all of you.”
There’s still a part of me that thinks this is a bad idea, but it’s shrinking by the second. “I want you, too,” I tell him, leaning my head back. His mouth closes around my nipple, the sharp tug of his teeth sending both pleasure and pain shooting through my body. At the same time, he slides two fingers inside of me, making me gasp. I grind against him, and his thumb finds my clit, stroking it in slow, torturous circles.
There’s something sensual about doing this out here, in the open water, with the sun on our shoulders. It makes it a hundred times hotter, and my orgasm, usually slow to come, builds quickly inside of me.
“Don’t stop,” I beg him as a wave tosses us to the side, making him stumble slightly. “I’m going to come.”
“I won’t stop,” he mumbles against my breast.
Goosebumps erupt over my skin at the same time the wave of pleasure washes over me. I lean forward and bury my face against his neck, crying out his name as my muscles clench around his thrusting fingers. His mouth finds mine, swallowing my cries, and he kisses me until my body relaxes against his. So much for taking it slow, but my instincts tell me that I’m safe with Roan.
We stay in the water for a long time still, hanging onto each other as we float, talking as the sun sinks. When it gets too dark, we go back to my place and drink White Claws on the back deck in my cheap plastic chairs. I tell him about the furniture I have on order from a shop downtown, including the hammock chairs I’m going to hang instead of the traditional porch swing. I don’t tell him this, but I can picture the two of us swinging in them, holding hands and watching the sunset for years to come.
I’m kind of a lightweight, and between the manual labor, our underwater adventure, and the White Claws, I must doze off, because next thing I know, he’s
carrying me through the house like I weigh nothing and laying me down on the air mattress. He pulls the sheet up to my chin. Through the haze of sleep, I grab his arm.
“Roan?” I mumble, my eyes still mostly closed.
“Yeah?” he asks.
“You’re the best fantasy of them all.”
He presses a kiss to my forehead and then whispers, “Oh, no, Tara, I’m the real deal.”
I hear the door shut and the lock click when he leaves, and after his truck rumbles away, I fall asleep listening to the sound of the waves outside the open window, a warm breeze brushing my cheeks.
Chapter Six
Roan
Tara emerges from her bedroom wearing a blue dress and strappy sandals. Her brown hair, usually left wild, is pulled back in a ponytail that draws my eyes to her sun-kissed shoulders.
“How do I look?” she asks, giving a little twirl.
I pull her into my arms. “Beautiful.” I kiss her shoulder and then tug the strap of her dress down, kissing it again. “But then again, you look beautiful in nothing at all.”
She scoffs and pulls the strap back up. “I can’t meet the Spring Women’s Book Club in nothing at all.”
“Why not?” I ask with a shrug and a sly smile. “That’s how you met me.”
That makes her laugh, but she still spins away from me, grabbing her purse and a giant bag of books off of the new coffee table we put together that morning. After I left her asleep last night, I hadn’t been able to stay away for long and showed up this morning with brunch from the Munch Box. We ate together out on the back deck, and then we put together the coffee table. After that, we took a trip into town, first to the local hardware store where she picked out paint colors, and then to a boutique where she picked out a couple of bathing suits, much to my dismay.
It’s amazing how things that would otherwise be boring chores become fun when I get to do them with Tara. I could have sat there for hours while she dug through paint chips or tried on clothes and still been perfectly content. It feels like we’re a couple, and what we’re building is meant to last.
While I love spending time with her, I need her out of the house for a few hours so that I can finish building my surprise for her. So, my mom and I conspired to have her visit the book club this afternoon for their Sunday Teatime.
Tara drops her big bag of books at my feet. “What if they don’t like my book?” she asks. “What if they don’t like me?”
I laugh and pull her against me again. “They’re going to love you, but don’t let them keep you too long. We have reservations at Fish’n’Strips at six.”
Our first real date, which will end in a big reveal. I’m determined to treat Tara right. My woman is a romantic at heart, even if she hides it, trying to protect all her soft spots that have been hurt before. I can already tell that her walls are crumbling as she settles into her new home with her new friends, but I’m going to be the one to finish the job.
She kisses my jaw and then wipes away what I guess is a smear of lipstick. “So romantic,” she says. “I won’t be late.”
I watch her go, smiling as she climbs into her car. As soon as she’s out of sight, I get to work. Joe, one of my workers, is supposed to come help me, but he isn’t answering my texts. So I’m left to my own devices, running up and down the recently repaired stairs to bring up the lumber we primed yesterday. This would go a lot quicker with some help, especially when I realize I have to make another trip to the hardware store.
When I’m in my truck, I text my mom. How is she doing?
Her answer comes quickly. She’s amazing, Roan. And such a fantastic writer. Can I keep her?
I laugh and text back, That’s the plan.
Back at the house, I lose myself in the work. This is part of what I love about my job—creating something out of nothing, building beautiful spaces for people to love. Tara and I are not so different in that way, I guess.
But as I’m putting on the finishing touches, I realize that the sun has gotten awfully low. I pat my pockets to look for my phone but don’t find it.
Shit.
I race through the final steps and then jog down the stairs, where I yank open the door to my truck and find my phone on the passenger seat where I tossed it after texting with my mom. Picking it up, I see that it’s six-thirty and that there are about a dozen missed calls from Tara and my mom.
“Shit.” I rip off my dirty t-shirt and throw on the button-up I had hanging in the back. I’d wanted to shower and shave, but time got away from me. This will have to do.
I tear out of Tara’s driveway, kicking up sand, tires squealing when I hit the pavement. After making it into town in record time, I find a parking space on the street just a block from the restaurant, and I make a run for it, dodging tourists and bikers before finally bursting inside.
Fish’n’Strips is one of the nicest restaurants in town, with linen napkins, candles on every table, and a wall of windows overlooking the ocean. It feels like every eye turns to me when I finally come to a stop, practically panting at the hostess stand.
“Waters,” I tell her, “party of two.”
The woman’s brows furrow as she studies her tablet. “I’m sorry, Mr. Waters, the reservation was for six o’clock.”
“What about the other member of my party?” I ask, my eyes flicking past her, searching the restaurant for Tara’s blue dress.
Pressing her lips together, she said, “She left already, about five minutes ago.”
Shit. This was not how this was supposed to happen. I was supposed to be proving to her that not everyone is meant to break up. That not all barbarian lords are selfish, arrogant pricks. This was supposed to be our perfect first date, straight out of a romance novel.
Instead, it was turning into a disaster…straight out of a Die Hard movie.
Now, barring the appearance of any terrorist cells or hidden bombs in the small town of Spring, I had to channel my inner Bruce Willis and save the damn day.
Chapter Seven
Tara
Well, I guess this is the other shoe I’ve been waiting for. I knew it was too good to be true. I fell in love hard and fast—with the Hackett house, with the town, with Roan.
“He’s a good man,” his mom told me during the book club meeting. “Just a bit of a fixer-upper.”
Remembering Angela’s words to me on my first day in Spring, I replied, “Yeah, well, who isn’t?” and laughed it off.
I’m not laughing now, sitting alone at a table in this beautiful restaurant. The wine bottle is untouched on the table, and I can feel the pitying eyes of my waiter on me as the clock ticks down. At twenty minutes, I decide to leave, but I still sit there for ten more minutes, thinking that every time the door opens it might be him.
But it never is.
People always ask where I get inspiration for my books, and I always laugh it off, but here’s the truth: I play a game of “what-if” with reality. What if that guy in college had asked me out instead of my blond, leggy best friend? What if my dad hadn’t left my mom and me behind? What if my ex hadn’t been a giant douche?
What if Roan hadn’t stood me up?
I give them all happy endings but still can’t find my own.
After paying for the bottle of wine, I take it with me and walk back to my car, which is parked in that same municipal lot Roan and I made-out in after our night together at the Deck. I don’t sit there any longer than I have to and instead turn onto the road to head toward home.
That’s when my phone starts ringing. Roan’s name flashes across the screen, but I ignore it. I don’t want the drama that I know is waiting for me on the other end of the line. I’m tired of being dumped and burned and left behind. I’m not giving people three strikes anymore. I deserve better. I deserve someone who isn’t going to forget about me. Who isn’t going to stand me up. I deserve a Viking lord, damn it.
When I pull into my driveway, I half-expect to see Roan’s truck there, but the house is dark and empty. I
leave my phone in the car and take the bottle of wine up the stairs with me. Unlocking the door, I step into my house, and…freeze.
The ugly wood paneling in the living room has been ripped off of the walls, and in its place are floor-to-ceiling built-in bookshelves that I realize are made of the same wood Roan and I cut and stained yesterday. They’re beautiful and already stocked full of the books that were in stacks all over my floor. I spin, taking it all in. Between the shelves of books and the new-to-me couch and the coffee table, it’s starting to look like…home.
I run my hands over the shelves and the books’ spines, spotting a whole row of the Viking’s Victory, and beside it, strangely enough, is what looks to me like an antique hammer. I pick it up, turning it over in my hands, admiring the smooth wood of the handle.
Someone clears their throat from my open door, and I turn around to see Roan standing there. I’d been so absorbed in admiring my shelves that I hadn’t even heard his truck approach.
“It’s as close as I could get to an ancient sword from my family,” he says, gesturing to the hammer in my hands.
“You read my book?” I look between him and the hammer, realizing that he’s referencing the sword ceremony where my characters vow their love to one another by exchanging swords to bind their families together. He’s offering me more than shelves; he’s offering me a place in his family, in his life. He’s offering me a home.
As tears threaten to spill over, I clear my throat and say, “I thought you didn’t read naked-man books.”
He shrugs, looking almost sheepish. “I’ll read anything that you write. If it’s important to you, it’s important to me.”
I put the hammer back on the shelf and try to fight the tears building in my eyes. Maybe I’d been too quick to pass judgment. Too quick to shut him out.
He steps toward me but doesn’t reach for me yet. “I’m sorry I was late. I lost track of time, and I left my phone in the truck. I never would have been late on purpose, but I was just so excited about building this for you…I’m sorry.”
I look up into his earnest blue eyes and offer him a tentative smile. I’m just so used to being hurt that I expect it. Maybe it’s time to start expecting the good from people, instead. Roan isn’t a hero out of a romance book. He’s a real person who makes mistakes, who loses track of time but who also makes time for me. Who welcomed me into this town and his life with open arms. Who’s inviting me into his family. He may not be a barbarian lord, but he’s my hero all the same.
