I shook my head, confused. I knew exactly what she was saying, yet I didn’t understand why. Why did she want to try and get to know me? Or try and mend me?
I was damaged goods. I had nothing to offer the sweet woman who somehow stirred emotions in me, which I didn’t understand.
My hand fisted the rich cashmere of the beanie as I thought of our passionate kiss and the feel of her mouth beneath mine. I shut my eyes remembering how perfect it felt to hold her in my arms. How I lost myself with her for a brief, wonderful moment.
Then how utterly horrified I was when reality had hit me, yet again.
I looked down at her small gift, feeling torn.
I had to stay away from Megan.
Except, the thought of doing so made me…miserable.
For a week it continued. Megan would walk over and leave something on the doorstep. I never knew what time of day she would come or even if she’d indeed appear that day, but I found myself sitting, watching for her arrival. The days she didn’t come felt endless, and I was filled with a sense of longing I couldn’t explain. It felt as if I missed her. Although, when I would see her small figure come into view, I would assess how she was walking, then I would step into the kitchen, hiding from her once again.
She always knocked twice.
I always ignored her.
Still, she always returned.
Elliott would sit in front of the door, his tail thumping out a quiet rhythm as he whined low in his throat. If I was feeling somewhat brave, I would allow him access to the back of the house, where his dog door was; he would push his way through to greet Megan and Dixie on the deck. Megan would sit on the top step and watch them run around the beach or stroke their heads as they sat beside her. She looked so small with her back to the door. I wondered if she knew I watched her; absorbing the enticing sight of her there, her brilliant hair swirling in the wind that kicked up from the ocean. I knew how soft that hair was and I longed to bury my fingers into her thick tresses again. My body ached to draw her close and feel her flush against me. I wanted to inhale her lovely scent deep into my lungs and taste her mouth with mine. I craved her, yet even as I yearned, as soon as she shifted, I disappeared from sight, for fear she might see me. She always commanded Elliott home and waited until he was back inside, before she and Dixie slowly made their way back across the beach, out of my vision. They were the best and worst moments of my day—I longed for them.
Once she was gone, I would open the door and see what little treasure she had left behind.
A small plate of cookies for me and dog biscuits for Elliott.
A pair of warm socks for after my next “wade” into the water.
A slice of pie to share with Elliott.
Even a bag of my favorite peppermints, although how she knew they were my favorite, I wasn’t sure.
They were small, thoughtful gestures, accompanied by a tiny card with sweet words of friendship and thanks or a short humorous message; always signed M.
As if some other passing angel was leaving gifts and she wanted to be sure I knew which ones were hers.
Today, I opened the door and looked down, fighting a smile. I picked up the small canvas, studying it. It was a very badly done watercolor of the beach with Dixie and Elliott on it—or more like stick figures of them. She even painted the bluff and what I guessed was my house at the top. Turning it over, I let out a chuckle.
Maybe you’d consider a trade? I’d be willing to give this up for Tempest…
One time offer.~M
I smiled even as I shook my head sadly.
All of this had to stop.
The next day I was waiting. When Elliott’s ears perked up, I opened the back door and let him out, following him, remaining silent. I listened as Megan greeted him, then the gentle raps sounding on my door. I stepped out and watched her as she stood waiting, ever hopeful I would open the door. Only this time she didn’t repeat her knocks and there was nothing in her hands. Instead, I watched her head bow. I could feel the resigned sadness rolling off her, as she turned and sat down at the top of the steps, her shoulders slumped. Taking in a deep breath, I quietly walked over, and lowered myself down beside her, grateful my scarred half was facing away from her side view. Her startled gasp was filled with surprise at my appearance, but she didn’t say anything. I inhaled deep lungfuls of her soft scent, letting it wash over me, enjoying how it soothed and calmed me.
I waited for a minute before I spoke. “You’re still limping.”
“It’s getting better.”
“Not much,” I huffed. “You’re overdoing it, walking here all the time.”
She turned, and I felt the heat of her gaze. “Come to me, then.”
“You have to stop this, Megan.”
“Stop what? Being a friendly neighbor? Thanking you for finding me, bringing me out of the storm, and looking after me?”
I sighed and looked at her. Her brown eyes were too expressive. Normally, dark eyes were flat, but hers were bursting with life and fire, and her fire was directed at me. “My cruelty sent you into that storm.”
She shrugged. “Your words were heartless, but I would’ve gone looking for her regardless.” She paused. “You said them to drive me away, Zachary. I know that.”
She turned away and looked back toward the ocean. “And I’m not stopping. You might as well give in.”
“Why, Megan?”
For a minute she said nothing. I startled when I felt her hand slip into mine, which was resting on my leg. Her fingers curled between mine; our palms meshed together. I looked down at them, noticing the differences: her hand so small and smooth, her fingers tiny as they entwined my longer, calloused ones. The urge to lift our hands to my lips, to caress those tiny fingers, was overwhelming and my eyes flew to hers.
“Why?” I repeated. “I’m not a nice man. I have nothing to give you.”
“I disagree. I think you have a lot to give. You’re just too scared to give it.”
“You’re wrong.”
“No,” she insisted. “I’m not.”
“What makes you so sure?”
She squeezed my hand. “This does.”
“My hand?” I shook my head at her. “You’re not making any sense.”
“Not your hand, Zachary,” her patient voice whispered. “It’s how I feel when I hold your hand, when I touch you.” She drew in a deep breath. “How it felt when you kissed me.”
“That was a mistake.”
“Why?”
I yanked my hand away and stood up. “You don’t want to kiss me. You don’t want to know me, and you certainly don’t want to pursue a relationship with me. I’m toxic. I’m scarred outside and in. Stay away from me.” I turned and began to walk away, but I heard her follow me. Pivoting quickly, I found her right behind me, my abrupt stop causing her to begin to stumble. On their own accord, my arms reached out to stop her from falling. As soon as my hands touched her, everything changed. Once again, I felt the heat between us—the unexplained feeling of comfort and desire combining and swirling around us. My fingers tightened on her shoulders, but I fought the urge to drag her closer.
“You need to go,” I insisted, but my voice held no conviction.
“Please,” she whispered.
Without another thought, my mouth was on hers, our lips parting, as we melted together. I yanked her tight to me, desperate to have her closer. I buried my hands into her thick hair, wrapping the long waves around my fingers, tugging on them gently as I worked her mouth. Hot, burning passion lit up within me, overriding all my other senses. Growling, I pushed her up against the stone of the house. Her hands were wrapped around my neck, holding me close, her body arched into mine. She was so fucking sweet under my tongue, her response so warm and giving. Small whimpers at the back of her throat were answered with my own needy groans. I pulled away, panting, drawing much needed oxygen into my lungs, but right away, my mouth sought out the smooth feel of her neck and shoulder, my tongue tasting her sweet, sun-s
oaked skin.
“I’m no good for you, Megan,” I murmured into her warmth, groaning as my tongue circled her small earlobe and nipped at the skin behind her ear.
“Zachary,” she breathed, tilting her head, the other side of her neck presenting itself to my mouth. I trailed open-mouthed, wet kisses up to her ear. A shudder went through my spine when I felt her lips and tongue ghosting over my neck, nibbling and swirling, leaving a long trail of moisture behind.
Until she reached my ear and her lips moved toward my cheek. I stiffened, my body locking down, and Megan’s movements ceased as she felt my reaction.
“Don’t,” she pleaded. “Don’t make me stop.”
I drew back slowly, placing her back on her feet, then I began to back away.
“Zachary—” Her voice was filled with hurt, which I ignored. “Please—”
I turned away. “I can’t. I just can’t.” Leaning down, I grabbed Elliott’s collar. “Don’t waste your time, Megan. I’m not some pitiful creature you can save.” I laughed, but there was no humor in the sound. “I can’t be saved…at all.”
Then, once again, I walked away from Megan Greene.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The sharp, bitter bite of rejection washed through me, filling every crevice of my body as I watched Zachary turn and walk away. I could still taste him in my mouth; my fingers itched to feel his hair under them again. My entire frame wanted to feel him melded into me.
Never before had I felt such passion for a man. Especially one I hardly knew. Every time he came near me, the air pulsated with electricity and I wanted to touch him.
Never had the sting of not being wanted, of being rejected, hurt so much.
I couldn’t explain this need to be close to him; I was sure he felt it as well, but refused to allow us to explore it.
A harsh sob escaped my lips, as he disappeared around the corner. I turned and made my way blindly down his steps, knowing I would never again climb them.
He made his feelings crystal clear.
I almost made it to the bottom, when my feet slipped and I fell down the last few steps to the damp sand below, landing on my already sore hands and knees. For a few moments I lay prone, the tears running down my cheeks at my foolish behavior. Bitterness washed over me as I berated myself for thinking Zachary felt the same intense need I felt for him. I pushed myself up, forcing my feet to start their journey back across the sand to the isolation of the house.
There, I told myself, I would cry and rage until I didn’t want to cry anymore.
There I would find my strength and do what I came here to do.
Find a way to move on with my life.
Not chase after someone who made it plain they weren’t interested in anything I had to offer.
Another sob caught in my throat as my sore ankle protested. Still, I limped forward, ignoring the pain and taking slow, measured steps away from Zachary, each one feeling more agonizing.
I gasped as a pair of strong arms abruptly encircled me and I was lifted like a child into the safety of Zachary’s arms. Shocked, my head fell back to his shoulder and I stared up at him. Stormy, pain-filled eyes met my confused ones. “Do you always fall this much?” He growled at me.
“Yes.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
He lifted me higher, my head settling in the nape of his neck, as if it was meant to rest there. He turned, called for the dogs, waiting as they ran toward us. I felt the gentle pressure of his lips on my temple, and I tried to ask him why he had come for me. I didn’t understand why he even cared if I fell on the sand after he walked away, but all that came out was a small sob.
“Hush,” he whispered, his arms tightening. “I’ve got you.”
“Don’t let go this time,” I pleaded.
His lips caressed again, never leaving my skin as he carried me up the stairs and into his house.
I carried Megan through the house, right into the bathroom, setting her gently on the counter. It took me a few minutes to gather the medical supplies I needed, then I cleaned her hands, grateful to see, although they were reddened from her fall, only a couple of the cuts had reopened. Before she could protest, I undid the loose tensor bandage and checked her ankle, frowning at how it was still swollen. I tossed the dirty one aside and swiftly rebandaged it, so it would have the proper support it needed to heal. I was glad I could still remember the technique from my first aid courses years ago. Once it was done, and I was satisfied, I glanced up at her, my movements stilling as our eyes met. So much hurt and confusion swam in those expressive eyes. Pain I knew I had caused. Without thinking, I cupped her soft cheek, my rough thumb caressing the skin as our gazes remained locked. The way she leaned into my touch made my heart tighten in my chest, and I fought against the desire to pull her close to me and hold her.
Her voice broke the silence. “Why did you come after me?”
“I don’t know.” I shrugged, unable to explain how I felt when I turned around and saw her fall off the last few steps. “You were hurt…and I couldn’t stand the thought.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know,” I repeated in a whisper. “I feel—” I didn’t know how I felt. “Confused.”
Her hand covered mine, her tiny fingers warm on my skin as she caressed my knuckles. “I feel the same way.”
The air around us pulsated as our gazes held. Slowly, her hand lifted, her eyes begging me not to pull back. She laid her palm on my cheek; her hand a gentle caress on my face. My heart pounded—the rhythm frantic at the feeling of her touch—and I stiffened. I searched her face and eyes for what should be revulsion, but found none. All I could see was a silent plea for me to allow her touch. I shut my eyes, swallowing hard, and let myself ease into her caress. Small sparks of anxiety ran down my spine, but I forced myself to stay standing in front of her as she lightly touched me. I jerked in shock when I felt her lips replace her fingers, their softness warm across the twisted skin. It was only one, small kiss; a gentle brush of her lips on me, but the sensation was intense—all at once frightening and beautiful. She didn’t linger or push too hard, keeping her touch quick and easy, as if she knew there was a limit to what I could handle at one time. She drew back, giving me a tender smile, a look of contentment on her face. “Thank you,” she breathed.
A smile tugged on my lips. She had that wrong. I should be thanking her. In one, simple, giving gesture she had made me feel…normal.
I brushed my lips against hers. “Anytime,” I whispered, feeling playful and lighter than I had in years, and wanting to see that warm smile again.
“Now is good for me.”
With a groan, I gave in. I brought her to me, my mouth covering hers. Her arms wrapped around my neck, holding me close. Her soft lips moved with mine, as the passion between us started to build. I held her tight to my chest, my arms constricting, needing to feel her as close as possible.
As soon as I allowed her to touch me, I knew...
There was no going back. Nothing would be the same again.
I wanted her, and no matter the consequences, I would have her...but not yet.
It took everything I had in me to break away from Megan. To lean away from the warmth of her mouth, the comfort of her embrace.
We needed to talk.
As I drew back, I dropped a few gentle kisses on her lips, so she would know it wasn’t rejection; I was done rejecting her.
“Why did you stop?” she whispered, as I touched my forehead to hers, inhaling deeply, letting her closeness calm me.
“You need to ice that ankle, and we need to talk.”
“Right now?”
I lifted her into my arms, striding down the hall. “Right now.”
“Bossy much?” she quipped.
I placed her on the sofa, propping up her ankle. I leaned against the back of the sofa, my upper body pressed into hers. “You have no idea. Get used to it, Megan. It’s how I roll.”
She let out a low laugh. The sound of it made my lips
twitch, wanting to smile with her. “It’s how you roll? Really, is that the best you have, Zachary?”
“I said I was bossy, not entertaining. Stay here. I’ll be back.”
Her smart retort, “Like I have anywhere I can go, since you took my shoes,” followed me out of the room. That time, I did smile.
A few minutes later, I handed her a cup of coffee and sat down beside her, lifting the cushion then her ankle up onto my lap, fitting an ice pack over it. The fire was burning, the logs popping and hissing as the flames danced, both the dogs asleep in front of it.
I traced the line of her cheek gently with the end of my finger, liking how she gravitated into my touch.
“How old are you, Megan?”
“Twenty-five.”
“I’m thirty-seven.”
“That doesn’t matter to me.”
That piece of information was not really a surprise.
“Why are you here? What brought you to this part of the country so early in the spring? I doubt it was for the admirable weather.”
A small frown appeared on her face. “I needed a place to think. Karen and Chris were kind enough to offer me their place.”
“Think about…?” I let my question hang in the air, watching her telling eyes change from calm to wary and pain-filled. Without thinking, I took her hand in mine. “Can you tell me?”
Her eyes drifted past, to the window behind me, their focus dimming for a minute. I let her gather her thoughts and sipped my coffee.
She sighed, her hand flexing in mine. “I was—am—a writer. I’ve self-published a few books.”
“Anything I would have read?”
“I doubt it”—she shook her head—“unless you read romances.”
“Ah, no. Kinda more a thriller, mystery guy.”
“Didn’t think so.” She smirked and I chuckled.
“I was doing okay—not on any of the big best seller lists yet, but I was getting my name out there.” She paused to take a sip of her coffee. “I had been working on a story, a much bigger one, for a while. Two years, in fact.”
Beneath the Scars Page 6
