“I’ll take them for a walk,” I offered. “I’m sure you have things you need to do.”
“Yeah, I do. I want to set up some canvases and shift a few things around up there. Let them run on the beach. I’ll join you soon.”
“All right.”
He disappeared upstairs, as I grabbed my jacket off the sofa, pausing when my eyes landed on the Tempest painting he’d brought home with us. Even leaning on the wall it was powerful—the imagery, once again, capturing my attention. I traced the initials in the corner—the Z D A so strongly etched into the canvas. Adams, he had told me when I asked. Zachary Dennis Adams. I thought the strong name suited him, and he had grinned shyly when I told him so. Smiling, I shrugged on my coat. There were so many sides of Zachary I hadn’t seen yet, but I found the more I discovered, the more I liked him.
It was bright out on the sand as I strolled along, the dogs running and chasing each other around. My ankle felt much better today, thanks to Zachary’s ministrations. The sound of waves crashing on the rocks was peaceful; the sky was clear above me, the scent of ocean rich and pungent in my nose. With a grin, I toed off my sneakers, yanked off my socks, and rolled up my pant legs. Hesitantly, I walked into the surf, allowing only the smallest ripples of water to cover my feet, gasping at the icy cold. How on earth Zachary strode through the water daily without it affecting him, I had no idea. I backed up away from the surf and kept walking, trying to get used to the temperature of the icy sand. My blue-painted toenails looked pretty beside the wet granules though; they matched the ocean. I breathed in deep, feeling relaxed and content. I didn’t know what was happening later today, or tomorrow even, in regards to Zachary, but at the moment, I was happy and I was strangely okay with that.
All my life I had done what I should do, what I was expected to do—always what was right. I went to school, got a job, paid my bills, acted like a responsible adult. My writing was always a dream and I never let it interfere with what I was supposed to do. I put everything else first, and what did it get me? No job, no book, just a lot of grief. I trusted someone I thought cared about me and he let me down, hurting me on every imaginable level.
Zachary was a complete anomaly for me. I felt more for him in the short time I’d known him than I ever felt for another man. He was standoffish and cruel when he chose to be, then at other times, his vulnerability showed through. I knew how much of an act he put forth to cover up his own pain and push people away. He was lost and alone. Maybe that was partially what drew us to each other.
Something had seriously hurt him in the past, and he’d stopped living. I wasn’t sure I had ever truly started to live. We made quite the pair.
Arms wrapping around my waist startled me from my thoughts. A teasing voice was close to my ear. “Testing the water, are we sweetheart?”
My heart jumped at his endearment and the gentle way it was uttered.
“It’s too cold.”
He chuckled, the sound low and deep. “Must be—your toes have turned blue!” Zachary teased as he spun me around, lifting higher, walking toward the water. “You only have to get used to it,” he promised, wading deeper—the water rising up to his calves, my toes curling in protest as the frigid water grazed them.
Squealing, I pulled my legs up, wrapping them around his thighs in protest. “No!” I giggled.
His arms tightened around me, chest heaving as he laughed. “Careful,” he warned, his lips next to my ear. “Squirm too much…and I might drop you.” He snickered, loosening his hold a little; laughing even harder as I gasped, laughing with him, clinging tight. I lifted my legs higher, using his hips as an anchor and holding myself as close to his body as I could. “Don’t!” I pleaded.
His embrace became a vice. His voice became gruffer and deeper as his lips brushed down my throat. “You want me to keep you out of the water?”
“Yes,” I panted into his neck.
“You trust me? You think I’ll keep you safe?”
I tilted my head back, meeting his eyes, which were now filled with passion, swirling blue and green amidst the gray. “I know you’ll keep me safe,” I whispered. “You make me feel safer than I ever have.”
With a groan, he covered my mouth in a rough kiss. Zachary’s arms crushed me to his chest as he devoured me with his mouth. The passion was all-consuming; the gentleness from earlier gone. He came at me over and again, claiming and possessing me. His large hands became restless and seeking; one slipped under my coat, the cold of it seeping into my skin, while the other wound into my hair, cupping and caressing my head. Time stood still as we kissed, and only the impatient barking from the shore broke us apart.
Zachary looked toward the beach, muttering a mild curse at the interruption. His hand now cradled my head to his chest as he strode out of the water and stood me back on the hard, cold sand. He opened his coat, enveloping me in it; surrounding me in his scent and warmth. “You give me too much credit,” he murmured into my ear.
“You don’t give yourself enough,” I countered, leaning back so I could meet his eyes.
“When you look at me like that, I feel…like I can do anything.”
“You can.”
“You make me want…things, Megan. Things I’m not sure I can have.”
My heartbeat was so loud in my chest, I was sure he had to feel it against his own. “Things like what?”
His gaze flittered around the vastness of the water. “Normal things. I want to take you to dinner, or maybe out to a movie. Go for a walk and not worry someone will start pointing or make some remark.” He exhaled a long rush of air. “I want to be able to let you touch me without worrying about the fact I want to pull away and hide.”
“Do you get tired of hiding, Zachary?”
“Yes.”
The pain evident in that one word made my eyes sting, and I had to blink and clear my throat before I could speak again.
“We could try,” I encouraged him. “Work on it together. One step at a time.”
“Why, Megan? Why are you bothering? Why are you so sure I’m worth all this effort?”
Staring into his confused, pain-filled eyes I didn’t know how to answer him. How could I explain this pull I felt toward him? That I had felt it so strong the very moment he passed behind me in the gallery. This need I had to be with him was undeniable and frightening in its intensity. The feeling I was the one to help him heal from his past was firm and unyielding. The want to be part of his future was overwhelming.
“Because you are.”
His finger trailed down my cheek. “You amaze me.”
I cupped his unscarred cheek, loving how he accepted my touch. I brought up my other hand and placed it on his rough, thickened skin, giving him the chance to tell me no. His eyes shut, a long gust of air escaping his lungs, and he relaxed into me. Keeping my touch light, I stroked his face, tracing over the scars and healthy skin at the same time, the contrasts between them so vast. They were much like his personality: the rough, angry side plainly visible to people; the softer side very few ever would experience. Both were a part of him—both equally beautiful and ugly.
His eyes fluttered open, the confusion and pain replaced by something else—something quieter and gentle. His arms tightened around me as he smiled. A genuine smile that made my chest ache with its beauty. His voice was rough when he spoke.
“I want to take you home now. I need to be with you.” He placed a long, warm kiss to my mouth. “Can I Megan? Will you let me have you, right now?”
“Yes,” I breathed. “Please.”
He swept me into his arms, calling for the dogs and striding toward the house. He didn’t look back to see if they were following. He knew they would.
We would all follow him if he asked.
My head rested on his chest, listening to his strong heartbeat as he carried me to where he wanted to take me.
Sadly, I wondered if we would ever get to the point where he would ask.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Laughi
ng, I covered my face and turned away from Zachary. “Stop it!”
His answering chuckle warmed my heart. “No, the light is perfect. Look at me, Megan. I just want a couple more pictures.”
Pivoting on the sand, I glared at him. “You’ve taken about a thousand of them. How many more could you possibly need?”
The constant click of the shutter made me roll my eyes and huff in exasperation. Zachary’s grin told me he wouldn’t be stopping soon.
He’d been at it all day. I woke up to him taking my picture. He snapped more while I was sipping my coffee, trying to wake up. While I read a book from his vast collection, the clicking happened. I was sure he’d stop while we were outside with the dogs, but I was wrong. Slamming my hands on my hips, I narrowed my eyes at him. “Enough!”
Four more snaps of the shutter and he lowered the camera. “You looked positively pissed off in the last one, sweetheart. Perfect.”
My heart thumped at his use of that endearment. I loved it when he called me sweetheart. I loved it when he said my name. I loved hearing him talk with his soft British lilt. His laugh made my chest expand with happiness knowing I had made him feel that way. A giggle broke through my lips as I realized how much I sounded like a love-struck teenager, and I covered my mouth to stifle the sound.
The shutter snapping again made me glower back at Zachary. He shrugged. “Sorry. You were too adorable right then not to capture it.” He stepped closer, letting the camera hang around his neck, as he tugged my hand away from my mouth. He kissed the palm, his mouth gentle on my skin. “Don’t cover up your laughter, Megan. It’s become one of my favorite sounds.”
“Oh?”
His broad hand cupped my cheek. “I love hearing it fill the house. I never realized how empty it was before you were there.”
My breath caught in my throat. The past two days we had spent in peaceful seclusion at his house. We’d been together almost every moment, other than his walks with Elliott or when he was hidden behind one of his canvases. I learned Zachary was a quiet man, surrounding himself with music and books when he wasn’t painting or playing with Elliott. The two of them would disappear into the woods each day for a couple of hours, emerging cold and windblown, both happy to find refuge by the warm fire. Elliott usually curled up with Dixie close to the fireplace, while a freshly showered Zachary sipped coffee, wearing one of his long-sleeved loose shirts and warm pants, close to me on the sofa. I enjoyed the quiet rhythm of their life, pleased Dixie and I were able to slip into it without disturbing the pattern they had.
The first evening I was there, he showed me his huge selection of movies, telling me to pick one to watch. As I was going through the shelves, I discovered several unopened board games shoved onto the bottom shelf—dust-covered and ignored. When I questioned him, he admitted to having bought them when he first moved here, thinking when people were visiting, if the weather was bad, they’d be a good way to pass the time. “I loved board games as a kid,” he told me pensively. My heart ached knowing the reason they were still unopened was there had been no visitors. I lifted both the Monopoly and Scrabble boxes up in my hands. “Your choice.”
We spent hours laughing at each other while we played and tracked scores on tiny sheets of paper. He was, as I discovered, very competitive. I enjoyed watching him strategize as he moved his boot around the board, or tried to make as many triple-word scores as possible. He beat me in every game other than Scrabble. He chuckled and shrugged, saying it was only fair the writer should win that game. He admitted to also loving chess; occasionally when Chris was at the house, they would play a game or two—but only when Chris came alone. At my quizzical look, he shrugged and admitted he and Karen didn’t get on very well. When I expressed my surprise, he also confessed to being rude to her the first day they met, when he ran into her in the forest.
“She surprised me,” he explained. “I thought it was Chris. I never expected to see her. She was looking for some leaves or something. I may have startled her with my…brusqueness.” He had the grace to look abashed while acknowledging he’d been aloof and stayed in the shadows. “The second time we met wasn’t much better,” he continued sheepishly. “I think we’ve avoided each other since. I don’t think we’ll ever be, ah, friends.”
“You don’t like surprises.”
“Not like that.”
“You’re deliberately rude at times,” I observed, trying to get him to open up.
“I’m aware.” His tone told me that was all he had to say on the matter.
“Not everyone will reject you because of your scars, Zachary. Some people look beyond the surface of a person to what’s inside.”
The disbelieving look and dismissive shrug of his shoulders let me know the subject was closed.
I didn’t push.
The way he was looking at me now, though, with a relaxed smile on his face, I hoped one day he would talk more freely and tell me so I wouldn’t have to push.
The wind picked up, his dark hair falling over his brow and into his eyes. Impatiently, he pushed his hand through it only to have it immediately fall back down. I laughed at his irritated expression.
“You need a haircut.”
“I know. Mr. Olson is still away. It always gets too long this time of year.”
“Mr. Olson?”
“He owns the barber shop in town. I, ah, always go to him. He…he knows me.”
“I could do it.”
“I don’t have any scissors that would work for cutting hair.”
“Karen does.”
“Yeah?”
I nodded. “She owns a salon. She has all the girly stuff here, including scissors.” I wiggled my bright toes in my flip flops—no bare feet today. “That’s where I got the polish.”
“Nice.”
“I’ll grab a pair and get some more food for Dixie, then I can trim it for you, if you like?”
He hesitated, frowning. Slowly, he lifted his hand to the right side of his head, his fingers trembling as he touched the scars. I stepped closer, wanting to reassure him. “You can show me where not to touch, Zachary. I won’t hurt you.”
His eyes searched mine, and I waited patiently. His scars were his biggest weakness and I still didn’t understand all the minefields that surrounded them. I had to let him lead me.
Finally he nodded. Pulling his hand down, I kissed his knuckles and smiled at him, almost euphoric at his trust.
“I’ll go get the scissors. You wash your hair—it’s easier to cut when it’s wet.”
His arms shot out, dragging me to him, his mouth crashing on mine. His kiss was deep and hard.
“I’ll be waiting.”
I felt the heat of his mouth on mine the entire time I was gone.
Zachary’s damp head gleamed in the light. I stood between his legs, hesitating. “Off the top and sides?”
“Mostly the top. I, um, like it longer on the side. You can trim the back a little.”
His request made sense, of course, because keeping the sides longer helped to cover the scars.
Taking a deep breath, I picked up the comb. “Does this hurt?” I wondered. “Combing your hair, I mean?”
His eyes were nervous as he looked at me. “It’s sensitive in places.”
“Show me.”
He raised a shaky hand, clasping mine with it, and running my fingers over the uneven patches of skin. “There,” he whispered.
Softly, I kissed the marred skin. “Okay,” I whispered into his ear. “Hold on to me.”
I ran my fingers over his scalp, letting him get used to my touch, ignoring his intake of air. His hands settled on my hips, their grasp tight. Carefully, I combed his hair through and started cutting. For a few minutes the only sound in the room was the snipping of scissors and Zachary’s uneven breaths. As I worked away, I hummed, hoping it might soothe him. Gradually, his breathing calmed and he relaxed, his hold on my hips loosening.
“Have you done this before?”
I smirked a little.
“Maybe you should have asked that earlier.”
“Maybe.”
“My friends and I cut each other’s hair when we were in college,” I chuckled. “It saved money and they never complained.” I paused to look and make sure both sides were even. “Of course, they had way more hair than you so let’s hope I get it right. Otherwise, you may not need another visit to Mr. Olsen until next year.” I winked at him. “Karen cuts mine, and she showed me the basics. I think we’ll be okay.”
He buried his hand in my hair, tugging on the strands. “You have beautiful hair, Megan. I love how it feels in my hands.”
My cheeks warmed at his sweet words.
He tugged again, bringing my face close to his, kissing me warmly. “I like doing that,” he murmured, releasing my hair.
“Making me blush?”
“Yes.”
“Why?” I asked, continuing to cut away, ignoring the increasing tempo of my heart.
“It’s an honest response. It tells me I’ve either pleased or embarrassed you.”
“I also blush when I’m angry,” I challenged with a grin. “So how can you tell I’m not just angry all the time?”
“It’s different.”
I set down the scissors and ran my fingers through his hair. “Different?”
“When you’re angry, you get…well, red. Instantly flushed. When you’re embarrassed or pleased the color is like a flower on your cheeks…it spreads out—pink and soft.”
I stared at him, my insides beginning to quiver, my breathing picking up. “You notice things like that?”
He nodded, tilting his head back. His eyes caught the light, swirls of blue and green staring at me. “You blush when aroused, too, Megan.” His hands began sweeping the backs of my legs, sliding higher with every pass, the heat of his fingers burning through the thin material of my yoga pants. “I do?” I sputtered, clinging to his shoulders, feeling the coiled muscles contract.
His voice became low and husky. “Yeah, you do, but it’s different. It starts on your chest and blooms up to your face, deepening the more turned on you get.” He paused, the tip of his tongue peeking out and teasing his bottom lip. “Sort of like what is happening”—he tugged me closer—“right now.”
Beneath the Scars Page 10
