Only You

by Addison Fox

  “That it was. My George loved his cars, too. That’s how we ended up here all those years ago.”

  “What did he do?”

  “He was a mechanic in town and lived for the events at the track.”

  “Is that how you met Fender?”

  The cup headed toward Lady B.’s lips stilled before she set it down on the small end table next to her chair. “Fender didn’t tell you?”

  Tell her? What was there to tell? “No, I guess not.”

  “My grandson, Andrew, was raised here, upstate, but headed for the city the first chance he got. Did quite well, too. He was a stock-exchange trader, and we were so proud of how he succeeded.”

  Harlow heard the past tense and registered the subtle shift in tone.

  “What happened?”

  “Unfortunate choices.” Lady B.’s gaze drifted toward her cup, growing distant as the past engulfed the present. “Andy had too much to drink after work and chose to drive home to his flat in Brooklyn. Your Fender was the first on the scene. He did his best and pulled Andy out of the car, but we lost him in the hospital a few days later.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “Your Fender was quite heroic. He pulled our Andy to safety but suffered a back injury and ended up in the hospital, too. We met him when we came down to the city.”

  Harlow took it in but struggled to fully understand it all. Why wouldn’t Fender have said anything? And why would Lady B. want to be reminded of such a sad time?

  “It’s so kind of you to welcome Fender to your home, but doesn’t it make you sad? To remember Andy’s death?”

  “Fender and my George struck up a conversation in the hospital. Fender kept George’s mind occupied in those dark days, and they struck up a friendship. George invited him up the following year for the race, and we’ve had him up ever since.

  “Nothing can replace my grandson, but I’m grateful for the joy that came into our life. It would have been easy to equate Fender with our loss, and I’m so glad we didn’t. I’m so glad George insisted we look beyond the obvious and accept the gift we’d been given.”

  The teasing Harlow had pushed earlier—that Fender collected women—was only half true, she realized.

  Fender collected people. Collected them and effortlessly brought them into his world.

  Just as she’d realized on the drive up, he did know himself.

  He also knew right and wrong. He knew what it meant to be a good man. And he knew what it meant to treat others with kindness and compassion.

  Now she could only hope he would come to understand just how much she loved him.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Fender felt no better about abandoning Harlow at the B and B three hours later than he did when he’d left. He’d caught up with some friends at the track and visited the crew who had him on call, but other than shooting the shit and making wagers on who they thought had the edge this year, he got no solace roaming the pits.

  Once again, he’d let the bullshit in his head mess with the moment. Harlow deserved better.

  Hell, he was self-evolved enough to know that he deserved better.

  What he wasn’t self-evolved enough to worry about was that he’d missed afternoon tea. He glanced at the dash clock as he pulled into the small gravel parking lot of the B and B and was oddly relieved to see it was quarter to five. Something about the idea of sitting there with a small teacup and afternoon conversation gave him hives.

  He got out of the car and went up the back steps to the second floor. He’d been a small boy once and had learned that you never exposed yourself to a drubbing if you could help it. That was the beauty of back stairs in the first place. The ones in his mother’s brownstone had been well-used by him, Nick, and Landon, and he saw no reason not to put that hard-won knowledge to good use.

  He’d take his medicine soon enough, when he spoke with Harlow.

  The hallway was quiet and he tried to open their room door, surprised to find it locked. Maybe teatime was still going on. He dug out his key and let himself in, and it was only then that he saw the dim light coming from the bathroom.

  “Harlow?”

  “Back here. Come on in.”

  Although he wasn’t particularly squeamish, he wasn’t exactly ready to barge in on her in the bathroom.

  “Fender?”

  “Sorry. Coming.”

  Mama Lou—whether because she was not their biological mother, the age which he and his brothers had been adopted, or personal modesty—had never roamed around the house without covering up. He also didn’t have sisters. And while he’d hardly put Harlow in the category of either relative, he was oddly reluctant to head to the bathroom.

  Which made the enticingly long legs—crossed at the ankle and propped up on the edge of the bathtub—that much more of a surprise when he walked through the doorway.

  Something hard and sharp lodged like a boulder in his throat as his gaze followed the lines of her body, over the flat stomach, generous breasts and slim shoulders until he saw her face.

  That heartbreaking face.

  A small, lopsided smile edged one corner of her mouth, and he could have died a happy man right there.

  But it was the warm welcome in the depths of her eyes that had him moving forward.

  “Good day?”

  “Not really.” He curled his fingers into his palm, the raging desire to touch her nearly overwhelming him. His good sense. And his ability to form a coherent thought.

  Woman.

  Naked woman.

  Wet naked woman.

  The thoughts were a jumbled blur, set off by that knowing smile.

  “Why not?”

  “Because once again, I managed to act the raging ass to you, and there wasn’t any reason for it. None at all.”

  One lone eyebrow lifted over that fathomless, liquid blue. “It took you all afternoon to come to that conclusion?”

  “I actually figured it out before I hit the end of the driveway. But . . . Well . . . You know—” He lifted his shoulders. “Asshole by birth. Asshole to the death.”

  “You think that’s a reason?”

  “It’s a reason. Just not a very good one.”

  “So what are we going to do about it? Especially because I’m sitting here warm and naked and would really rather share this oversized bathtub with you instead of fighting or feeling resentful.”

  Like a spear of lightening to the brain, the word naked seemed to electrify him. Despite having stared at her, likely gape-mouthed, for the past few minutes, her acknowledgement of her nudity sent his body into overdrive. Something sharp and needy clawed at his system, raking over his nerves and setting each one buzzing.

  God, how he wanted this woman. It was like the deepest hunger and the richest feast lived side by side, battling for the same moment. With her he was desperate and achy and complete and just fucking right.

  Everything. All of it. Even when he was doing his level best to ruin it all.

  “Maybe you can believe me when I tell you I’m going to do my very best not to be an unmitigated ass?”

  Her other eyebrow joined the first one. “Only an unmitigated one?”

  “For starters.”

  “You want to tell me why you were?”

  He absolutely did not want to tell her why, but Fender knew he owed it to her. Not because she was naked. And not because telling her would get him laid.

  But because she deserved to know.

  “It was the room. The view. The bed. Hell . . .” He scrubbed a hand over his head, moving on to wrap his palm against the back of his neck. “All of it. I walked in and it was like some freaking seduction scene in here. All it needed was a bearskin rug and a roaring fire, and I might as well have dug up a little Tom Jones to play on my phone.”

  “But why did it bother you?”

  “We’ve been going out for a few weeks. It seemed like overkill.”

  Harlow’s gaze skated round the elegantly appointed bathroom. “I won’t argue with
you there. Things have moved awfully fast. But we are sleeping together.”

  “Sure. Yeah. I mean—”

  “And I did want to spend the weekend with you.”

  He shoved his hands in his pockets. He was as much at fault—likely more—for the entire debacle. He didn’t have to invite her. It would have been easy enough to make an excuse about a commitment to a crew for the duration of race weekend and how busy he was going to be and leave it at that.

  But he hadn’t. Instead, he’d jumped at the chance to spend the weekend with her, then balked when the reality of that leapt up and smacked him in the face.

  “I can leave if you’d like.”

  “No!” He moved closer to the tub. “I don’t want that. I don’t want you to leave at all.”

  “Then what do you want?”

  “You.” He scrubbed that hand over his hair again, tugging at the ends as he tried to explain what he meant. “I’m glad you’re here. I wanted you here. I do want you here. I know I made a mess of it, but I want you here.”

  “Then I’m glad I’m here.”

  How was it possible this had found him now? He’d been rolling along, doing well enough. Was happy enough. He liked his life fine and had done a damn fine job of figuring it all out. He had a business. A great relationship with his family. He dated from time to time, enough so that he didn’t get frustrated with his own company.

  And then like a bomb, she exploded in the middle of his path, destroying everything he’d come to know with an effortless flick of her wrist.

  He wanted to be mad about it. Was mad on some level, but couldn’t manage to hold the thought for any length of time.

  “Why us?”

  The words were out, in tempo with his thoughts yet something he’d not wanted to ask.

  Or, more to the point, hadn’t wanted to face.

  “I have no idea.”

  Where he might have expected questions or even a bit of coy disbelief, her response was vintage Harlow.

  No bullshit.

  “That’s comforting,” he said. “I think.”

  “I don’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “I didn’t go looking for you, Fender. And I certainly didn’t go looking for us. But here we are. We can either embrace it, or I can go hop that bus I looked up on my phone when I managed to score some shitty cell service. I still have about an hour before it leaves.”

  “Do you want to leave?”

  “No, you raging idiot.” She got up then, water sloshing over the tub as she stood to her full height. “I don’t want to leave! I sat here all fucking day while you lived in your damn head, sucking it up precisely because I don’t want to leave. You get me?”

  “Yeah. I do.” He dipped his eyes to the floor because it seemed obscene somehow to watch those rivulets of water trickle down her body. Especially because he wanted to touch them and lick away each and every drop.

  Which he couldn’t do when she was raging at him, mad and frustrated and likely wishing she could hit him upside the head.

  “So what are we going to do about it?”

  He kept his gaze averted. “I don’t know.”

  “You can start by looking at me.”

  “Actually, I really can’t.”

  For the first time, the sheer absurdity of their discussion hit him, and he began to laugh. It was wrong and likely was going to get him kicked out of the room, but he couldn’t help it.

  Had he ever met anyone like her? Here she was, naked as the day she was born and driving him crazy, and all he wanted to do was scoop her up and bury his face in her neck and laugh. He wanted it nearly as much as he wanted to get naked and brand her with every inch of his body.

  Which was yet another sign he’d gone well and truly off the deep end.

  A smart man would call it love. Fender knew it was that and more.

  He might be in love with her, but he was also well and truly fucked. And he didn’t have a single clue what to do about it.

  So he kept on laughing.

  * * *

  Harlow stood there, the cool air from the air conditioner swirling over her wet body and doing precious little to cool the anger and frustration that coursed through her. She’d sat here all damn day, thinking about what she was supposed to do about the raging heartache she had for Fender Blackstone, and now the infernal man was here, laughing at her.

  Laughing at her while she stood there naked and wet.

  The seduction scene she’d imagined in her mind had devolved into a comedy routine, and all she wanted now was a robe and a pint of ice cream.

  At that moment, his laughter got the better of him, and he bent over at the waist, great belly laughs wracking his body.

  Make that a gallon of ice cream.

  She lifted one leg over the edge of the enormous tub, doing her level best not to add insult to injury by falling, and nearly had it when she felt her entire world upended. Fender had her in his arms, his chest still shaking with laughter, as he hauled her toward the bedroom.

  “What are you—” The question was cut off by his smiling mouth, his tongue doing some quick, clever work even as his chest still shook with humor.

  She wanted to claw at him and hit him, but the heat that shot through her like the biggest firework in the grand finale on the Fourth of July had her kissing him back. Besides, struggling like a wet fish might cause him to drop her, and she’d hate to get a concussion.

  Yeah, right, Reynolds. That’s exactly what’s keeping you in his arms and kissing him back like you haven’t seen him for a year instead of an afternoon.

  Needs must, she reflected before ignoring the endlessly swirling thoughts and focusing on the strong arms that were lowering her to the bed.

  “I’m all wet.”

  “So?”

  “So someone has to clean up after us.”

  Fender settled on top of her, absorbing some of the moisture with his clothes. “Don’t worry. It’s about to get a lot hotter in here. The water will dry.”

  Before she could argue or point out they were getting the bedclothes wet, he shifted his position, rolling onto his back and dragging her on top of him. “Is that better?”

  “No it’s—” She was sprawled on top of him like an ungainly trout, and every time she tried to wiggle and get upright, he shifted again, keeping her off balance. “What are you doing?”

  “Drying you off.”

  “With what?”

  “Whatever’s handy.”

  It was the strangest conversation she’d ever had, adding to the oddest sexual experience she’d ever had.

  “Like your T-shirt?”

  “Sure.” He stopped moving, then sat up, juggling her sideways into his lap. “Which is now all wet.”

  Before she could stop him, the shirt was up and off his body, landing on the floor. “That’s better, and you’re a lot drier.”

  “I’m still—” Again, his mouth was on hers, and her protests were lost to him.

  Deciding talk was overrated anyway, Harlow settled her hands on his shoulders, one point of stability in a physical world that kept changing. The firm play of muscles beneath her palms kept her focused, and she used her fingertips to trace the lines of muscle that covered his shoulders before she moved her hands lower and tightened her hold on his biceps.

  And, oh goodness, did the man have an impressive physique. His shoulders were firm, well-honed from years of working on cars. His stomach was equally toned, the muscles of his chest descending into thickly corded ropes that lined up along the width of his midsection. She continued her exploration, running her fingers over those tightly packed muscles, their inherent strength a testament to hard work and focus.

  He caught her lips once more in a kiss, his tongue sweeping between her teeth to take mastery over her mouth. She allowed it for a moment before subtly shifting the power between them, sucking against that delightful intrusion.

  That wicked smile returned against her lips before he pulled back from the kiss a
nd stared at her.

  “Temptress.”

  “Tempter.”

  “Right back at ya.”

  She lifted one of her hands to his face, the light scratch of his whiskers tickling her palm. “Make love to me.”

  The dark green that had shifted through emotion after emotion grew darker with need, drawing her in as deeply as the caress of his fingers or the stroke of his tongue. The way he looked at her—more, the way he saw her—was heady in the extreme, and she felt the last, lingering vestiges of the day’s frustration vanish.

  Things were new. They were trying to figure each other out. And every time either of them had more than a few minutes to think, they managed to mess things up.

  It was time to take what was between them. The power of the passion that neither of them seemed able to dismiss or deny. Harlow gave herself up to that power, unwilling to think any longer.

  Desiring only to feel.

  He shifted her off his lap so that she lay on her back beside him. Once she was settled, he stood, toeing off his work boots, then dragging off his jeans and boxer briefs. The effect was even more intoxicating, and Harlow felt her own gaze heat as she stared at his naked body.

  The gorgeous lines of muscles she’d traced over his shoulders and on down his stomach remained as powerful as her gaze drifted lower. The thin line of chest hair that traveled down the flat planes of his abdomen gave way to a more interesting thatch of hair and the long, firm thickness of his erection.

  His body beguiled, for its strength and beauty as well as the amazing feelings he could draw from her, and she reveled in all of it.

  Anticipated it.

  And with a determination born of several hours of thinking that afternoon, she decided to take firm hold—literally and figuratively—of her advantage.

  He settled in beside her and she placed her hands on his body once again, tracing that enticing line of hair. His stomach muscles contracted beneath her touch, and she nearly laughed herself. Whatever irrational mess they both made of their emotions, the time they spent in each other’s arms was anything but a mess.

  It was perfect.

  With that in mind, her fingers drifted lower, taking his full length into her hand. The heavy groan and hard exhale that whistled against her forehead indicated she’d gotten the situation just right, and with that knowledge, Harlow refused to give up the delights of the moment. Shifting, she used the remaining slickness on her skin to slide down his body, trailing kisses across the thick muscles of his chest and on to his stomach. She stopped briefly to roll her tongue over the edges of his belly button before blowing a cool stream of air on his skin. She kept up the enticing exploration, the lightly salty taste of his skin blending with the musky scent of their lovemaking.