At First Touch (The Malone Brothers)

by Miles, Cindy

  “Oh, my God, I love this song!” she squealed, and followed his every lead.

  When he dropped her hand and they freestyle danced, she didn’t miss a beat. Reagan swung her hips, fully trusting that Eric wouldn’t go too far and leave her. He wouldn’t. Soon the song wound down, and he grabbed her hand and led her to the pier’s railing. Both were winded, and they gulped in the late-August air.

  But when the band’s music shifted to another request—this one a mournful blues song—Eric couldn’t help but grasp Reagan’s hand, pull her away from the rail, and tuck her head against his chest and hold her tight for a slow dance.

  “The dog days of summer,” Reagan said quietly.

  “What about them?” he asked.

  “I remember my dad talking about them,” she answered. “I always thought it was, I don’t know...something magical. Mystical. Unexplained.”

  “Perfect?” he said, close to her ear.

  “Yeah,” she replied, and lifted her face for a kiss, and he grazed her lips with his. She felt right. She fit right. And he never saw any of it coming.

  “All right,” he said, kissing her nose and guiding her down the pier.

  “Where to now?” she asked, leaning into him.

  “You’ll see,” he said.

  Within minutes they’d walked to the end of the pier, then back down the boardwalk to the small carnival that had been coming to Cassabaw for years. The tinny music played, and Eric stopped.

  “Tell me what you hear, what you smell,” he asked, and watched the expression on her face change from a mere smile to one of concentration. Her nostrils flared a little as she sniffed the air, and the smile then grew.

  “Carnival? I can smell the cotton candy,” she said proudly.

  “Exactamundo,” he confirmed.

  “Who are you, the Fonz?” Reagan laughed. “I think I remember watching re-runs of the re-runs at your house when we were kids.”

  “Yes, we did, and yes, I am.” He laughed with her, and together they walked to the small carnival. “This is the last week it’s here, you know,” he told her. “They’ll pack it up for the winter and be back in May.”

  “Kinda sad,” she said. “I’m glad we came, then.”

  “Me, too,” Eric said, and led them to the Ferris wheel. The line wasn’t too long, and while they waited he turned Reagan around, pulled her against him and wrapped his arms around her, resting his chin on the top of her head.

  And she seemed to fit just right there, too.

  Soon they were in their bucket, the bar pulled down, and Reagan was tucked in close to him. They rose slowly, and when they reached the top, the wheel paused, and their bucket swung just a little, and Eric described what he saw.

  “Rea, the night is amazing,” he started. “We’re teetering up here at the top of the wheel. The sky is blue-black with five thousand stars blinking. The moon looks like a slice of ghost pie, hanging over the water. I can see small whitecaps breaking as the waves roll onto the sand. Over at the pier, the band is playing, and several people are dancing.”

  She sighed and snuggled closer. “I see it, Eric,” she said softly. “In my head, I see it just as you describe, as if it’s already sketched.”

  Eric kissed her forehead. “Good,” he said against her skin. “Now for the surprise.”

  Reagan pulled back. “I thought this was the surprise.”

  Eric laughed. “No, silly woman. This is.” He cleared his throat and began the opening lyrics to Redbone’s “Come and Get Your Love,” and Reagan burst out laughing, then joined him when the chorus came up. Their voices rang out over the night, and Eric thought he heard a few more Ferris wheel riders singing along, too. When they finished, a round of applause greeted them, and they laughed and took a bow.

  Later, he pulled up to Reagan’s house, and at the door, Reagan lifted her hand and traced Eric’s jaw with her fingertips. “I have a surprise for you,” she said, then wiggled her brows.

  He grinned, and her fingers moved over his lips, and the small movement nearly buckled his damn knees. “Is that so,” he said, and thanked God he hadn’t squeaked.

  “Yeah, but it doesn’t involve naked, so remove that from your brain.”

  “Damn.”

  Reagan giggled and slipped her hand into his. “Okay, follow me.”

  Eric did, and with Reagan leading they made their way through the house, out to the screened-in back veranda, where she turned to him. “Sit, just over there, and keep your eyes closed.

  “Roger that.” They were in her gallery, and she was about to show him her painting.

  “Open your eyes.”

  Eric did, and focused on the painting Reagan had revealed from beneath the white sheet covering the canvas. He blinked. He slowly rose. He drew closer.

  “My God, Reagan,” he said quietly. “It’s...me. That day at the maritime rescue, when we were outside eating.” He drew closer, inspecting her work, and it blew his mind. The shadow figure was sitting, legs pulled up and wide, forearms resting on his knees, looking out over the marsh and river. The live oaks around them dripped with moss. The painting had perfectly blended shades of gray, green, blue and sunshine. He could barely believe it.

  “It’s perfect,” he said. “I can’t stop staring at it.”

  “It’s for you,” she said, and he could clearly hear the relief and pride in her voice. “Without you, and your constant prodding to make me get out of my funk and live life? I wouldn’t have ever thought to attempt painting again.” She smiled. “I feel it, in here,” she said, placing her hand over her heart. “And I can see things perfectly in here.” She tapped her temple. She shrugged. “All thanks to you, Eric Malone.”

  He reached for her, pulled her against him and cupped her face with his hands. “I wish you could see me looking at you right now,” he said quietly.

  “What do you see?” she asked. “Close your eyes and tell me what you see.”

  Eric lowered his lashes and let his hands raise to her brows, where he traced each one with a thumb. “Perfect brows—two, thank God,” he said, mimicking her words back to her. With his forefinger he traced her ear, her lobe. “Little pixie ears, although not pointed.”

  “Hmm,” she said. “Go on.”

  Eric let his fingers gently graze her eyes, one by one, brushing her lashes. “Big eyes, long thick lashes.” He moved to her lips, let his thumb softly scrape them, tugging one slightly open, and he lowered his head, brushed his lips over hers and kissed her deeply. “I could kiss these all day,” he muttered against her, then opened his eyes. Hers were closed, her lips wet from their kiss, and she leaned into him, sliding her hand down his arm and grasping his hand. Tugging on him. Leading him from the gallery. He followed.

  Through the darkened river house, Eric walked behind Reagan as she let her hand drag against the walls, feeling her way through the shadows. At a doorway down the hall, she stopped, dead still, and her head lowered as if looking at the floor. She breathed, a little heavier now.

  “Eric,” she said quietly, her fingers tightening around his.

  He didn’t give her another second to question things. Or him. Or what he might want or not want. He’d wanted this for a while, but also wanted to give Reagan her space. Not rush things. Jesus, it hadn’t been easy, but he wanted things right with Reagan. This was right.

  “Shh,” he said, turning her, kissing her lightly. “Or I’ll start singing again.”

  A slow smile pulled at her mouth. “We wouldn’t want that, would we?” she whispered.

  Then led him into her room and closed the door.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  ERIC’S VOICE, SO familiar now, so comforting, washed over Reagan, but still she trembled. She wasn’t a virgin, but it had been a while. And she wasn’t all that experienced to begin with. P
lus, the accident had happened. Every single thing in her life was different now, like starting over. With everything.

  She was nervous.

  Eric threaded his fingers through hers and pulled her to him. He lifted her hands, draped them over his neck, and he grazed her mouth with his, slowly, carefully, as though making sure he didn’t leave anything untouched.

  Reagan relaxed a little and let her hands and fingertips explore Eric. Through his shirt she felt his solid strength and cut of muscle. Not overwhelming, but that natural kind of muscle that came with hard physical work. Her fingers moved over his back as their mouths melded, and she felt the cords stretch and tighten with his movements. Then she pulled back, pushed his shirt up, and Eric yanked it over his head.

  Eric’s kiss became hungrier, and hers matched his as he pushed her sweater off and tossed it to the floor. Reagan’s fingers fumbled with the buttons on his jeans, and Eric took over, all the while tasting her mouth as though he hadn’t had a meal in days.

  Somehow their clothes ended up thrown all over the floor, she supposed, and Eric scooped Reagan up in his arms and laid her on the bed, following her down. She still had on her bra and panties, and he a pair of snug boxer briefs, and he leaned over her, not kissing her, being quiet.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked hesitantly.

  “I’m just making sure this stays in my memory,” he said quietly. “God, Reagan, you’re beautiful.”

  With Eric, she felt it, too.

  Then she reached for his hands, and she guided them to the front snap of her bra, and he released her breasts and again, he was dead silent until she moved his hands over her skin. The groan that escaped his throat was raw, male and unintentional, and he fell against her, claiming her mouth once more, but still keeping his weight braced off her with one arm.

  Then she took his free hand and moved it to her hips, and he pushed her panties down, and she slid them off her feet, and at some point he lost his boxers because when he gathered her in his arms again, nothing was between them except their warm, flushed skin. His hands moved all over her, her jaw, pushed through her hair, held her head just so to kiss her deeply. When he moved over her, she instinctively wrapped her legs around his waist and pulled him to her, inside her, and they both gasped and started an age-old rhythm that seemed as natural as breathing. With his arms completely wrapped around her body, Eric moved faster, and Reagan’s breath caught as she climaxed. Eric’s mouth captured hers, and as they both slowed, his kisses grew less hungry and more gentle, and he tucked her beside him, face-to-face. One hand on her hip, holding her close. He kissed her again.

  “Does this mean I get to call you my girl now?” he asked, and his voice was husky, sexy.

  “Only if you sing it when you say it,” Reagan teased. She reached with her hand, tracing her knuckles against the scruff of his jaw.

  “Don’t tempt me to sing, now,” he warned. “You know I will.” He kissed her again.

  “I like it when you sing,” she announced. “The old songs you know crack me up.”

  He chuckled. “You know them, too, since you seem to jump right in and sing along. Might mean you’re just as corny as me, don’t you think?”

  Reagan ran the pads of her fingers over his lips—full, soft, but firm. She loved the way he kissed her. “Yeah, I’m thinking that. Definitely corny.”

  They talked for some time after that, and laughed, then dressed and made pancakes in the kitchen and washed them down with giant glasses of chocolate milk.

  “When you say the painting is for me, does that mean I get to take it with me?” Eric suddenly asked.

  Reagan smiled wide. “Of course. It’s all yours.”

  “Sweet. I’ll just run and get it from the gallery.”

  His footfalls ran and were back in a few moments. “Reagan, I’m not kidding when I say this is absolutely mind-blowing. I love it. Thank you.”

  Reagan felt the blush rise onto her cheeks. “You’re welcome.”

  “And you are so damned cute when you blush,” he noted.

  She blushed even harder.

  It was late—after 2:00 a.m. by the time they were finished—and Reagan walked Eric to the front door, where he braced an arm over her, held her jaw gently with one hand and kissed her breathless.

  “You know I’d just stay all night if I could,” he said between tasting the corner of her mouth and sucking her bottom lip. “But I have to be at the station by six.”

  Reagan smiled and kissed him playfully back. “You’re scared of my sister.”

  “And I’m scared of your sister,” he admitted. “Where is she, by the way?”

  “She and your brother are spending the weekend at Caper’s Inlet,” Reagan said. “Very romantic tryst, so she claims.”

  “So you’ll be home. All alone. All weekend?” He kissed her throat.

  Reagan giggled. “I will be.”

  His hands went to her waist, and his fingers dug into her ribs. “That is very interesting.”

  Reagan laughed and squirmed at his tickling, but calmed right back down and tried to keep her knees from buckling when his playful kiss turned deep, sexy. Finally, Eric pushed away.

  “You’re killing me, girl,” he said, and gave her one last kiss on the forehead, and walked out onto the veranda. She heard him pause. “If you need anything, call me.”

  “I will,” she agreed.

  “Night,” he said.

  “Night back,” she returned.

  Eric’s footfalls jogged down the steps and crunched across the yard.

  Just before he started the lyrics to the Temptations’ “My Girl.”

  Reagan just stood there listening to his voice, slightly off-key but not too bad, and smiled. Soon, the night swallowed his voice, replaced by the creatures of the marsh, and after a moment she closed the door, locked the bolt and went to bed.

  As she lay there, Eric’s scent rose from the pillow beside her, and still smiling, she turned into it and inhaled deeply.

  Never, ever would she have thought things would end up this way.

  God, she was glad.

  Despite the loss of her sight, Reagan could say for the first time since the accident that everything seemed perfectly right in her life.

  Soon, she drifted off to sleep.

  * * *

  AFTER THAT NIGHT, everything in Reagan’s life seemed to just work. She was painting every day, for one, and although she couldn’t see the finished product well, it was crystal clear in her mind and somehow, the two worlds melded and they turned out exactly as she would want them to. She’d started a new project, and it was a couple sitting high at the top of a Ferris wheel, looking out over the boardwalk and pier and ocean, and again, Eric was in complete awe. It helped build such confidence in her, to be able to manage her painting again. Once she’d lost her sight, she just knew her painting days were over. Thanks to Eric, how very wrong she’d been.

  They left the dog days of summer behind, and despite the still-warm temperatures, fall was in the air. Rather, the spirit. And since Emily’s and Matt’s wedding was just around the corner in October, preparations were in full swing. Emily had kept it quite simple, though, and she’d done most of the planning and decorating ideas herself. She’d wanted vintage, and that’s just what she was going for. God, how she wished she were able to see her sister on her wedding day. Reagan knew it’d be the absolute most beautiful day of all.

  And of course, Eric Malone could not be more perfect. For her, anyway. They grew closer each day, and when he wasn’t at the station, they were together more times than not. They walked the beach. They went crabbing in the creek. At least once a week they’d hit Jasper’s Old Time Creamery. Sometimes they’d lie out on the floating dock, and Eric would read to her, books he’d pull from Jep’s library. Presently, they were on Treasure
Island, and Eric being Eric, he didn’t merely sit and read. He had to stand up, read and become each character with a different voice. She often wondered how he had the patience for it. She encouraged him, though, to do the typical guy stuff, and he did. Usually, there was a football game to be played, and he’d go, or offshore fishing. She and Emily would do sister things, like shopping or wedding planning. Recently they’d all gone to a karaoke bar and Eric and a few of his Coast Guard buddies got up and did their group rendition of Graham Blvd’s “Hooked on a Feeling,” and Reagan had never had so much fun in her life. She and Eric just clicked. They really enjoyed each other’s company. She’d worried they’d be in and out of a cupcake phase, where the relationship was all new and fresh and fluffy and wonderfully sweet—just before tanking into something humdrum and boring and not as fun. But Eric and his fiancée ended their relationship because he’d wanted to move back home. What if she got the urge to move from Cassabaw one day? Right now, that wasn’t the plan. But it was obvious Eric was a homeboy, and wanted to make permanent roots on the island. He was different from most guys, she figured. He enjoyed life. Really enjoyed it. His engine ran top fuel and full tank 24/7, and she could tell he truly liked being with her.

  And when he kissed her? Touched her? It was all she could do not to fall apart. He made her feel alive. Made her feel beautiful. As though she weren’t blind at all. And more than that, Reagan trusted him. Wholeheartedly. And for her, that was saying something. Something big.

  Neither had said the L-word, which was okay, because this was not a relationship she wanted to rush. There was no need to, it seemed. Life would take them, and they would find their way. The journey was something Reagan was looking forward to.

  And Emily was completely over the moon over the whole idea of her and Eric together. Over. The. Moon. So were all the Malones, actually.

  And so was Reagan.

  Perfect. Everything was, simply put, perfect. And that was the problem.

  Nothing was ever perfect.

  She was secretly waiting for the inevitable bomb to drop. She could almost feel it. Things didn’t work out so smoothly. Never. Only in Hollywood, and they were most certainly not in some movie. This was real life, and in real life, problems arose. Sometimes, blindly, and out of absolute nowhere.