Burn (L.A. Untamed #2)

by Ruth Clampett

  “You know how to use this?” he asks.

  I shrug. “I watched a YouTube video.”

  He purses his lips as he looks down at my flip-flops. “Don’t stick your feet too close when you’re working. It’ll cut off your toes.”

  I make a face at him but he remains serious and that unnerves me.

  “I’ll wear my steel-toe boots just in case,” I say.

  He nods with no reaction like every woman he knows has a pair of steel-toe work boots.

  Okay then. Maybe I better watch those YouTube videos a few more times. But seriously, it’s about the size of a lawn mower. How hard can it be?

  Sometimes I get off on doing hard stuff that prissy women wouldn’t even consider. Believe me when the zombie apocalypse comes I’ll still be standing long after those high-heeled gals are down for the count.

  But today for all my bravado I have to admit this might be a bit much. When I get the rototiller fired up and grab those handles and squeeze, the thing starts shaking me like a maraca. Holy hell. It takes all my strength just to keep the thing on my intended path, and my arms feel like jelly after one pass across the yard. I shut the thing off, brush my hair off my sweaty forehead, and then turn the monster to do another row. I get it going again and I’m a few feet in when I see something out of the corner of my eye.

  I pause and look over to see Joe standing near the porch with his hands jammed in his pockets, looking even more handsome than I remember him. He watches me for a moment and then pushes his sunglasses up on top of this head.

  After turning the monster off, I stand with a blank expression waiting to hear what Mr. Murphy has to say for himself. Part of me wants to show him how happy I am that he’s here . . . the other part of me that’s mad for being ignored, not so much.

  “Looks like you’ve got a wildcat by the tail,” he says, one corner of his mouth turned up and a bemused look in his eyes.

  “Yeah? I can handle it,” I say, narrowing my eyes at him.

  “I’m sure you can.”

  I wait a few seconds but he doesn’t say anything else and it irritates me, so I lean over to turn the monster back on. I’m not going to make conversation when he’s the one who showed up here. He’s going to have to work a lot harder than this.

  I’m about to start rototilling the next row when he calls out, “Hey, can you take a break for a minute so we can talk?”

  “I suppose.” I wipe my sweaty hands on my jeans as I slowly walk over to him. “What’s up?”

  “I saw the ‘coming soon’ sign in your front yard. What’s that about?”

  “I told you I was selling the house. I have an agent and it’s going on the market as soon as this damn yard is done.”

  He nods and turns his head so that his gaze scans the property. He points at the rototiller. “Need help?”

  “No.”

  His eyebrows knit together. I don’t think he was expecting a flat-out rejection.

  “Anything else? I’m going to get back to work.”

  He shifts from one foot to the other. “I was thinking . . . well, I was hoping that you could come with me to get something to eat.”

  I glance down at my watch. “It’s four o’clock. Eat what?”

  He seems flustered. “What ever you want. I thought we could talk.”

  “So does this mean you’re done avoiding me, or is this get-together an exception?”

  “Please, Trisha . . .” he says.

  I bite my bottom lip and look over at the sharp-toothed rototill monster then back at Joe. “Well I could be persuaded to go for a hot fudge sundae. But you’d have to wait for me to jump in the shower. I can’t go in this state.” I brush some loose dirt off my arm. “I look like Pig Pen from the Peanuts cartoons.”

  He smiles and it takes my breath away. I’d almost forgotten how my insides spark when this man smiles. “Sure, I’ll wait.”

  I make showering a quick business, and while I dry myself off something occurs to me. Maybe it’d be okay if I were a little bit nice. I grin as I pull on my blue sleeveless sundress instead of my new jeans. He manned up and came by here to talk, I’ll woman up a bit to show my appreciation.

  When I step onto the front porch his gaze softens.

  “You’re wearing a dress.”

  I swish the skirt around my legs. “I know. Awesome, right?”

  He nods with a concerned expression. “But this isn’t a date.”

  I pretend pout. “No? I thought it was.”

  He looks gobsmacked. “I mean it could be a date, but I was thinking it’d be good to just talk.”

  I want to keep things light so I push him in the shoulder. “I’m teasing you. As long as I get my hot fudge sundae I’m fine with just talking.”

  About fifteen minutes later we’re at a table at Bob’s Big Boy in Toluca Lake. It’s totally retro cool with a drive-in set-up and a massive fiberglass Big Boy sculpted figure in front of the restaurant with his hand up in a wave to passers-by.

  The Warner Bros. Studio is just down the street and so you might expect a studio crowd, but these are regular folk like us tucked into the booths surrounding where we sit.

  “Are the sundae’s good here?” he asks after I’ve ordered the most elaborate one on the menu.

  I shrug. “I don’t know. I guess we’ll find out.”

  I don’t eat hot fudge sundaes often but today I’m feeling like I’ve earned one.

  He orders coffee.

  We talk about goings on at the station while we wait for our order, and once the mountain of ice cream, fudge sauce, bananas, whipped cream, and what-not arrives, he’s amused as I tackle it with my long silver spoon.

  “Hungry?” he asks.

  “Have you ever rototilled? It was a workout just getting that thing unloaded from my car, let alone wrangling the damn thing.”

  He arches his brow. “I offered to help. You turned me down.”

  “Hmmm, I wasn’t sure your offer was earnest.”

  He casts his gaze down to the printed placemat. “I guess I deserve that.”

  We remain quiet while I take several bites of my sundae. He watches as I methodically dip my spoon in the pool of fudge sauce, scoop up some ice cream and then drag the spoonful through the whipped cream and nuts. In between each bite I lick the spoon clean. He’s observing me intently and I can’t read why.

  “Want a bite?”

  He shakes his head and takes a sip of his coffee.

  “I wish this wasn’t so awkward.” Lifting my spoon up, I point it at him. “Maybe you should just say what’s on your mind.”

  “Sorry,” he replies, snapping out of his haze. “You were distracting me.”

  “Are you planning on saying more mean things to me, like after the fire? If so I’d appreciate a heads up so I can prepare for it.”

  He frowns. “No, I was going to tell you that I’m sorry at how harsh I was with you after the fire. Now that I’ve calmed down I feel bad about it.”

  “Yeah, you were pretty pissed off about far more than just the fire, but I‘d be lying if I said I didn’t understand why.”

  His gaze is shadowed with melancholy. “I’ve missed you, Trisha.”

  My heart thumps so hard I wonder if he can hear it. “I’ve missed you, too.”

  I blink back a tear. His forgiveness is a small miracle in this wildfire season of my life.

  I chew on my lip as I study his warm expression. “Does this mean you’re done avoiding me?”

  The corners of his mouth curve up into a quiet smile. “Well, I thought we could try things again . . . but this time take things slow.”

  “Sloooow,” I say with a long drawl. “I’m not sure if that works for me.”

  He twists his hands together. “I realized as I sat with it that it really bothers me that I’m messing around with you and you’re still married and regularly dealing with your husband.”

  “Seriously?” I scrunch up my nose.

  “I guess I’m an old-fashioned guy.”


  “But I’m practically divorced from my gay husband, you know.”

  “Yes, I can see that you’ve made progress.”

  “Speaking of Mike, I owe you an apology about the situation with him.”

  Joe raises his brows as he waits to hear what I’m going to say.

  “You know the night in the hospital when Paul came to sit with me while we waited for word after Mike’s suicide attempt? Well, Paul warned me to be mindful of you and pay attention to how the resulting attention I was giving Mike would affect you. He said you are my future and Mike is my past.”

  Joe’s eyes widen before he looks down at his cup of coffee and straightens it on its saucer.

  “I regret that in the drama of it all that I didn’t put myself in your shoes. What I know is that if it had been Sharon, I wouldn’t have been happy about her moving back in with you and all that went along with it.”

  He nods knowingly.

  “I’m really sorry for that.”

  “Thank you,” he says.

  I nod. But as I watch him I get the feeling he’s not done with his reasons to tap the brakes on our relationship. “So what else?”

  “I have to be honest. I hate that we have to pretend at work that we aren’t more than friends. It feels fake—like a lie.”

  “But what choice do we have?” I ask, and then a thought occurs to me. “So are you really saying you want to be friends for now, and you don’t want me to put my sexy on?”

  To give the question more flair I grab the stem of my sundae’s maraschino cherry, close my lips around the glossy red ball of sweetness and pull the stem out with a pop.

  He looks at my lips and sighs. “No. I just think it would be good to figure things out slowly. What’s the rush?”

  I shrug, but I’m not feeling excited at the prospect. It all sounds so complicated when all I want to do is sit with him on his side of the booth with one hand wrapped possessively around the top of his thigh, and the other feeding him bites of whipped cream and fudge sauce in between my bites.

  When I’ve polished off my dessert Joe drives me home. I kind of figure that he’s going to just drop me off, but he parks and walks me up to my front door.

  “Thanks for the sundae,” I say with a bright smile.

  “You’re welcome.” He stares at me unabashedly. “I like this dress on you. Actually what I mean to say is that you make this dress look great.”

  “Thank you,” I reply with a coy smile. I swear he looks like he wants to butter my biscuit. “Do you want to come in?” I ask, leaning into him just slightly.

  “I shouldn’t,” he answers with a stoic expression.

  “That’s not what I asked. I asked if you want to?”

  He swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “Yes.”

  I turn slowly to the door and slide my key in the lock. Meanwhile he leans into me close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off his skin.

  Once in the door I walk over to the couch, sit down, and smooth my skirt across my lap, waiting for him to decide what he wants to do.

  He takes a few steps into the living room and then stops as his gaze moves from one end of the room to the other. “What’s this about?”

  I realize that he never saw my house before Mike and his furniture were extricated from my life. “It’s called staging,” I reply. “The realtor insisted on it. Supposedly it can really help a sale.”

  He shrugs. “It looks different—fancy, not my thing. I prefer less showy stuff.”

  “I like that about you.” I pat the cushion next to me. “Would you like to sit down?”

  He slowly walks over and joins me, but he sits with his back straight and his arms rigid.

  I turn toward him. “I’ve got to tell you something and I know you won’t like it but I’ll always be honest with you.”

  “What’s that?”

  “This furniture is Mike’s. He’s moved into his boyfriend’s place and so he’s decided to sell it, but meanwhile it saves money to use it for staging while trying to sell the house.”

  Joe lets out a long sigh.

  “It’s going on the market in two weeks . . . as soon as the backyard’s done. And then I’m out of here.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “Jeanine said I could stay in her guest house until I decide what to do. But if me being here with his stuff bothers you I’ll move into Jeanine’s guest house tonight.”

  He shakes his head. I know he doesn’t like any of this, but he has to know the whole picture. I’m a package deal.

  “She lives pretty far from the station,” he says.

  And you, I think to myself.

  “I know.”

  His gaze moves over the room again before he looks back at me. “Thanks for offering, but it’s okay with you being here. Everything is heading in a clear direction now.”

  “It is,” I say while thinking that I wish it was a little more clear about our future. I guess time will tell.

  We sit silently but the longer he’s next to me the harder it is to resist him. My attraction to this man is even more powerful since our time apart. I study the stubble on his sharp jawline, his broad shoulders, and the way a wavy dark strand of his hair curls onto his forehead like Superman.

  My Superman.

  My fingers start to tingle and I can’t help myself, I reach over and place my hand on his thigh.

  He glances down to where I’m touching him. I can feel his muscles flex so I tighten my fingers over him. I wish his legs were bare and not clad in jeans. He has the most perfect, manly legs.

  “I wish you weren’t wearing your jeans,” I say, and then immediately realize that I’m saying this out of context of our discussion. “So I could see your thighs,” I throw in hoping I sound less lewd. Of course then I realize that I just sound crazy.

  “You want to see my thighs?” he asks, his expression confused.

  “Well, and the rest of you too.”

  Laughing, he shakes his head. “You sure speak your mind, don’t you?”

  I shrug. “I don’t see any reason not to. You’ll always know what I’m about.”

  He smiles kindly, yet there’s a glimpse of desire in his dark eyes as he places his hand on my lap. “As long as we’re confessing . . . I’d like to see your thighs too.” He reaches lower and then skims his fingertips up under my skirt and rubs tiny circles above my knee. It feels flirty and encouraging, and suddenly hope wraps around us, lifting my spirit and strengthening my resolve.

  It’s promising that we’re moving away from our initial awkwardness, and I fall into the circle of his arms knowing everything about this feels right.

  “There now,” he whispers, his lips pressed against the bare skin of my shoulder.

  My whole body relaxes with his attention and I lean back into the cushions of the couch. “I’ve missed you so much, Joe.”

  His gaze is intense. “That much?”

  I nod and swallow, then press my eyes shut feeling glad that he’s here and touching me. This is something . . . it’s progress, when yesterday things were just steps away from hopeless.

  Even with my eyes closed I can sense him coming closer and I can feel my cheeks warm. He cups my face in his hand, and I sigh.

  “I missed you too, Trisha . . . something fierce.”

  When his lips press against mine, I welcome his attention. He tastes like mint gum and longing, and in this moment they’re the two best flavors in the world. It’s a slow, soulful kiss, but it’s also the kind of kiss you only get from a man who wants more, and means business.

  His tenderness reminds me that in this epic battle between practical intentions versus pure desire, his love is worth fighting for.

  “You still love me,” I whisper.

  He nods. “I do. Too damn much.”

  “Maybe too damn much is just the right amount.”

  Pressing my face into his warm neck, I feel his pulse against my cheek, so strong and sure.

  “I love you like
crazy,” I whisper before I pull back and look up at him. “This is a big love,” I say with conviction letting him know that I mean business.

  Reaching over, I grab a handful of his T-shirt and pull him close again until his weight is on me. I kiss him like he’s my Mr. Everything—the answer to all my questions—as I wrap one hand around the nape of his neck, and tug his hair with the other.

  Our kisses tumble over each other, fevered and near desperate. I end up flat on my back against the velvet pillows with Joe lying on top of me, with my skirt pushed up and one of his large hands in my panties. His other hand is holding my breast as his fingers tease my nipple. The way he edges my legs apart and rocks his hips into me reminds me that we’re alive, glowing like a hot neon sign.

  His touch stirs me up as his gaze grows more heated. I run my hand over where he’s hard. He looks down and watches my movements before his gaze moves back up and our eyes meet.

  “Let’s go to the bedroom, sweetheart.”

  Smiling, I nod. Sweetheart. He gets up and lifts me off the couch.

  Once in the bedroom he stands facing me with his hands on my shoulders. “Is this too soon? Are you sure?” he asks like he’s remembering our talk about the pain in my past.

  Maybe this isn’t his idea of going slow, or maybe he’s not sure about anything when it comes to us, but I sure as hell am. We hit a low point in the previous week, but I still believe in him completely.

  Doesn’t he understand that in this moment he’s all I want in the world?

  I start unbuttoning his shirt and when I pull it open, I trail kisses down his neck and across his chest. His grip tightens as I trace my tongue over his nipple. I move to the other as my hands reach down and undo his belt, and then his jeans.

  “Trisha,” he moans when I slip my hand inside to grasp him. He feels so incredibly good in my hand.

  As he drags his shirt off, my fingers tighten over the waistline of his jeans, and when I pull them down, I sink to my knees, slowly stroking him as he watches with hooded eyes.

  Leaning in closer, I circle my tongue around the head of his cock, then trail down his length and back again. I look up at him with wide eyes as I take him fully in my warm mouth, my lips tightening over him. The low groan in his chest gives me chills. He gently runs his hand through my hair as I pull him in deeper, loving his reaction . . . imagining I can feel the thundering of his heart.