by Anna Argent
"Wow," he finally said, as breathless as she was. Maybe more.
"Wow," she echoed. Then, "I should go."
"If you are able to drive right now, then you're way better off than I am."
She lifted her head and looked at him. Really looked at him. The usual light brown color of her eyes was darker now, more like molasses than brown sugar. Her pupils were huge, and bright spots of color flared high in her cheeks. Her mouth was puffy and smeared with the remnants of her pale, sparkly lip gloss.
His probably were too.
He wanted to kiss her again so badly he would have given anything he owned to do just that. Of course, if he kept kissing her, then his foreman was going to walk in to find them doing a hell of a lot more than kissing.
He had been moments away from stripping off her panties and diving down for a taste of her pussy. There was no way it could be as sweet as her mouth, but he was dying to find out.
The top of her sundress was a wrinkled mess, with one button missing and another hanging on by a thread.
He stood where he was, holding her thighs wide with his body.
If he pushed her skirt up just one more inch, he would have been able to see what color panties she wore—or whether she had on any at all.
That was the definitely the wrong thought to let slip past his control, because as soon as it entered his mind, he couldn't get it out.
"I don't want to let you go," he said.
She swallowed, her throat working visibly. There was a flush at the base of her neck, disappearing down beneath the lacy white edge of her bra.
Saxon wondered just how far down that pretty pink coloring went.
He closed his eyes to block out the temptation she offered.
"The men are in the other room. I can hear them shuffling around."
Screw them, he wanted to say, but held his tongue.
He gripped the edge of the counter to keep from wrapping his hands around her thighs. He could tell by looking that they'd be as soft and smooth as the rest of her, and once he touched, he wouldn't be able to take his hands off again. "I can't let you go unless I know I can see you again. Soon."
She bit her bottom lip, and it was all he could do not to cover the tortured flesh with his mouth and suck it free of her teeth.
"Tonight. After Aunt Beth goes to sleep. I'll come over."
"And we'll finish what we started?" he asked, making sure she knew his intentions. Then, because he really needed to be clear, added, "We won't stop until we've come so many times we can't see straight."
Her pupils flared with need and her breath hitched.
"No one can know," she said.
Her wanting to hide their relationship stung, but his body was so filled with hormones that he hardly felt it. "Whatever you want."
He would have agreed to almost anything to get her to see him again.
She nodded. "One more thing."
"Name it."
She looked down his body, her expression one of pure feminine desire with a touch of humor. "Wear the tool belt."
Chapter Eighteen
Gemma spent the rest of the day floating on a cloud of anticipation.
Tonight, she was going to be Saxon Grace's lover.
Even the thought was delicious. The act? She could only imagine.
And she had. Multiple times.
Her distraction had cost her two batches of cookies and one overbaked pie, but some things couldn't be helped.
Not even her meeting with her aunt's insurance agent could strip away the shimmer of warmth low in her belly.
How long had it been since she'd had sex? She couldn't remember. Enough months that she was pretty sure the time could be easier measured in years. Definitely too long, but a busy woman with no time for a social life and no desire to troll bars for a sleazy one-night stand had few options.
Her nipples puckered beneath her chef's coat as she loaded up baked goods and drove the short distance to Flora's diner.
It was only four, but already the diner's tables were half full. The seats were occupied mostly by the older residents of Whisper Lake, who preferred to eat early, before the rush. Not that there was much of a rush in the off season of a lake town that topped out around four thousand people.
White hair and coffee cups abounded, along with the overly loud conversation of those who were hard of hearing. Several couples sat in silence—some comfortable, others cold. Gemma wasn't sure how she could tell the difference when no one was talking, but she could.
Flora swept out from the kitchen, her hands filled with plates from fingertip to elbow. She gave a brief nod at Gemma, then proceeded to serve a party of six elderly women in their Sunday finest.
Rather than bother anyone, Gemma took the liberty of carrying the first box of pies back into the kitchen.
The smell of meat on the griddle mixed with the humid heat of dishwater and disinfectant. Everything back here was white and stainless steel, gleaming with that kind of clean that can only come from fresh paint and new appliances.
Someone had spent a lot of money renovating this place, and it showed in every loving detail, from the high-powered vent hood to the industrial dishwasher's LED display.
A boy who probably wasn't old enough to drive worked at a sink, rinsing off dishes before loading them in a sturdy plastic rack. A tall, thin black man stood at the griddle, flipping a metal spatula with the grace of a baton twirler. A middle-aged woman worked at a prep area chopping vegetables. Another woman sat on a bench near a time clock, tying her sturdy shoes in preparation for the evening rush.
"Where should I put these?" Gemma asked the woman with the knife.
The tall man turned and offered her a broad smile. "So, you're the pie whisperer."
Gemma grinned at the title. "That's what it says on my business cards."
"I'm Thomas Bass, but everyone calls me Senior, seeing as how my boy is Junior."
"Nice to meet you. I'm Gemma."
"We all know who you are. Beth Fortier never lets a chance slip by to mention you and all of your grand accomplishments. Nice to have some fresh blood in town."
The veggie chopping woman was all business, offering none of the chit-chat Senior did. She pointed on the far side of the kitchen to a stainless steel counter. "Over there is good. Anything that needs to be refrigerated should go back in the walk-in. Everything that goes in the walk-in gets a date. Period."
Flora came back from the front of house in a rush. "Thank you! I can't tell you how much of a help this is. And you're just in time for the sweet tooth crowd."
"Sweet tooth crowd?"
"It's bingo night at the rec center and those ladies I just served always sugar up before the games begin. They say it's for good luck, but I think they sugar up before getting the mail, too." Flora winked.
"I have two more boxes in the car. Ten pies and four cakes in all, just like you asked."
"Great. Give me the invoice and I'll pull some cash out of the register."
In all of her lust-fueled haze, Gemma hadn't thought to stop and make an invoice. "Can I bring it next time?"
"Sure, just don't get too far behind. I like to keep my accounts current. Big bills are the death of a small business like mine."
"I understand."
"Let me help you carry in the rest. And if it's easier, you can park in the back next time so you don't have to carry them so far."
Once they were outside of the diner, Flora pulled in a deep breath, turned her face toward the sun and came to a stop.
"Are you okay?"
"I spend so many hours here, sometimes I forget what the sun feels like."
"I can only imagine. No one realizes just how brutal the restaurant industry can be. For them it's a nice evening out."
"For us, it's a job," Flora finished. "But I love it."
Gemma grinned. "Me too. I can't imagine giving up my work, as hectic, hot and stressful as it can be."
Flora eyed Gemma sideways. "You're not looking for a job,
are you? Senior is a magician on the griddle, but can't do crap with an oven. Says he's cursed."
"I won't be staying long enough for that. My boss is holding my job for me, but I have to get back soon. As soon as Aunt Beth is back on her feet…"
Saxon's face popped into her head, where he'd been nearly every second since that scorching kiss. She really didn't want to leave until she knew what it was like to feel that kind of passion behind closed doors. She might not survive sex with Saxon Grace, but what a way to go.
"Well, if you change your mind," Flora said, "I can always use some help. And if you know anyone looking for a waitressing job, send them my way. I can't keep a decent waitress for more than a few weeks. The last one I had ran off with a trucker passing through and I never saw her again. She didn't even come back for her last check."
"I hope she's not dead in a ditch somewhere." The idea creeped Gemma out.
"I had the sheriff look into it, but he didn't find anything. I pretend that's because the trucker was a millionaire and she's sitting on a beach somewhere, sipping fruity drinks, fat, happy and in love."
"Beats staying up all night, worrying."
Gemma handed Flora a box, then picked up the second one.
Flora gave her another one of those sideways looks. "So, I heard through the grapevine that you and Saxon are hot and heavy."
"And they say light travels fast," she murmured.
"Nothing is as fast as the speed of gossip. That doesn't mean it's true."
Gemma thought about telling Flora about that scorching kiss and how she'd had to change panties twice because the man made her so wet. But then she remembered that this was his sister, who probably didn't want to think about Gemma's panties in relation to Saxon.
Instead, she settled for a half-truth. "He's helping me out."
Flora's look of speculation was as intense and probing as any homicide detective. "I think you might be good for him."
"I'm not staying," Gemma said automatically. "I'm only here until Aunt Beth is better."
Flora shrugged. "You're not that far away. A few hours' drive? If you think that little hurdle is going to stand in the way of my brother getting what he wants, then you don't know him very well yet. But you will." That last part was given in the tone of a friendly warning.
Gemma didn't know what Flora's motives were, but she didn't want to leave the woman thinking something that wasn't true. If she did, the false information could be all over town by morning.
"Saxon and I are enjoying each other's company, but that's it." If being consumed by a bone-melting, skin tingling, mind-blowing kiss could be called mere enjoyment.
"Don't let our Mom hear that. You'll burst her bubble. She's probably already shopping for baby clothes."
Gemma laughed at the ridiculous statement, thinking it was a joke.
Flora wasn't laughing.
"Better you than me," Flora said. "As Dr. Bonnie Grace's only daughter, and four years older than she was when she had my oldest brother, she's been expecting me to make her a grandma for years. It's nice for you to come around and take off some of the pressure."
"For the love of heaven, it was just one kiss," Gemma nearly shouted.
Flora burst out laughing, nearly dropping her box of pies. "Now you know how I feel. I can't even wait on a single man's table without her asking me what color wedding I want." She stopped just outside of the diner's door. "I'll see what I can do to cool down the hot rumors."
"I would appreciate that."
"No promises. When it comes to possible grandbabies, mom can smell them a mile away—like a shark scenting blood in the water. Your only hope is not to rip each other's clothes off in a public place again." Flora lowered her voice to a whisper and looked around. "She's got spies everywhere."
***
Beth Fortier was sick. That was the only possible explanation she had for this fluttery, nauseated feeling in her stomach every time she was around Cotton Cyrus.
That kiss of his had made her sick.
Every day, after driving her to physical therapy, he usually helped her inside and promptly left after making sure there was nothing she needed him to bring tomorrow. Today, however, he hadn't left. He'd lingered, settling himself on the edge of the davenport.
His tall, masculine frame looked odd amongst the red and pink cabbage roses emblazoned on the upholstery. He'd removed his fedora—which she'd always found so handsome on him—and now clutched it in his weathered hands.
They were good hands—hands that had seen plenty of hard work and sunshine. They were hands that had held children and taught them the wonders of the outdoors. They were hands that had held rifles both for war and for sport. And now they were hands that set down the fetching hat and reached for her, covering her cold fingers with warmth and gentle strength.
A girlish tremor of excitement winged through her system, taking her by surprise.
His voice was low, soft and gentle. "Why are you avoiding me, Beth? Have I done something wrong? Was it the kiss?"
Her voice was sharp, but wavered with emotions she refused to name. "How can I be avoiding you when you're sitting right here?"
"You didn't look at me all afternoon."
"Of course I did."
More gentleness. "No, you didn't. I know because for weeks I've lived for every moment your eyes met mine, and I didn't get to live at all today."
She was speechless. To have that kind of power over a man was unfathomable. If he'd been a flirtatious scoundrel, flicking from one woman to another like a dragonfly on the water, then she might have thought he was lying. But that wasn't Cotton at all. He was steady, loving, constant. He hadn't changed much in the forty-some years she'd known him—ever since his wife had brought him to live here, in her home town, when they were newlyweds.
Evelyn was gone now, taken by a malignant monster that had chewed on her and tortured her for years before finally consuming her. Cotton had been with her through it all.
Steady, loving, constant.
Beth might have been avoiding his gaze all day, but she didn't now. She looked straight into his kind blue eyes—a little saggy and wrinkled, but no less handsome—and said, "I'm afraid."
He gave her a lopsided smile and squeezed her hand. "We don't have enough time left to be afraid. And after the losses we've suffered, we deserve a chance for something good, don't you think?"
He was talking about them. The two of them. A relationship. A romantic relationship.
"I don't know if my heart can handle it," she said. She breathed in the scent of Gemma's baked goods lingering in the air and willed her nerves to settle.
"Your heart is fine, Beth. It's your brain that's all messed up. It keeps getting in the way of things, complicating matters that are really simple."
"You call this simple?"
He shrugged a shoulder that was still broad, if not as muscular as it had once been. "I love you, Beth. I have for a long time. I think you love me too. What could be simpler than that?"
Her eyes filled with tears, and even after all the crying she'd done in her lifetime, she still couldn't tell if they were happy or sad.
Life was such a mixed bag.
She missed her husband—her first love. She missed her younger self and all the girlish dreams that had once filled her. Children, family, an endless, happy future that only the young can believe in. But mostly, she missed living.
She'd been doing fine right up until her fall. She had her work, her community, and a few adventures sprinkled in to keep her looking forward instead of back. But the fall had changed that. She was no longer independent. She couldn't just hop in her car and drive to the coast if the mood struck her. She couldn't even drive to the grocery store.
"I'm damaged goods, Cotton. An old woman."
He scoffed. "Four years older is all. And four years doesn't mean a damn thing at our age. Besides, we men always age faster, so practically speaking, I'm at least a handful of years older than you." He took her hand and put it
against his chest, over his heart. "And as for damaged goods…honey, we're all that. Worn and wrinkled and bruised. Maybe even broken a time or two and patched back up again. But that doesn't make us used up. Not even close."
"We've both loved and watched them die. We know how much it hurts. Do you really want to risk going through that again?"
"We're all going to die, honey. The way I see it, we can go after a few good years, or we can go after a few lonely ones. I know which I'd rather live."
She wasn't sure. Even after all these years, the grief over losing her husband would still sometimes take her by surprise. It wasn't as sharp as it had once been, but a dull knife could still leave a wound.
"I need time," she finally said. "To think."
Cotton nodded and stood. "I'm not going anywhere, Beth, but every day I spend without you in it is one I'll never get back. You and me, we can still have a lot of good years. All you have to do is reach out and take them."
Beth only wished it was that easy.
Chapter Nineteen
Saxon's blood had been running hot all afternoon—partly because of the kiss with Gemma and partly because of the anticipation for more.
Wear the tool belt.
He grinned every time he remembered the teasing light that had sparkled in her brown sugar eyes, and even though he thought she'd been only joking, a little, wicked sliver of him wanted to show up at her doorstep wearing only that.
His stomach rumbled with need, but his real hunger was deeper, stronger.
He needed her naked, sweaty and slick, screaming his name as he drove her over the edge of orgasm. He needed it more than he needed to breathe.
After a quick, cold shower to calm his libido, he was more in control of himself and ready to face a pleasant dinner with Gemma and Aunt Beth. Tonight, however, there would be no lingering over coffee and dessert. If he had to, he'd shift into his caveman self and drag her back to his cave by her hair—whatever it took to get her back here where he could kiss her again like he'd been dying to do all day.
Saxon was just coming out of his bedroom, pulling a clean T-shirt over his wet hair when he heard his brother's voice.
