by Ranae Rose
Stripping off her wet clothes was bliss, and sinking into the tub full of hot water was sheer heaven. A bottle of hyper-masculine body wash sitting on the little shelf above the tub was the only soap. She’d poured some into the falling water, creating a thin layer of bubbles. The scent was called “cool”, whatever that meant.
It was the same soapy scent she’d detected on Donovan’s skin. Now, the entire bathroom was filled with it, air and water alike permeated by the smell. It made her head spin as she leaned back against the tub, letting her head tip over the lip.
She drifted in a haze of heat and memory, until the sound of the door closing sent noise and vibrations all the way to the second floor. A little water sloshed over the edge of the tub as she sat up, her skin prickling with awareness of Donovan’s presence. “I’m in the bath,” she called when she heard his footsteps on the stairs.
“I’ll leave your suitcase outside the door.” The sound of his voice made the water seem a few degrees hotter.
Beneath the thin cover of bubbles, her nipples pebbled again.
What was wrong with her?
Maybe nothing – maybe she was just a victim of biology. Even after seven years, it was only natural that her body would respond to the familiar cues, to the sight and sound of the man who’d been the center of her universe for several formative years. She couldn’t keep herself from remembering – or from noticing how incredibly hot he was – but she could keep from making an ass of herself, if she tried.
Because it wasn’t like they were teens anymore. She was a graduate about to enter the professional world in her own right; he was a business owner, a veteran. Everything had changed, even if that fact didn’t register with her body. And he probably wasn’t tingling and tightening every time he looked at her. How could he possibly harbor any trace of desire after what she’d done – what she’d had to do?
Seven years had passed since then, but she knew he wasn’t the type to forgive, just like he wasn’t the type to lie. Or forget.
As she stepped out of the tub, she tried to pretend that that fact didn’t hurt. Rain was still pouring against the bathroom window, but maybe it would let up soon. Then she could ask for a ride across town – get out of his hair. Being inside her grandmother’s house – his house – wasn’t as natural as it felt. The first step to shaking the teen-again feeling was probably to do the adult thing and admit that she had no place in the house she’d once considered a home.
Her heart sank a little lower as she toweled off, unplugging the drain and letting the Donovan-scented water swirl away as she pulled her suitcase into the bathroom and donned a fresh sweater and pair of jeans. Dressed and dry again, she carried her bag downstairs in search of Donovan.
“There you are.”
He sat at the kitchen table, a mug in hand. She didn’t have to look inside it to know it was full of black coffee, probably scalding hot.
“Want coffee?” he asked by way of greeting. “Or Dr. Pepper? There’s some in the fridge.”
At twenty-five, she rarely drank soda, unlike during her teen years, but the day called for an exception. “Sure. Thanks.”
He had the fridge set on the lowest temperature; the can was so cold it almost hurt to touch. The drink itself was a hundred and fifty sugary calories sent straight from heaven. Maybe some aspects of being a teen hadn’t been all bad – like being able to down soda whenever and never gain a pound. Or being as familiar with Donovan as she’d been with herself – able to touch him on a whim, always welcome to run her fingers over the muscles that lined his body, the suntanned skin so prone to grease stains.
It felt strange to be close to him without doing that.
She shoved the thought away – or tried, at least – as she sank into a seat at the table. “Look, Donovan. I’m sorry about snooping around the house and everything. I had no idea you’d bought it – for all I knew, you were halfway around the world and some middle-aged couple had bought it to turn into a bed and breakfast.”
He shrugged. “This place is as much yours as it is mine – we both know it.”
She nearly dropped her half-empty Dr. Pepper can. “It’s yours. You bought it. I promise not to come sneaking around again.” She tried for a diplomatic tone, like she wasn’t deflating inside as she spoke the words.
“You don’t have to sneak. There’s a key hidden behind the loose brick out on the porch.”
She fought a smile that was at odds with the stab of a bittersweet memory. She knew the brick – as kids, she and Donovan had used it dozens of times, placing notes behind it for the other to discover later. They’d communicated that way on the occasions they’d had a hard time meeting up in person.
Phone service at the pink trailer he’d called home had been irregular, at best – most of the time, it had been disconnected due to overdue bills. Since he hadn’t owned a cell phone, they’d often depended on face-to-face meetings, and when those hadn’t worked, notes. Her grandmother had never minded when either of them dropped by. She’d probably known about the loose brick and the secrets they’d stowed there, though she’d never said anything.
“It was nice of you to come looking for me in the storm, and to help with repairs – I don’t expect you to do anything else for me. After this rain lets up, I’d appreciate a ride to my new place, and then I’ll be out of your way.”
Tendrils of steam rose from his cup, drifting in front of his eyes like a smoke screen as he took a long drink. Silence stretched for so long that she itched to break it, though she didn’t have a clue what else to say.
“Flooding’s bad at the other side of town. Where’s your new place, exactly?”
She gave him the address. She’d never actually been there before, but her cousin had sent pictures of the townhouse.
“Right by that creek?”
“I don’t know.” The photos had only been close-ups and interior shots of the house.
“Didn’t buy the place, did you?”
“No. My cousin was renting it and recently moved out of state. There are a couple months left on the lease and she’s already paid for them, so she’s letting me stay there. It’ll be an inexpensive place to live while I job hunt.”
She’d only have to pay for a couple utilities, thanks to her cousin’s generosity. She’d commute to DC when she had to – for the interviews she’d hopefully land. As small as Willow Heights was, the nation’s capital was only an hour and a half away.
He made a wordless sound somewhere between a sigh and a grunt. “The owner had better have flood insurance – there’ll be water damage.”
“I hope not.” Apprehension wove its way into her thoughts. Was he just messing with her, or did he really think the flooding would be that bad? Did he want it to be that bad?
Stupid thought. He’d probably told her about the spare key out of pity, because his new home had been her grandmother’s. No way was he hoping she’d be stuck at his place.
* * * * *
Stuck at Donovan’s place overnight – the reality seemed surreal, even as twilight darkened to true night. The next day, she’d have to arrange other accommodations – a pay-by-the-week motel, maybe. The water damage done to her cousin’s leased townhouse would take time to fix; the first floor had been flooded.
“What room would you like me to stay in?” She sat at the table across from Donovan, a few crumbs left on her plate, all that remained of the hamburger she’d had for dinner. He’d fried them up and delegated the task of throwing together a salad to her when she’d volunteered to help.
Making dinner with Donovan in her dead grandmother’s kitchen had been the strangest thing she’d done in a long time, though she had a feeling spending the night across or down the hall from him would be even stranger.
“Don’t you want your old room?”
“I thought you were staying in it.” A hint of heat crept into her cheeks. “I wanted to see the room earlier today – to see if you’d changed anything.”
His expression remain
ed neutral. “You can have the room. It’s yours.”
She didn’t argue, but when she climbed into bed twenty minutes later and breathed in the scent of strong soap and the slightest hint of male sweat, she almost wished she had. The pillowcases, the sheets – the scent was everywhere. He hadn’t changed the linens since sleeping in them the night before.
It wasn’t like he’d been expecting her. Maybe he didn’t even have an extra set. It didn’t matter – they’d shared much more than sheets in the past. The scent only bothered her because it kept her awake, setting her mind on a loop, making it play the day’s events over and over again. Whenever she tried to stop the thoughts, her memory regressed further, dredging up events from seven, eight, nine, ten years ago. And that was even worse than thinking about the bizarre day she’d just had.
Her lungs filled with his scent, she eventually drifted to sleep, slipping into a dream where it rained and Donovan sang, the spicy tang of Dr. Pepper on his breath. “How I missed her! How I missed her, how I missed my Clementine…”
* * * * *
The noise she awoke to was no dream. The distinct crash of breaking glass radiated throughout the house, jarring her out of sleep.
In the dark, she couldn’t see the fleur-de-lis wallpaper or the grey carpet. It was a moonless night; everything was black. Lack of sight sharpened her other senses, exposing her full-tilt to Donovan’s lingering scent.
How was it that she hadn’t gotten used to the smell yet? She’d been in bed for what, hours?
Swinging her legs over the side of the four-poster, she grabbed her cellphone from where she’d left it on the floor to charge.
1:12 AM. She’d turned in early, tired after a day of travel and slogging through rain. Now, she felt wide awake, adrenaline running sharp and bitter through her veins. What had broken – what had made that noise?
She hurried out of the room, pausing in the hall. “Donovan?”
He didn’t answer her call, and she didn’t know which bedroom he’d taken. Maybe he wasn’t even in bed – maybe he’d been responsible for the noise. The thought sent her creeping quietly down the stairs.
When she reached the landing, all the first floor lights were off, and there was no sign of him. The hair on her arms and the back of her neck rose. Maybe it had been stupid to rush downstairs without a weapon, or even her phone. What if someone had broken in?
It wasn’t very likely in Willow Heights, but it was possible. Living in New York had leant her a certain sense of caution – maybe in rural Pennsylvania it seemed more like paranoia – and her senses prickled as she slid silently across the hall in her sock feet.
She almost had a heart attack when something – someone – moved in the kitchen’s shadows, a dark masculine form against the darker recesses of the unlit room. Her mouth popped open, but no sound came out.
Fists clenched, arms held close to her body, she wished she’d made time to attend a self-defense class or two while in New York. One of her roommates had gone through a Krav Maga phase and had invited her to try a lesson. Now, it seemed like a wasted opportunity. Weaponless and clad in pajama pants and a cami that almost matched, she’d just have to fight tooth and nail – literally – if the man in the kitchen emerged gripping a butcher knife.
“In my dreams she still doth haunt me, robed in garments soaked with brine…” A voice came out of the darkness, familiar but roughened, the melody scraping. “Then she rises from the waters, and I kiss my Clementine…”
“Donovan?”
What the hell?
“What are you doing in there, in the dark?”
Now that she’d heard his voice, she knew it was him. Still, her heart raced as she forced herself to step forward, groping along the kitchen wall for the light switch.
When the light came on, he was gone.
CHAPTER 3
“Donovan? God… Damn it!” She hissed when something sharp pierced the ball of her foot.
Glass. She’d forgotten about the sound of breaking glass.
Lifting and twisting her knee, she surveyed the shard twinkling below her toes, a crystalline thorn half-buried in the pad of her foot. Pulling it out hurt almost as much as stepping on it in the first place had.
Clearly, a jar had been broken. She walked around the glittering puddle of glass and dark red stuff that had at first looked alarmingly like blood, but was only raspberry jam. When she’d passed it, she hurried across the room to the open front door.
It had finally stopped raining, but the night smelled wet and humidity made the air dense and thick. Her voice was muffled as she called his name again.
He didn’t answer, but motion gave him away.
“Donovan!” Frustration drove her voice an octave higher as she hurried across the yard, to where he was pacing toward the tree line.
Why was he ignoring her? He had to hear her calling – only a few yards separated them now. Maybe he wanted his privacy – maybe he regretted being so generous with his hospitality – but she couldn’t let him go. Something wasn’t right. She felt that fact in her bones. The unlit kitchen, the rough singing, the treacherous mess he’d left behind in the dark, and his feigning deafness – this was all too strange to be called normal.
“Hey!” She was half-breathless by the time she reached him. Her socks and pajama pants had most likely been ruined by her trek through the rain-soaked yard, but she’d barely begun to think of that when something much more disturbing registered – he was naked.
Completely naked, as bare as the day he’d been born. Holy hell … what? Why? Clementine’s heart sped like a thoroughbred out of a starting gate, lodging itself in her throat. She’d reached for his arm, and her hand rested there now, her fingertips against his bare biceps.
Finally, he stopped.
“Donovan, are you—” She’d barely gotten a couple words out when he flung out his arm, striking her shoulder forcefully enough to knock her feet out from under her. Slipping in the muddy grass, she went down.
“Ahh!” Her ass hit the spongy ground with a muted thud. It didn’t hurt, but she could barely breathe. He’d pushed her. Or half pushed her, half hit her. Whatever that had been. And he was towering over her, bare from head to toe, his skin shining in the humidity, his body not quite shielded by darkness, now that her eyes had adjusted.
“Clementine?” His voice was just as rough as it’d been in the kitchen, but he wasn’t singing anymore. “What the fuck?”
She drew in a deep breath and stood, taking a step backward from the man who’d knocked her down, the man who suddenly seemed like a stranger even though she recognized every slash of muscle on display, every hard line. “Donovan?”
“What the fuck?”
She could see well enough in the dark now to tell that he was blinking. “You’re awake now, right?”
“I’m awake.” His answer almost sounded like a question.
“I think you were sleepwalking.” Her knees shook, and she counted on the darkness and her loose pajama bottoms to hide the motion. “You’re in the yard, behind the house. You’re not wearing any clothes. Let’s get you back inside.”
He didn’t move.
She hesitated, then willed herself to be brave. Finally, she reached out and touched his arm, just like she had the first time.
She couldn’t resist. Donovan looked like he needed someone to show him the way, and she couldn’t remember him ever looking like that before.
Her memories were extensive, and so deep they hurt. This was definitely a first. So, ignoring her weak knees, she exerted pressure against his muscles – they really were rock-hard – starting in the direction of the house.
He walked with her, and the journey seemed to take forever. She was aware of his every breath, of the heat of his skin. Aware and afraid that he’d turn and run, or simply walk away – what could she do to stop him, really, if he decided not to follow her lead?
Finally, they made it to the house.
“What a fucking mess,” Donovan said
as she pulled the front door shut.
His voice sounded clearer than before. Surely that was a good sign.
“It’s just a broken jar,” she said. “A little raspberry jam.” A lot, actually, but what did it matter?
“Mmph.”
She froze behind where he stood, his back straight, his feet shoulder-width apart.
Jesus. The overhead lighting beamed down on his naked body, making him look like he’d been sculpted from stone. His skin was brown where it’d been exposed to the sun, olive where it hadn’t been. Muscles defined every contour of his body, roped tight over bone. Her gaze was drawn to the perfectly-shaped halves of his ass and the two dents above, at the base of his spine.
She hadn’t forgotten those dents, but something else drew her eye away from the sight. “Your foot!”
She took a step forward, snapping out of her study. “You must’ve cut it on the glass.”
A puddle of blood had formed behind his toes, leaking from beneath one side of his right foot.
“I’ll live.” He moved suddenly, every muscle in his back shifting as he strode forward, clearing the kitchen in a few long strides.
“Don’t!” She hurried forward, reaching for his arm again. “Don’t go up the stairs – you’ll get blood on the carpet. It’ll never come out.”
His muscles went harder beneath her fingers, and she felt more than heard him breathe a stifled grunt. She almost shrank back, almost feared he’d knock her down again.
Almost, but didn’t. Seven years or no, she knew him well enough to know that he’d never raise a hand against her – not knowingly. “Let me get you some bandages. Are there any in the medicine cabinet?”
