Ross seats me closest to the heater, and I'm as comfortable as if we'd been inside. In the yard, crickets chirp and we can hear children playing a few doors down, giggling and shrieking in the early night air.
"Oh my gosh," I exclaim around my first bite of tender meat. "This is delicious, Ross. I can't believe you made this on your first try."
"Yeah, it's not too bad," he agrees. "But trust me, my mother was there every step of the way. I had her on video mode, so she could inspect everything I did. It was a nearly foolproof way to cook dinner. Honestly, I don't think I could do it again on my own."
"You know," I tell him. "When you're here in Grove City, doing stuff like cooking pot roast, I have the hardest time remembering that you're this huge celebrity rockstar. I think it's because I've known you so long. To me, you're still Ross from school, and when we're here in this environment, it's easy to view you as that same guy. But you're not, and I have to keep reminding myself of that."
He watches me for a moment, thoughtful. "Honestly, I don't feel like a rockstar when I'm here. And maybe that's why I stayed away so many years. I couldn't handle two different Rosses. I needed to be the rockstar if I was going to succeed, and coming home would have derailed that."
It makes perfect sense. But begs the next question I ask, "So what about now? Have you gained the ability to acknowledge both sides of yourself?"
"Maybe," he answers noncommittally. "Or maybe I'm finding myself more interested in the original Ross than the rockstar Ross."
We finish with dinner and clear the dishes together, both silent, lost in our separate thoughts. Mine go to the one place they shouldn't. What if Ross stayed here? What if he wasn't a rockstar anymore? But then I shut them down. Because who in their right mind would give up fame and fortune like he's had, to stay in a small Midwestern town and date a single mom?
Absolutely no one, Carly, I remind myself. Total honesty. Always.
Once the dishes are loaded in the washer, Ross gestures to the living room sofa. "Why don't we have one last drink, then I'll walk you home."
I try to ignore the disappointment that cascades through me when I hear him talk so casually about me leaving. I guess he's not even going to try to get me to stay with him tonight. And that serves me right. I've told him over and over that we can't have a repeat of the night of the reunion. He's obviously decided to listen to me. I should feel gratified by that. Instead, I feel...sad.
Once we're seated on the sofa, I start talking about Sara, asking about her party plans and tossing out ideas that might help them. He watches me, answering my questions, but not offering much else. When I finally wind down, and the wine in my glass is gone, I move to stand. It seems like he's ready for me to go.
"Well, I'd better get back home," I tell him. "I’ll try to go by and see Sara's pie booth in the morning."
He doesn't touch me, but his voice stops me dead. It's full of doubt and questions, but also of yearning and desire. "Carly? Can you wait a minute?"
I swallow nervously. Not the right man for you, I repeat like a mantra in my head, even as everything inside me starts to spark and tingle.
He shifts closer to me and gazes into my eyes. I melt. Like a popsicle on a hot sidewalk in the summer. I'm liquid now.
"Earlier, when I said I might be more interested in being regular Ross than rockstar Ross...I meant that."
"Okay," I answer, not sure what else I can say or where he's going with this.
He grasps one of my hands in his, and heat winds its way up my arm.
"There's a reason I came home this time. A reason I decided, after all these years, to go to the reunion, buy a house here, bring Sara with me."
I nod, waiting on pins and needles.
"Craig pointed all that out to me this afternoon, and I know he's right. I'm not sure what to do about it, but I know he's right."
"Midlife crisis?" I joke.
He smiles softly, staring at our linked hands. "Could be. Probably is. But that doesn't make it less valid. You know I've been tiring of the fame and fortune for a long time. And Craig's right that I've accomplished everything a person can in my profession. I've been really fortunate, and I don't want to ignore that, but I have to admit that I'm not sure it's what I want anymore."
My voice is hesitant when I speak then, but I can hear the hope in it, as well, and I have to work to tamp it down.
"You think you might actually want to retire?"
His lips purse. "I don't think retire is the right word. I think I might want to change some things. Stop all the touring. Settle down somewhere, have a real home base."
"Would your band be okay with that?" I ask.
"I don't think Tommy and Joe would mind, but I imagine it would piss Stone off, and we've been using a substitute drummer for the last eighteen months since Carlos was in the car accident." He finally looks into my eyes. "But my point is, I'm not in any hurry to leave Grove City. I've discovered—" he runs a finger along a lock of my hair, his gaze turning molten, "things that are a lot more interesting than another performance or another million dollars."
My heart pounds inside the cage of my chest. Somewhere deep, there's a younger woman clamoring to get out, shouting, "Do. It!" But I'm forty-three not twenty-three, and I've been a rational, card-carrying adult for far too long to just leap on this.
"Don't you have to leave in a couple of weeks?" I ask.
He shrugs. "That's something the lawyers would need to handle. It would cost me, but I can afford it."
"How long is the next leg of the tour?"
He wraps a hand around the back of my neck and pulls me gently, slowly, toward him.
"Too long," he whispers as he brushes his lips over mine. "Too long to be away from you."
My breath catches in my throat. "You can't cancel a world tour because you want to sleep with me," I scold.
"I'm Ross Macalester," he answers. "I can do anything I want."
23
Ross
I dip inside her mouth and my world explodes. Her little gasp of breath turns my blood hot. It sizzles in my veins, heats my entire body.
I angle her head, my hand cupping the back of her skull, and then I devour her. She tastes like red wine and sin, and I moan as I dig my hand into her long, silky tresses. She arches her back, and her full breasts press against my chest. I can feel her rapid breath, as I lose all control.
"I need you like I need my next breath," I rasp. "Please tell me you need me, too."
Her response is a gasp, followed by her fingers finding the fly of my jeans. Inside, I roar in triumph. I've been an adult with her, teasing, but not pushing too hard, even though I was dying inside every time she told me 'no.' But now? Now I'm like a twenty-year-old again—desperate to be inside her, heedless of the consequences.
We tear at each other's clothes, tossing aside jeans, shirts, underwear, until she's naked and straddling my lap. I wrap my hands around the firm globes of her ass and lick my way up her chest. Her head is thrown back, long hair streaming down her back, her breath stuttered and fast.
I take one pert nipple in my mouth and suck hard. She cries out and moves slowly on my lap.
"Ohmigod," she murmurs.
"You want me to fix that for you, baby?" I ask, moving to the other breast and giving it the same treatment.
"Oh! Oh yeah. You need to do something soon, or I'm not going to survive this."
I chuckle and she cries out again. Her breasts are perfection. Full, soft, the skin flawless.
"You're so beautiful," I whisper. "I've never seen a more beautiful woman."
She doesn't respond, so I dig my hand into her hair and bring her gaze to mine. "Carly Ellis. You are the most beautiful woman I've ever known." Her eyes fill with tears and I kiss her softly, our heat turning to something gentler, something so much deeper.
"I want to make love to you."
"Please," she says softly, her hands running up and down my back.
I shift to look at the floor beneath us, w
here I find my jeans and a condom in my wallet. After I've suited up, I gaze into those deep, wise eyes of hers as I lift her, and she slowly slides down onto my cock, like warm maple syrup sliding over a pancake.
"Fuck." I hiss as she takes me to the hilt. "Christ, Carly."
"I know," she whispers as she starts to move on me. "I know."
The next few minutes are filled with gasps and breath and the beating of our hearts. We move together slowly. It's like the most agonizing pleasure possible, but neither of us wants it to end. We're climbing a long, steep hill, and the rush of anticipation is only heightened by the slow pace.
Every time I thrust into her, I think I can't get any deeper, and then it seems I do. She's hot and tight and so incredibly wet. Her arms are wrapped around my neck, and her forehead presses to mine as we both grunt and gasp with each penetration.
"Feels so good, baby," I croon in her delicate ear. She holds me even closer.
"God, Ross. I never dreamed it could be like this." Her tone is reverential, and when she pulls back to look at me, her eyes are sparkling with unshed tears.
I gently brush the hair off her face, and my voice is hoarse with need when I answer her. "Neither did I, love. Neither did I." Then I thrust harder and faster, until we're both covered in a sheen of sweat, our breath hot and rough in the quiet house.
When I lean down and take her nipple between my teeth, I suck gently, and she comes undone, crying out as she pulses around me, squeezing my dick so hard I can't help but follow her immediately.
It's glorious and awe-inspiring, and the sweetest pain I've ever experienced, and as we both melt into the sofa, her draped over me like a beautiful rag doll, I know that I'll never be able to leave her. My rockstar days are over. I've found my forever home.
24
Carly
When I open my eyes, it takes me a moment to remember where I am—Ross's bedroom. And as my gaze shifts to the right, there's the man himself. The sheets barely covering the lower half of his body, one arm flung over his head while the other hand is...wrapped around his cock.
I stifle a giggle as I watch him, fast asleep, holding what is probably a morning hard-on. Then I realize I could probably do something to help out with that. Immediately, things inside me get warm and tingly. I pause, reminding myself that I really ought to get out of this bed, clear my head, and decide what the hell we're going to do about what happened last night.
But instead, I raise up on one elbow and stroke a hand down his naked torso. Over the defined pecs and rigid abs, the soft hair on his chest that tapers to a thin line lower down, until I reach his hand, which I gently unwrap and replace with my own. Then I slowly begin to kiss up his stomach, pausing to circle my tongue around each of his small flat nipples, before moving up to his shoulders and then his throat.
"God, yes, baby," I hear him rasp as he wakes and finds me seducing him. His hand reaches for my hair and he wraps the long strands around his fist, tugging gently as I make my way from one side of his throat to the other, then begin a journey back down to where my hand is slowly stroking his now slick erection.
His hips thrust in time with my fist, and I feel my core swell with heat. I wasn't sure my body was still capable of such intense arousal, but somehow, I know that if Ross is involved, it always will be.
When I reach his dick, I lick up one side like a lollipop before I wrap my lips around the tip, swirling it with my tongue.
"Lord, woman," he rasps, tightening his grip on my hair.
Something inside my heart expands. I haven't felt this way in so long. I convinced myself it didn't matter, that this part of me wasn't essential, but now that I have it again, I realize I've only been living part of a life. It was good, but it wasn't full.
This part—being a woman, feeling this way about a man, and having him react to me the way he is—it's what completes the picture. It makes me whole. I'm not someone's mother or friend or daughter, I'm Carly—strong, beautiful, powerful.
Ross seems to lose patience with me, and suddenly yanks me up and under him in one move. I gasp, but then laugh as I gaze into his eyes that are desperate with passion.
"You're trying to kill me, aren't you, wench?" he growls.
I give him a saucy smile and answer, "Me? Why would you say that?"
He growls again, then begins biting my neck. His beard is scratchy, and I shriek as it tickles me into fits. Eventually, however, I find myself gazing into his eyes as he holds my wrists loosely above my head, while pumping into me, his face a study in concentration.
My back arches and I moan, everything inside of me coiling, tighter and tighter, until I explode like rockets soaring through a night sky. Before I can even breathe again, Ross's hoarse voice calls out my name as he surges into me, big shoulders curled forward, face buried in the crook between my neck and shoulder.
As we start to come down, I feel like I'm floating through a hazy mist of golden light—warm, beautiful, blinding. I realize, then, that all my fears are going to come true. If he leaves me now, all my years of being strong and independent are going to dissolve, as if they'd never happened. I'll be alone and lonely in a way I've never been before, not even after my divorce.
All because I've gone and fallen in love with Ross Macalester.
"What are you thinking?" Ross asks an hour later, after we've dozed off and woken again.
"You probably don't want to know," I answer, curling into his embrace and rubbing one toe up and down his shin.
"If I didn't, I wouldn't have asked."
I sigh. "I'm worrying about what happens now. I know you think you might not want to go back to work right away, but you can't be serious about staying here forever. It's just...well, kind of ridiculous."
His chest rises and falls with a deeper breath beneath my ear.
"Baby, I don't know exactly how it's all going to look when I'm done. There are contracts and lawyers and my bandmates to negotiate with, but you need to trust me when I say that I wouldn't have done this, wouldn't have slept with you again, if I wasn't very committed to making Grove City my home."
I lean up on one arm so I can see his eyes. There's nothing there but sincerity.
"But what does that mean? Hasn't L.A. been your home for the last twenty-five years? How often are you there? One month a year? Two? You can call anyplace your home, Ross. It doesn't mean you're actually committed to living in it."
"Carly," he scolds. "You know me better than that."
A pang of guilt stabs me in the chest, but this is too important, and too dangerous to let mere scruples get in the way.
"Do I? We weren't that close in high school. And you've only been back two weeks, Ross. Two damn weeks. It's been twenty-five years in between and you've lived in a world I know nothing about. You really expect me to believe that I know you?"
He sits up then, and I follow him quickly. He rests his elbows on half-bent knees and looks at me, his expression fierce.
"Don't," he commands. "Don't you dare minimize what's happening here. Or try to make it into something...ordinary...reduce it to some sort of letter in an advice column. 'I've only been seeing this guy a week, should I believe him when he says he wants to make a life with me?'"
He reaches over and wraps his hand around the nape of my neck. His hold is possessive but gentle.
"You. Know. Me." His voice lowers and grows rough. "You know my heart. You know my soul. I've waited twenty-five years for someone to see me. Not the rockstar. Me. You do. Don't close your eyes now, Carly. Please."
This voice in the back of my head, that sounds a whole hell of a lot like Ali, is screaming, he'll change his mind, he'll leave, he'll break your heart. But when I see the determination in his eyes, the desperation, I can't help myself.
"Okay," I murmur, my gaze locked with his. "Okay. I know you. And you want to build a life here. In Grove City—"
"With you," he corrects.
"With me." This can't be happening. Not really. These things don't happen to forty-som
ething divorced mothers of teens in middle America. They just don't.
But then he kisses me, and I forget anything but the feel of his skin on mine and the way my heart throbs whenever he's near.
25
Ross
"Oh! There you are. I didn't think you'd ever get here," Sara says as she rushes out from behind the counter of the Sunshine Bakery booth. The weather is a perfect autumn morning, the sky is blue, and the leaves are turning. Consequently, the market is full of people—regulars, and some tourists passing through as they make their way along the river valley between St. Louis and Minneapolis.
"Did you text?" I ask, pulling my phone from my pocket to double-check it. Next to me, Carly sips from a cup of coffee and chats to Deanna. "I didn't get any messages."
"No, but we need you. You should stand right here—" She maneuvers me into a corner in front of the counter. Then she shoves a muffin in my hand. "Now just smile and stand there. Before long, we'll have a line a block long."
I can't help the half snort half laugh that bursts out. "Are you using my celebrity to sell baked goods?" I ask, not sure whether to be offended or impressed.
She grins. "It's called marketing, and if you could do all those ads for that stupid Swedish car company, you can help out our local bakery."
Just then, a customer asks something about the pies, and Sara turns to them, her best smile in place, so adult and gracious she's like a different kid. But even as I'm noticing that, what really gets me is that she said "our”. Our local bakery. As if she's already claiming Grove City as hers. Hers and mine. I swallow down the lump in my throat and do just what she's instructed. I stand there and smile, nibbling on the muffin she's handed me and watching as she blooms before my very eyes.
"Why are you hanging out here in the corner like a stalker?" Carly asks a few minutes later.
"Just following instructions," I tell her. "Apparently, I'm intended to be a draw for the booth."
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