The Hero I Need: A Small Town Romance

by Snow, Nicole

  If I ever needed a distraction, it’s right the hell now.

  A short time later, standing below the hissing warm shower spray, I lean against the wall, rinsing the muck and shampoo out of my hair. A part of me wants to be extra clean and unfortunately it’s got everything to do with packed muscle, a thick beard, and eyes like brown amber.

  Even under the hissing waterfall, a certain part of me throbs with an itch I’ll never scratch alone. What’s the magic word again when you’re helplessly smitten with a man you totally can’t have?

  Oh, yeah.

  Eep, eep, and also, eep!

  The shower works its magic on my achy muscles, and the water is still steaming when I turn it off.

  After wrapping one towel around my hair, I wind a second around my torso, tucking a corner between my breasts to hold it up while I search my scant wardrobe for something to wear.

  I’d only grabbed a single suitcase of stuff I’d thrown together when I’d left the rescue. I need to throw a load of laundry in the washer because I’ve gone through what I have for the third time, or else start expanding my wardrobe with the shops in town.

  I rummage around until I pull out a sundress. It’s white with a smattering of orange and black feathery blotches. I skip the bra since they, too, all need washing.

  It’s loose-fitting enough, so no one should notice, thank gawd.

  Brushing the snarls out of my hair takes a while, and then I spend a few minutes shining my bracelet before slipping it back on my arm. It’s the same one I’ve worn every day since my father gave it to me for my high school graduation.

  Shimmering gold and black onyx make faux tiger stripes around the ring. He had it custom-made for me by a semi-famous jeweler in Johannesburg he’s been friends with for years.

  Before leaving the room—which I’ve come to love with its gaping windows always full of streaming sun or shimmering moonlight—I flip my head down and give my hair a good finger-combing to keep it from drying in clumps.

  It’s so freaking hot today I don’t feel like blowing it dry, which is the only way it’ll hang straight, so I’m calling it good.

  Just before I open my door, my hand lingers on the knob, my pulse in my throat.

  I haven’t felt like this since my first morning here, unsure what I’d find.

  But this is worse in a different sense.

  The signals flying back and forth between us today were unmistakable.

  I hope.

  I hope Grady wants to get closer.

  The only question is, will that sexy bourbon sip of a man have the courage to follow through?

  And if he does, will I?

  * * *

  Grady stands in the kitchen when I exit my room with my heart buzzing.

  Despite all I know about myself and the raw desire flaring like a Roman candle, the sight of him still rips my breath away.

  He’s a human tank. His jeans hug his narrow hips and muscular thighs. His hunter-green Army shirt outlines his thick biceps and rippled chest in a wicked hint, complimenting the dark swirl of hair around his face I want to lace my fingers through so badly.

  God.

  A man with a beard like his needs a permit to carry. It’s basically a lethal weapon to ladykind.

  “Feeling better?” he greets me.

  My mouth has gone too dry to speak, so I just nod.

  “Good. I had the girls bring down their dirty clothes from today,” he says. “They’re in the washer if you want to add yours.”

  Swallowing, I nod again.

  “Oh, yeah. Good idea. Be right back.”

  I can’t decide if I like the sudden distance from him or despise it. But the simple act of gathering my dirty clothes, carrying them to the laundry room, and starting the machine helps me regain control over my baser wanna-jump-him-now senses.

  Now let’s hope it sticks.

  “I’ve put the steaks in a marinade,” Grady calls from the kitchen. “It’ll be forty-five minutes before I can grill them.”

  “Sounds yummy. The potatoes should be done by then.” I try to sound as normal as possible while I put the jug of laundry soap back on the shelf. “Do I smell citrus?”

  “Yep. My ma’s old recipe with plenty of garlic, olive oil, and a hint of lemon. Bon appétit. Hope like hell it’ll cool off a little by then.”

  My heart skips a beat as I turn, wondering why his voice is louder.

  Oh, right. He’s standing in the doorway.

  Damn, he’s hot.

  The kinda good-looking that renders you speechless when you’re trying to think up more than one way to describe a sexy beast.

  I swear, I’m not normally like this.

  I don’t get fluttery butterfly crushes on older family men.

  But with Grady, I’m not just making a major exception. I think he’s rewriting the book on what makes me melt. Because it’s hard—no, impossible—imagining feelings springing up for any lesser man after this.

  “Still over ninety out there,” he tells me, stepping into the laundry room. “Thank fuck I had the AC tuned up last spring. We’re flogging it hard today.”

  A faint noise bleeds into the room that makes my ears perk. “What’s that? ATVs again?”

  His grin widens, a crescent moon in the thick halo of his beard. “The girls are heading to the short track for a drive before dinner. They’re looking for more flowers to transplant tomorrow.”

  Smiling, I press a hand to my forehead, close my eyes, and pretend I’m about to faint. “Oh, Lord, what have I started?”

  Laughter fills the room as he catches me around the waist, holding me up.

  Not quite what I’d been after, but I’m not complaining at the result.

  Those massive hands on my hips feel good. Firm reminders it wouldn’t take more than a flick of his wrists to wind up tossed over his shoulder, and carried off to—

  “It’s all your fault, you know,” he growls in my ear.

  Keeping my eyes closed, I say, “Yeah. I sorta guessed it was.”

  “This is your fault, too.”

  My eyes snap open to ask what, but before I can get out a single syllable, I’m silenced.

  His thick lips collide with mine like a meteor strike.

  Holy hell.

  The contact is electric, jolting, and so welcome it shreds what little control I’d gotten back earlier. When you’re kissing Grady McKnight, it’s the kind of thing that demands all of you, and I’m so down to give up everything.

  Before I can stop myself, I react with a shuddering gasp, my arms looped around his strong neck.

  I hold on for dear life.

  Unlike a minute ago, I’m worried I actually will faint from the sultry, all-consuming need lashing through me.

  Every last bit of me shuts down except what’s able to feel, to taste, to savor this man.

  Grady isn’t nearly so paralyzed.

  Lucky me.

  Next thing I know, my legs are looped around his waist and he has me pressed up against the washing machine, the bulge in his jeans grinding between my legs, his rough grunt spilling in my mouth.

  He’s pure business, claiming what he wants, pressing my butt hard against the washer like a storm pressed into a man.

  I’m gone like butter under a heat lamp.

  Breathless whimpers become full-bodied moans against his marauding tongue. He pushes my lips open with a growl and takes me over, takes what’s his, what’s always belonged to him since that first strange night together, if I’m brutally honest.

  Oh. My. God.

  The kiss turns openmouthed, a hundred degrees hotter than the air outside, tongues swirling, tasting, fencing.

  Every time I try to drift away, mostly for precious oxygen, his fierce lips keep our mouths fused.

  I swear, he’s determined to flipping brand me with one long vicious kiss.

  His hands glide under my dress, skimming up my thighs, his calloused skin raking against my softness.

  Oh, wow.

 
Wow.

  I love it, every searing second.

  But love doesn’t do justice to every wild touch, every caress and stroke.

  Love can’t describe the need, the shock, the fury to have him inside me.

  In all of two minutes, I’m completely drunk on his rough hands.

  “Grady!” I whimper, digging my nails into his back.

  All he has to do is unzip his pants, bite my lip, and plunge in.

  I’m that ready.

  Yes, it’s insane how fast it’s happening, but the lightning swiftness makes it that much more exciting. Makes me that much crazier, wishing he’d take me right now.

  He doesn’t, though.

  With a few smaller, softer, sweeter kisses, he rears back, pressing his forehead against mine.

  “Shit, sorry. That was my fault. I’ve been trying not to all day. I just fucking broke, Willow.”

  “Why?” I ask, running a hand across his cheek, adoring the soft scratch of his scruff. “Don’t get second thoughts. I liked it.”

  “Why? Because you’re so fuck-hot it kills me. And because I think I’d rather let Bruce out of the barn than deal with the fallout from this,” he rasps, shoving his forehead against mine harder. “Don’t know what the hell came over me. This isn’t right.”

  I run my hands down his massive arms that are still holding me against him.

  No matter what he says, his body has a different sense of right and wrong.

  My legs are still wrapped around his waist. Even if he’s full of regrets, it isn’t smothering the fire, the heave of his chest as he draws another breath and then beams fire in his gaze.

  “Quit apologizing. I obviously don’t mind,” I whisper, panting the words, staring into deep-brown eyes that promise devastation.

  The kind of ruin any woman would die for.

  He chuckles, lifting his head to look at me.

  “I don’t do this shit, Willow. I don’t kiss strange women who only show up because they need help—I don’t let my dick get me into trouble. Hell, I don’t even date.” His chest heaves, and he looks away, wrestling his lust like an angry serpent.

  Frowning, I know the real reason, the one he doesn’t say—he’s not ready to move on—yet I also know his wife is long dead, and he’s still very much alive.

  “Grady, baby, I’m not asking for flowers and candy or a nice dinner out,” I say, locking my gaze with his so he can’t look away. “I’m only here for a short time. I’d never expect more than today...more than tonight.”

  His lips turn down, brows pulled together, strained in thought. “You mean...”

  I shrug.

  “A little tension relief would be healthy for both of us. Just sayin’.”

  His frown deepens as he releases me and starts to turn.

  Sigh.

  Smiling, I unhook my legs from his waist and lower them to the floor. Then I stand, fixing my dress as I push my other hand to his deliciously bulky shoulder.

  “A hot fling without commitments isn’t a sin, Grady. I know you’re kinda old-fashioned, but hear me out. To me, it’s two healthy adults having fun. There’s nothing wrong with that whatsoever.” I plant a quick kiss on his lips. “Let me know if you change your mind. You know where to find me.”

  “Willow—”

  He turns to look at me, all single dad Zeus, thunder in his voice and bolts in his eyes.

  The roar of four-wheelers sounds, this time closer to the house.

  Oof. Apparently that hot-as-hell make-out session went on longer than I thought.

  I step away from him, afraid I’ve gone too far.

  I don’t know what I’m doing.

  I’ve truly never thrown myself at a man like this.

  “If you’re not interested, that’s cool, too,” I tell him. “You’ve got a lot on your plate. I get it. It wasn’t fair for me to—”

  He grasps my arm so suddenly I gasp.

  “Woman, I am damn interested. I started it, but the girls—”

  Smiling, I push a finger to his lips, cutting him off.

  I don’t want him to finish.

  Not when I’m beaming up at him with my entire being because he didn’t say no.

  “We don’t have to decide this minute,” I whisper, suppressing a giggle. “Later tonight would be fine.”

  “Tonight,” he repeats, a burning flicker in his eyes. “Yeah, fuck. I’ll be there.”

  With a parting sticky glance, I exit the laundry room, careful to put a little extra oomph in my hips for him. I know he’s staring as I walk away.

  I’m still throbbing from head to toe, and I stumble into the kitchen, barely catching a hold of the counter to help me stand just as Avery bursts inside.

  “Willow, I found more flowers! But, um, I don’t know what they are,” she says, bringing a pensive finger to her lips. “Can you come take a look at them? Please?”

  Grady’s hands grasp my waist firmly and he gently pushes me toward the door ahead of him with his hand skimming down the small of my back.

  “We’ll both look,” he says.

  More than willing with that encouragement, I glance over my shoulder at him. “I just need my shoes.”

  “I’ll get them for you!” Avery shouts, running into my room and returning a second later with my flip-flops.

  Grady gives me a slow, silent, oh-so-heavy look.

  Yeah, the anticipation over tonight might just kill me.

  Still, I don’t shy away from winding an arm around Grady’s waist as we head outside. We walk along the starting track on the ATV route, stopping every now and then to examine new plants the girls found.

  The majority of them are weeds, and although they’re flowering, most aren’t the kind we want in the flower beds because they’ll choke out everything else.

  The girls are disappointed when I tell them, but they understand as we continue around the track, searching for good flowers.

  At least, I think that’s what’s going on.

  It’s hard to walk, much less think, when you feel like you might float away like a stray balloon.

  Touching Grady does that.

  My nipples are hard greedy nubs. My tongue presses against the roof of my mouth. My knees almost give out several times. My lungs and my heart are having a skipping contest.

  Especially when Grady caresses the underside of my thigh—damn him and his secret devil touches—but it’s a special kind of fire blazing through me when I squeeze him. And when my breasts touch his back without the extra protection of a bra...

  Hi, welcome to the end of my life.

  I’m so completely screwed.

  When we arrive back at the house, I go check on Bruce one more time while he starts the grill. The separation is good and gives me time to think.

  Will I even survive a close encounter of the sexy kind with him?

  Honest question.

  My bedroom experiences have been few and far between.

  Kinda comes with the territory when you grow up being the teacher’s pet with a famous zoologist for a dad. I think I intimidated a lot of boys who might’ve been interested, so they kept their distance.

  I wonder if I know what I’m doing.

  I wonder if we can do this without any heart bruises.

  Because once this is over, I’ll probably never see Grady or his girls ever again.

  At the same time, I have a deep sense that it’s past time Grady found a fresh look on life. A second chance, just like the freshly planted flowers.

  He’s clearly into me, and I’m happy to shake things up.

  He’s been buried in grief and loneliness for too long, and if I can help while I’m here...

  Well, why not?

  Sure, I think my mind would work up any justification for a night with him, but it does make sense.

  To me.

  I think.

  Either that, or I just really want to wind up under him and find out what every seething inch of that bulldozer body can do.

  “Willow
? Is everything all right? Dad’s about to put the steaks on!”

  Sawyer’s little nose is right behind me as I close up the barn, and I smile at the sight.

  I’ve never gotten so attached, so fast, and not just to her fine freaking father.

  I’m going to miss this entire family when I leave.

  “Nothing to worry about,” I say, checking the locks on the door one more time. “I was just watching Bruce. He’s still out for his evening nap and totally content in the barn.”

  No lie. He’s adapted as quickly to this place as I have, though it’s no place for a tiger.

  Then again, we’ve both done our fair share of traveling over our lives, and staying anywhere for longer than a few days makes us comfortable.

  “Did you know Bruce was with a circus once? It was before I met him, but it’s true,” I say while we walk across the farm.

  “He was? Wow!” She skips along at my side, carrying a flower in her dainty hand.

  “Yep. He was born in a zoo in Upstate New York, and then sold to a circus as a cub. But the circus went bankrupt, and since then, he’s been bouncing around from small-town zoos and sanctuaries before ending up with me because his last place had to get rid of all their big cats.”

  I’m careful to leave out any mention of Exotic Plains or the nefarious crap, hiding it behind my smile.

  “How old is he?” Sawyer asks.

  “About fifteen, give or take a few months.”

  “Is that old for a tiger? How long will he live?”

  “Until he’s twenty-five or so, maybe close to thirty if he’s lucky. Hopefully he’ll wind up a big orange Methuselah,” I tell her.

  “I hope so!” she throws back with a far-off smile.

  I wish I had more than hope to cling to.

  With a nice day like this, it’s easy to forget I have no clue where Bruce will end up or how comfortable he’ll be in a new home. Trying to make myself feel better about it, I explain how tigers in the wild only live to be twelve or so, but in captivity, where they have few natural threats and a regular diet and quality care, they can live twice as long.

  Our tiger talk continues on the patio with Avery and Grady joining in.

  The topic shifts from animals to Dallas life as we eat dinner, but there’s never a lull in the chatting or the easy laughs.