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His throat dried. His fingers twitched with the need to stroke the long line of her throat, to flick over the pulse beating at the base of her neck. Even when she was still, there was an energy about her, like an electrical current, one pulsating with life.
It called to him, had always called to him, pulling him in, daring him to touch, to feel that zing coursing through his blood, just once.
Tearing his gaze from her, he held his water between his knees, stared at the floor. But he could feel her next to him, the brush of her leg against his outer thigh, the shifting of the seat when she stretched, arching her back. Could hear her soft breathing, the low, melodic tune she hummed softly.
He’d sought her out tonight. He hadn’t wanted to, but it seemed no matter where he was, what he was doing, who he was talking to, he couldn’t stop from seeking out the sound of her laugh, the sight of her light brown hair. She was like a butterfly in her bright, colorful clothes, in how she fluttered from a conversation with his grandfather about how to make a foolproof marinara sauce to entertaining a group with tales about tending bar in the French Quarter to coaxing his seven-year-old nephew to dance.
She captivated him. He wondered if he would ever get free.
“You ready to go?” he asked, his voice gruff.
She sat up. “Sure.”
They walked down the driveway and rounded the front of the house.
“It’s good to be home,” Sadie said as they crossed toward the garage, her tone soft. Hesitant. “But the best part about being home is being with you. I just...I wanted you to know that,” she said quietly.
She sped up, leaving him to gape at her as she went into the garage for the stray dog.
He wasn’t sure what that had been about, wasn’t sure he wanted to know.
It’s good to be home.
He’d never heard her admit that before. Never would have believed that she could actually mean it. But even it was true, it was only temporary. Everything with her was temporary. Her jobs, her relationships, her goals and dreams—they changed based on her whims, on where she was living and who her friends were at any given moment. She may be glad to be in Shady Grove, but she wouldn’t stay.
Her leaving was the only reliable thing about her.
* * *
SADIE PADDED INTO James’s kitchen, Elvis at her heels, the wood floor cool under her bare feet. She flipped on the pendent lights over the center island and crossed to the refrigerator.
Good Lord, even the inside of his fridge was immaculate and so organized it could be in an appliance commercial, with a place for everything and everything in its damned place. Well, she thought, helping herself to a Golden Delicious apple, at least she didn’t have to worry about catching some deadly disease by eating his food.
Unlike when she spent the night with Doug, her last boyfriend.
She was glad to be rid of him and all those penicillin samples he grew in his refrigerator.
She just wished she’d been the one to end things.
Washing the apple, she looked out the window at James’s side yard. When she’d first seen his house, she’d been surprised. Not by the workmanship; she’d expect nothing less than the best from him and Montesano Construction. No, what had shocked her was that instead of a traditional, two-story house with an attached garage—and the same boring floor plan as half the houses in town—he’d gone with a log home design.
Guess even lifelong friends could surprise each other every now and again.
And, yes, he’d explained how his house combined contemporary design with waterfront, coastal and cottage elements and blah, blah, blah. Biting into the apple, she leaned against the counter. All she knew was that it was gorgeous, with vaulted ceilings, dozens of tall, narrow windows and a stone fireplace. A house that reflected well James’s love for rich woods, deep colors and simple furnishings.
The first floor consisted of a master suite, a small bathroom and laundry room and a country-style kitchen that opened into a huge great room. Upstairs, a loft overlooked the great room with a bedroom on each side, along with another bathroom. In the kitchen, he’d chosen wide, rough-hewn pine beams for the ceiling, narrower boards for the floor. Whitewashed, glass-front cupboards and slate-gray counters.
He had a good eye, she thought as she opened an upper cabinet and took out a jar of peanut butter and a box of crackers. At least architecturally. When it came to interior design, he still had a lot to learn.
It was like you were in a plywood box—wood, wood and more wood.
If this was her place, she’d switch things up. Add some color and visual interest with a tile design on the center island, fill the cupboards with thick, white ceramic dishware. She munched on a cracker, her eyes narrowed as she studied the room. A throw rug under the high-back wooden stools and a window treatment for softness, both with hints of burgundy...maybe even yellow for warmth.
Yeah, she thought, eating another cracker, that’s what she’d do. She’d turn this boring, bland house into a warm and welcoming home.
The cracker tasted like sawdust. Her scalp prickled with unease. With a sense of foreboding.
The sense that she was missing something by not having a place like that for herself.
Which was ridiculous. She didn’t want a home. Not a permanent one, anyway. Roots were well and good for her mom and sister—they didn’t mind being stuck in the same town, surrounded by the same people, doing the same things over and over again. Day after day. Year after year.
You might be able to have both roots and wings, but you couldn’t fly, couldn’t have true freedom with your feet planted in the ground.
That’s what she had, she assured herself, digging a spoon out of the utensil drawer before taking her food into the great room. Freedom. Choices. The ability to take off for new adventures or opportunities whenever the mood struck her.
The ease of leaving behind a crappy apartment, friends who were barely more than acquaintances and men she’d never really loved anyway when things went belly-up.
“Things always go belly-up,” she whispered to Elvis as she settled onto the couch.
With a sigh that was made up of more oh-woe-is-me than any self-respecting, independent woman should experience, she curled her legs under her.
The moon shone through the bank of floor-to-ceiling windows and cast dappled shadows across the braided rug in the middle of the room. Like the kitchen, this room, too, was a study in browns—plush leather couch and two armchairs the color of chocolate, russet-and-tan oval braided rug, oak coffee and end tables.
The man really needed some color in his life.
Built-in shelves filled with books and framed photos lined both sides of the fireplace and a large, flat-screen TV hung on the opposite wall. When they had gotten to his house after the party, James had helped her give Elvis a bath before calling it a night. Though she was exhausted, Sadie had tossed and turned for hours on the comfy double bed in the guest room upstairs.
“What are you doing up?”
She squeaked and almost dropped her spoon. Sticking it into the peanut butter, she glared at James. “You about gave me a heart attack, sneaking up on me in that ninja way of yours.”
“Please tell me I’m sleepwalking,” he said from his bedroom’s doorway, his deep voice gravelly, Zoe at his side, “and you’re not really eating my peanut butter straight from the jar.”
“I’m not really eating your peanut butter from the jar,” she said around the spoon in her mouth. “You’re sleepwalking. It’s all just a dream. A horrible, horrible dream.”
James crossed to the floor lamp and turned it on—the better to illuminate his adorable scowl. He was so cute, trying to be all stern and angry with her.
Thank God that would never happen. He was too sweet, too even-tempered and well, too dang nice to lose his cool, much less get mad at her.
He towered over her. “If you let that dog lick the spoon then put it back in there I’m tossing you both out.”
He seemed...bigger somehow. Broader. His faded Pittsburgh Pirates T-shirt clung to his shoulders, his sweatpants hung low on his flat stomach. He should have looked harmless, funny with his dark hair sticking up on one side, his eyes heavy with sleep.
Her breath shouldn’t be stuck in her throat just from looking at him. She shouldn’t want to smooth his hair, keep her hand there to run her fingers through the strands.
She swallowed hard. “Do people really eat after their pets?” She used the spoon to scoop out more peanut butter. Ate it, though she wasn’t sure she could get it past the tightness in her throat. “That doesn’t seem very hygienic.”
“You’re like a teenage boy,” he grumbled.
She choked back a surprised laugh. “Not sure that’s an accurate assessment, but seeing as how it’s so late, I won’t hold it against you. What are you doing up? Couldn’t sleep?”
He grunted.
“Do you happen to have a pocket translator I could borrow?” she asked. “I don’t speak caveman.”
“I heard footsteps.”
Instantly contrite, she sat up straight. “I’m sorry. Elvis and I thought we were being very stealthlike.”
“You probably were, but Zoe hears every sound. She woke me, I heard you moving around and here I am. What’s your excuse?”
She wished she knew. For weeks...months...she’d been restless. On edge.
Unhappy.
No, she corrected quickly, not unhappy. More like...dissatisfied. Unsure of what she should do next, where she should go. Sometimes she was even unsure of who she was anymore. Who she wanted to be.
“Elvis and I just wanted a snack.”
“How can you be hungry? My mom had enough food at the party for two hundred people.”
“I didn’t get a chance to eat much.”
“That’s because you didn’t stop talking long enough to take a breath, let alone eat.”
“I’m sociable and people want to chat with me. It’s a burden. Hey,” she said, remembering her earlier promise to the dog, “want to order a pizza?”
“Where are you going to find a pizza parlor open at two forty-five in the morning?”
Good question. Panoli’s, her favorite pizza place in Shady Grove, was probably long closed. “We could drive into Pitts—”
“Sadie.” His voice was soft, his gaze patient. “What’s wrong?”
His kindness undid her. “I screwed up,” she admitted, injecting a lightness she didn’t feel into her tone. “Nothing new there.”
Nothing new except that this time—for the first time—screwing up, failing so spectacularly, bothered her. It had been weeks, and she still hadn’t been able to shake off the sense of malaise, of disappointment in herself.
She shook her head. Tried to smile. “Hey, I have something for you,” she said. “I’ll be right back.”
She hurried up the stairs and into the room on the left, dug through her suitcase until she found the brightly wrapped package. When she returned downstairs, he was on the couch, his legs straight, his head resting against the back.
“Happy birthday,” she said, holding the present out.
Looking from her to the gift and back again, he sat up.
But he didn’t take it.
For some stupid reason, nerves settled in her stomach. “I hope you don’t mind that it’s technically late—though I’d like to point out only by a few hours.”
Finally, he took the present. “You didn’t have to get me anything.”
“Of course I did. It’s your birthday. Besides, I’m hoping this’ll make up for not getting you anything the past few years.”
He stared at the package in his hands. “I don’t expect anything from you, Sadie.”
He didn’t. Never had. She appreciated it. Counted on it. “I know, but I saw this and I had to get it for you.”
James was so thoughtful, always sending her flowers or her favorite chocolates on her birthday while the most she usually did was give him a call. It wasn’t as if she didn’t think about him—she did. Often.
“Besides,” she continued, “this isn’t the first gift I’ve given you. Two years ago I sent you that subscription to National Geographic.”
“It was four years ago. And you sent it a month late.”
“I did?”
Not seeming upset about it, he nodded and unwrapped the present. His smile bloomed, slow and warm. “This is great.”
Relieved, she sat next to him. “You like it?”
“Are you kidding?” He opened the first-edition copy of The Adventures of Tom Sawyer, his long fingers smoothing the aged pages. “I love it.” Wrapping one arm around her shoulders, he gave her a quick hug. “Thank you.”
She had to force herself not to lean into him for longer than necessary, but he felt so good, so solid and warm and strong. Steady. She may not want steadiness in her life too often, but it might be a nice change of pace now and again.
Brushing her hair over her shoulder, she eased away and swung her legs up so she sat cross-legged. “I’m glad you like it.”
Silence surrounded them, the quiet hush of night, the only sound their breathing, the dogs’ nails clicking as they walked across the floor. It was peaceful. She’d never craved peace before, had always preferred the exhilaration of the next adventure, the surprise of jumping off that cliff, seeing how far she could fly before having her wings clipped.
But this, being with James in his overly drab house, was nice.
It was also dangerous. Sitting so close to him, wearing nothing more than a pair of cotton shorts and a T-shirt. He shifted, his knee brushing her bare thigh. He stiffened at the contact, but didn’t pull away. His gaze flicked to her chest before jerking up to her face again.
Her breasts grew heavy. Her heart pounded in her ears.
Dangerous. Exciting.
Two of her very favorite things.
Afraid he’d go to bed, that he’d leave her, she blurted, “So, what’s been going on with you? How’s work?”
“You know me,” he said, setting the book on the coffee table. “Same old, same old.”
“That’s good. I mean, that is how you like things. No surprises. No...bumps in the road.”
“That what happened in New Orleans? You hit one of those bumps?”
He knew her well. Too well.
She almost didn’t answer. She was feeling too vulnerable now. But this was James. He’d never take advantage of her weak state. And she was still strong enough not to give too much of herself away.
“Actually, things were going great in New Orleans. Really, really great.”
“And yet, here you are.”
“Yeah, well, I wouldn’t say I hit a bump. More like the bottom dropped out. I wasn’t able to make enough tending bar and Doug—”
“Who’s Doug?”
“My boyfriend. Ex-boyfriend.”
“What happened to Tim?”
“We split up a year ago.” He’d dumped her for not being adventurous enough in bed to agree to bring in a second woman. As if she’d subject another woman to Tim’s clumsy hands and short...stamina. “Doug worked on an oil rig, but that was only until he got his big break.”
“Don’t tell me,” James said blandly. “Doug is a musician.”
“Artist.” Though he’d had that whole rock-star vibe to him. Long hair, scruffy facial hair, a penchant for wearing ripped jeans and his battered leather jacket. And then there was his Harley. Man, don’t get her started on that—talk about sex on a stick. Doug was perfect for her.
Until he’d found another muse.
Oh, well. Easy come, easy go.
“Anyway, Doug and I split a few months ago, and since the whole organic beauty products weren’t working out, I decided to come home.”
Had wanted to come home. To be home.
“That’s it?” he asked, studying her in that way she hated, as if seeing through all her bullshit, right to her soul. A girl had to have some secrets, didn’t she? “There aren’t any warrants out for your arrest? No ex-boyfriends you owe money to?”
“Of course not,” she said primly. “You know I don’t borrow money.”
It was a line, one of few that she refused to cross. Fail or succeed, she did it on her own.
He linked his hands together behind his head, causing the muscles in his arms to bulge and flex. “What are your plans?”
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