Susan Connell - Tall, Dark And Temporary

“I’ll give you a hint,” he said, taking a step inside the kitchen. He turned down the volume on the radio, then raised his hands in mock surrender. “It’s not Elvis.”

Her green eyes widened. And those full, soft and lusciously kissable lips parted. The last time he saw her, she had the same expression on her face. He smiled with purely masculine satisfaction, knowing that he could still elicit the same response. And this time, he hadn’t even stolen a kiss from her.

“Remember me, Megan?”

“Nick?” she whispered, lowering the cream puff. “Nick Buchanan?” Her disbelieving stare continued for several more enjoyable seconds. Then she laughed.

He remembered her laugh. Flustered and hesitant, the breathy exhalation sounded the same as it had a decade ago when he’d held her in his arms and danced with her at her prom. And right or wrong, for better or worse, he knew why she was the first person he’d asked about on his return. He knew it from the way her laughter still echoed through him.

She shifted her backside against the edge of the table, then nervously licked at the corner of her mouth. A rosy blush continued creeping over her cheeks.

“You surprised me,” she said as she tried and failed to maintain eye contact with him. “I—I was just—”

“You certainly were,” he said, referring to the sexy dance he’d caught her performing. “And doing a damn fine job of it, too.”

When she brushed her fingers across her face and under her chin, he looked for a ring and saw none. Good, he thought, pleased beyond measure to know another man’s wife wasn’t having this stirring effect on him.

In the shared and silent stares that followed, the only sounds came from the hum of the refrigerator, punctuated by the occasional crackle from the bug zapper outside in the alley. The moment shimmered with the almost painful pleasure of knowing he hadn’t been wrong all those years ago. Maybe it was revealed at night and only in her kitchen, but Megan’s budding sensuality had definitely blossomed.

“You cut your hair.”

“You let yours grow.”

This time they laughed together and he knew he could easily spend the rest of the night in that kitchen exchanging banalities with her. What did he care about the paperwork waiting for him in his hotel room? Or the dozen or so calls he had to make before his meeting tomorrow night? He’d stumbled on his own welcome-home party and he wasn’t planning to leave anytime soon.

“You look good, Megan.”

“So do you.”

Smiling at her whispered reply, he picked up the can of sugar, took it across the room and set it next to the tray. When he turned to face her, he realized he was close enough to brush the sugar from her forehead... or lick it from her cheek. The thought made his mouth go dry. He leaned his hip against the edge of the table and pointed at the cream puff.

“You have a license to use that, lady?”

“What?” She looked at the pastry in her right hand, then rolled her eyes as she replaced it on the tray.

“So what are you doing here?” he asked, pretending Rebecca hadn’t already told him. “Besides making cream puffs to lob at your old friends.”

“I bought out Bailey’s.” Tucking a lock of hair behind her ear, she looked up at him and smiled. “This is all mine,” she said, opening her arms, “as long as I pay the rent.”

He nodded, noting she was finally beginning to relax a little. “From the looks of things when I walked in, I’d say you bring a lot of enthusiasm to your work. But I thought that Andy Sloan would have had you living in one of those big houses out on Red Oak Road by now,” he said, referring to the most exclusive area in Follett River.

She looked away, rubbing her thumb against her lips as his gaze drifted over her. The signs of her sensual nature were still there, peeking through as surely as the white satin strap of her bra peeked out of her grape-colored top. Or in the curvy white-blond tempting-to-touch hair tickling at her collarbone. His gaze wandered to her eyes, then drifted downward again. “So whatever happened to Andy?”

“Nick,” she said, folding her arms across her midriff, effectively cutting off his view of the taut belly softly punctuated by a sugar-filled navel. “Andy did marry me.”

Nick blinked, then looked up, his lighthearted mood disappearing in her news flash. She was another man’s wife; she’d probably removed her wedding band when she’d started to make the pastries. Where was his head? A beautiful, sensual creature like Megan not married?

“Whoa,” he said, taking a step back. “I have been away a long time, haven’t I?” He tubbed at the back of his neck, then gave her an apologetic wink. “How is Andy? Still shaking up everyone over at the country club with his tennis scores? Did he become district attorney, like you predicted?”

Megan stared into the darkened dining room of the café. “Nick, Andy died.”

If hearing she was married had surprised him, this news threatened to take his breath away. “Megan, I am really sorry. I had no idea.”

“That’s okay,” she said, offering him a forgiving smile before her gaze shifted to the floor.

“How did it happen?” he asked, then wished he hadn’t. The last thing he wanted to do was make her feel more uncomfortable by dragging up heavyhearted memories.

“He’d been away on business in the southern part of the state,” she said, staring at her white tennis shoes. She crossed one foot over the other and rested it on its toe. “He was driving back and fell asleep at the wheel.”

Nick gave a sympathetic shake of his head. What he wanted to do was take her in his arms and comfort her, but that was probably the last thing she wanted from him after he’d just been teasing her about Andy.

Shifting uneasily, he studied her profile, hoping to find a clue for what to do or say next. Her eyes were dry. Her chin wasn’t trembling. Her lips weren’t quivering. All in all, she was handling the tragedy remarkably well. Come to think of it, he wasn’t surprised. Even at the untested age of eighteen, she had impressed him with an unusual strength of character. That same strength was now seeing her through the brittle reality of death.

Closing his hand over her shoulder, he managed, in the process, to tangle his fingers in her silky blond vanilla-scented hair. Those strands of hair might as well be made of steel cables and her shoulder a magnet holding him fast. He swallowed hard. Until that moment, he had no idea how strong his desire was to touch her. “Megan, is there anything I can do?”

Keeping her head bowed, she smoothed the toe of her shoe along an imaginary line on the floor. “It happened a long time ago.”

“I see,” he said, giving her shoulder a comforting squeeze while he tried and failed to ignore what her nearness was doing to him.

Looking up at him, she let her gaze wander over his face, as if she were seeing it for the first time. Or memorizing it for the last time. Whatever the case, that glimmer of heated awareness he saw in her eyes was undeniable. So was that tugging sensation low in his belly. “How long ago, Megan?”

She was staring at his mouth now. “This September will be six years.”

“Six years,” he repeated as vague feelings of guilt scattered to make way for the relief rushing through him. Six years? The tension he hadn’t realized he’d been holding in his shoulders began to uncoil. He wasn’t certain about the protocol on such things, but six years sounded like a long enough grieving period to him. By the look in Megan’s eyes, he thought it safe to assume that she did, too.

He lifted a lock of her hair and moved it behind her shoulder. “Six years is a long time to be alone,” he said, one breath away from a kiss.