Karen Rose - Montana Dreaming

Several minutes after Mark left, Juliet continued to stare at the closed door, her fingers pressed softly to her lips.

What had just happened?

She wasn’t sure, but it was more than the kiss that had her heart and mind singing. It was her response to it. That and the overwhelming urge to kiss Mark again. To make sure she hadn’t imagined how sweet, how special, how arousing his mouth had been.

Mark’s kiss had been so different from those Erik had given her.

Erik’s mouth and tongue had been urgent, insistent. The kind of kisses that took her a while to warm up to. On the other hand, Mark, who seemed to know exactly what he was doing, had taken things slow and easy.

She hadn’t been lying when she’d told Mark that she’d probably walk across the room for sex. It had been nice with Erik. Pleasant, once she caught up to his speed. But more than the act itself, she’d enjoyed the intimacy. The embrace, the touch of someone she’d cared about. But now Erik’s lovemaking skills paled.

If the promise in Mark’s kiss was an indication of what had been lacking in Erik’s, Juliet suspected making love with Mark might prove to be very special indeed. A stimulating opportunity she’d not only walk across the room for, but, in anticipation, would turn off a perfectly good television show along the way.

But how likely was that?

Her hand slowly dropped to her swollen womb, reminding her to focus on motherhood and the new baby she’d soon hold in her arms.

But if Juliet weren’t pregnant, she might be tempted to find out what Mark knew about pleasuring a lady that Erik hadn’t known.

The next morning, Juliet woke to the aroma of fresh-brewed coffee.

Mark was proving to be an intriguing man, in spite of his cynical nature. The kind of man who made a woman smile when he wasn’t around. The kind of man who provoked dreams of romance.

But Juliet knew better than to let silly romantic notions do anything but drift by the wayside. She and Mark had nothing in common.

So why had she spent so much time thinking about him last night? Dreaming about long, lingering kisses that stirred the blood and made her want to slip on a pair of track shoes so she could sprint across the room for another taste of his lips?

She blew out a sigh and climbed from bed. What was wrong with her? She didn’t have any business thinking about Mark, his kiss or romance.

For goodness’ sake, she was going to be a mother. And if she ever became involved with any one else, it would be with a man who’d make a good husband and father. A man who would take pride in his wife and child while barbecuing in the backyard on Sundays. Someone who held the same family values that she did.

And Mark Anderson, a pessimist who disliked Thunder Canyon and wasn’t concerned over the falling out he’d had with his parents, wouldn’t fit the bill.

Sure, he’d been good to her, a true friend. He’d also been a great listener, although he hadn’t told her very much about himself.

Maybe she ought to quiz him a bit. Find out about the rift he’d had with his parents. Then maybe she could help facilitate a reconciliation.

Families were special.

More than anyone, Juliet knew that. And, if she could get Mark to see the value of a nurturing, loving support system, it would be one way to pay him back for being so good to her.

She slipped on her blue robe and strode into the living area, where he sat at the dinette table, his laptop open, a coffee cup at his side.

“Hey,” he said, offering her a smile. “Sleep okay?”

Not really. She’d stewed for way too long about the kiss they’d shared—so long that she couldn’t get into that book on pregnancy and childbirth she’d picked up at the library last Saturday. But there was no way she’d make a confession like that. “I slept all right. How about you?”

He glanced at the sofa, where the folded blanket rested on his pillow. “Not bad.”

She noticed that he’d taken a shower and shaved. His hair, a bit long and unruly, was still damp. He’d put on a fresh white T-shirt and a pair of worn jeans, but his feet were bare.

He’d made himself at home, which was interesting. Comforting, she supposed.

In the six months she’d dated Erik, he’d never spent the night. Never made a pot of coffee. Never left a shaving kit in her bathroom. She hadn’t thought anything about it at the time. Nor had she realized he’d been holding back on their relationship.

So, in a way, it pleased her to know that Mark had settled in, that he’d slept on the sofa. That he’d felt comfortable enough to take a shower in her bathroom. That he’d carefully put away his things, zipping the small leather bag closed. How neat and thoughtful was that?

With the morning sun at his back, blessing him in a glowing aura, he looked as though he belonged here—in her living room with his work spread out in front of him.

He scooted his chair back, the metal legs snagging on the matted green carpet. “I can fix cereal again. And after you’ve eaten, I’ll head to the market and do some shopping.”

“Okay.” She made her way into the room, taking a seat at the table, and nodded at his laptop computer. “How’s the research going?”

“I guess it’s going all right. I’m learning some things about the early days of Thunder Canyon, things I remember my history teacher telling us in school. Things I didn’t care about back then.”

“What kind of things did you care about?” she asked, wanting to know more about Mark, his youth, his life.

“Football. Parties. Girls.” He slid her a wry smile. “The stuff that an adolescent surge of testosterone produces.”

She returned his smile, as if she understood the typical teenage lifestyle. But she hadn’t gotten caught up in any high school activities. Not when she was working after class let out so she could help Manny pay the bills.

“Were you a good student?” she asked.

“Not as good as my dad thought I should be.”

Ah, an opening she could zero in on. “I’m sure he was proud of you, too.”

“Not that I can remember.” The sixties-style dinette chair squeaked, as Mark leaned back in his seat and stretched out his feet. “My mom said that from the time I chucked my first bottle out of the playpen, my dad and I were constantly butting heads.”

“What kind of things did you argue about?”

“Everything. About my grades. The way I swung the bat during a Little League game. The hairstyle I chose. The music I listened to. The friends I had. My lazy-ass attitude around the house.”

Was the relationship between Mark and his dad just a normal part of adolescent rebellion? A result of that surge of testosterone he’d mentioned earlier?

If that were the case, would their relationship be better now—if given a chance to start fresh?

She placed her elbows on the table and leaned forward, as far as her belly would allow. “Now that you’re grown, do you think that maybe your father had a point about any of those things?”

He paused for a while, pondering her question, she supposed. Or maybe reevaluating his memories.

“He was right about my attitude. But it was tough to live with constant criticism, and eventually I got sick and tired of it.”

“So you rebelled.”

“That’s about the size of it. But things got worse after he uprooted the family. My sister and I wanted to stay in Texas with my grandmother.”

“Why did he decide to move here?”

“Because some great-uncle we’d never met died and left my dad a motel at the edge of town and a cabin-style home about ten miles up Turner Grade.” Mark shook his head. “And to make matters worse, my dad insisted upon living in the mountains. It was hard not having neighbors, especially when my parents were in town all the time.”