Beth Andrews - Small-Town Redemption

“A slob?”

“No,” she breathed, the lie like a stone in her throat, choking her. “I mean, maybe I’d briefly considered you’d be...less tidy. With a motorcycle in the living room, a pet boa constrictor and a closet filled with scarred leather jackets.”

“Stairway’s too narrow for my bike,” he said solemnly. “But who says the other two aren’t true?”

She swallowed. He was probably kidding about the snake. Still, she stepped closer to him, kept an eye out for any sudden, slithering movements. “Anyway, it’s nice. That you’re tidy. Did you learn that in the military?”

In the act of getting a coffee mug from an upper cabinet, he paused. “I never told you I was in the service.”

“Everyone knows. Small town. No secrets.” Though seeing him now, he seemed a far cry from a spit-shined soldier. “Do you miss it? Being a Marine?”

He looked at her as if she’d just slapped his face and called his mother ugly. “I was a Ranger. In the Army.”

“Ranger. That’s Special Forces, right?”

He grunted.

So charming.

“I’m sorry,” she said, “I always get them confused. Is it one grunt for yes, and two for no?”

No smile. No glint of humor in those green eyes. Nothing. He simply watched the coffeemaker as if it held the answers to life’s most pressing questions. Since he refused to notice what a fetching image she made, she straightened. She needed a few more sessions at the yoga studio before she could hold the arched pose for any length of time, especially after a twelve-hour shift in the E.R.

Covering her mouth with the back of her hand, she yawned so hard her eyes watered. A shift that was quickly catching up with her.

She wandered into the living room. His apartment was small, maybe half the size of her own, with a view of the empty armory building next door and the Dumpster in the alley.

She continued her exploration, trailing her fingers over the back of a checked high-back chair when he stepped into the doorway. He leaned against the doorjamb, the angle causing his stomach muscles to clench, the ridges clearly defined. Steam rose from the mug in his hand as he sipped his coffee, his biceps rounding with the movement.

Now that was somebody who knew how to pose.

She felt his gaze on her, steady and searching, as she crossed the room, so she put a bit of sway into her walk, and wished there was more to see, to pretend to study, but the man put the minimal in minimalist. Other than the ugly chair, the only furnishings in the room were a small, flat-screen TV on top of a scarred wooden end table and a lumpy floral couch. No knickknacks. No decorative pillows or throws. No pictures or personal effects at all.

She glanced down the small hallway. The door to the right was shut—bathroom?—the other, at the end of the hall, open far enough to give her a glimpse of his bed, the covers rumpled, the pillow still indented from his head.

She imagined him getting out of that bed, tugging his jeans on, cursing and muttering about people interrupting his precious sleep.

Was the bed still warm from his body? Were his sheets soft or crisp? Did his scent linger on the pillow?

She crossed to stand in front of him. Funny how now that he looked at her, she felt more vulnerable, exposed, though he was the one only half-dressed. She had no idea what to do, what to say to get him to cooperate with her. That was the problem with not making plans. No road map. She needed one. Her sense of direction sucked.

“Uh...I’m...uh...thinking of getting a tattoo,” she said.

He raked his gaze over her, from the top of her extremely smooth hair to the tips of her ridiculously high heels. “That so?”

Did he have to sound condescending? So disbelieving?

“That’s so.” She edged closer, breathed in the rich scent of coffee, the spiciness of his soap, surprised by how pleasant she found the combination. “Did they hurt?” she continued, her tone husky. Breathless.

He shrugged. Lifted the mug to his mouth again, almost clipping her on the chin.

She wanted to swipe it out of his hand, throw the damn thing against the wall. Couldn’t he see she was flirting with him? The least he could do was reciprocate, especially when she was so out of her element.

Hard not to be when he was the epitome of physical perfection. She should have known he’d look like some freaking underwear model.

While she was too tall. Too thin. With small breasts and more angles than curves.

She’d have to make sure they kept the lights off when it came time to get naked.

When he lowered his arm, she touched the tip of the sword on his biceps. Traced her fingertip up the sharp line to the flame. His skin was warm. Softer than she’d expected.

“What does this one mean?” When he didn’t answer, she tried a teasing smile, one that would bring out her dimple—and hopefully loosen him up a bit. “Or did you just think it was pretty?”

His body went rigid. “In some cultures it symbolizes judgment.”

“Judgment,” she whispered almost to herself. “I would have thought you’d choose a different emblem, something more...antiestablishment. Skull and crossbones or a hand with the middle finger sticking up.”

“What are you doing?”

His question startled her, the low timbre of his voice causing gooseflesh to prick her arms.

She licked her lips. His eyes, following the movement, narrowed to slits. “Wha—what do you mean?”

He looked pointedly at her hand still on his arm, her fingers caressing the smoothness of his skin as if of their own will.

Her first instinct was to leap back, to put as much distance between them as possible. But that would defeat the purpose of her visit, wouldn’t it? She could do this.

She’d come too far to back down now.

Charlotte flattened her palm against his biceps, and he tensed, the muscle flexing momentarily before relaxing. “I’m touching you,” she said softly, smoothing her hand up his arm and settling it on his shoulder.

Oh, please don’t let my palms start sweating. Not now.

“Why are you touching me?”

Seriously? You’d think it was the first time the man had been hit on by a woman. Jeez. “Because I want to.”

Determined, and more than a little terrified, she laid her other hand on his opposite shoulder and held his gaze, annoyed and deflated when his remained steady. She wanted to fluster him, for him feel a fraction of the nerves, of the crazy energy, she felt whenever they were together.

Thanks to her high heels, it was easy, incredibly easy, to link her hands behind his neck and tug his head down. Her heart pounded painfully. Good Lord she hoped she didn’t have a coronary. Not now, not when his mouth was inches from her own, his breath mingling with hers.

She brushed a soft kiss across his mouth. Leaned back, her stomach in knots. But Kane didn’t jerk as if she’d tossed acid in his face, didn’t push her away as if she were some leper come to spread her disease. Didn’t treat her as if she were unattractive. Unwanted.

As James had when she’d kissed him.

Kane simply watched her. Patient, curious and waiting for her next move.

Emboldened, she stepped closer until their thighs touched, her breasts pressing against his chest, his warmth seeping through the silk of her shirt. She wished he would take the initiative, would sweep her up in his arms and carry her to his bed. That he’d take control and show her how this was done.

He didn’t move.

She should kiss him again, a real kiss, one with tongue, but she was frozen, unable to move. Unable to think. There was something about the way he looked at her that made her want to curl into herself, to slink away. But she wasn’t a quitter. The only way to get what you wanted was to go after it.