Riverstorm Page 7

  He smiled as he tapped just below her collarbone. “Your beauty comes from here. If you live to be ninety, you’ll still be the most beautiful girl in the world.”

  “You always knew what to say to make me happy.”

  “That’s all I ever wanted.” He traced her collarbone with his fingertips. “Anyway, you just need a little ice cream occasionally. That’s how I keep my robust figure.”

  “You’re not robust,” she said, laughing. “Muscles are not robustness.”

  “Wait here. I’ll get your door.”

  He was around the car in a second and offered his hand to help her get safely to the ground. She let him keep her hand as they walked across the uneven walkway that led to the back of the house.

  The air smelled of lemon and eucalyptus. A metal fence encompassed the back yard. She opened the gate and walked ahead of him, her legs wobbly. Was it the wine or the nearness of Grant?

  “Nice yard,” he said.

  “Thanks. I had it put in when I bought the house a few years ago.”

  A kidney bean shaped pool and covered patio made up most of the space. Strategically placed rocks and drought resistant plants complemented the rustic patio furniture and outdoor grill.

  “Do you swim much?” he asked.

  “Not really.” She paid a fortune to keep the pool maintained and rarely used it. A satisfactory status symbol, but ultimately a waste of money for a woman who worked all the time. “Actually, never.”

  “You should. It would relax you,” he said.

  “You sound like my secretary. Only she says church, not swimming.” The hinge squeaked as she opened the back door to the mudroom where a set of modern white cabinets and shelves stored everything from rain boots to light bulbs. From the outside, it was neat and orderly, with various pieces of pottery and books, arranged strategically for maximum charm by her decorator, on the granite countertop. Inside the drawers, however, a disorderly pile of useless items awaited the unfortunate soul who opened them. A mess. Kind of like me.

  Joel hated her messiness. He’d given her an organization book as a birthday gift. Ironically, it was buried in one of the mudroom drawers.

  The house alarm squealed. She tossed her suit jacket and purse on the counter and punched in the code. “Okay, we’re safe now.”

  He stepped inside, taking up most of the mudroom. She’d forgotten how he made rooms look smaller. “You need some WD-40 for that door hinge. It’ll get rid of the squeak.”

  “I’ll get right on that,” she said.

  “Next time I come over, I’ll bring some.”

  Next time? Would there be a next time? “Come on inside, handy man.” She led him into her kitchen. Fortunately, her cleaners had come that morning. White cabinets and black countertops were polished to their ultimate sheen. The space was like a movie set, mostly because no one cooked in it. She grabbed water from the refrigerator and kicked off her heels. Instant relief. “I swear life would be easier if I didn’t have to wear high heels.”

  “You wear them well.” He leaned on the kitchen island, resting on his elbows.

  She flushed at the compliment as she slid the water bottle across the countertop. He was charming. No question. If only he were a little less.

  He left the water on the island and walked over to where she stood by the sink. Without her heels, he towered over her. She shivered.

  His hands encircled her bare upper arms. “Are you cold?”

  She almost moaned at the feel of his skin on hers. “Not cold, no. Something else.”

  They locked eyes. He wants me. I want him. Fire between them. Just like always.

  He let go of her arms. “You promised me bourbon.” His eyes gleamed in the dim light.

  “Bar’s in the living room.” She didn’t move. Couldn’t move. It was like a magnet pulled them together.

  He brushed a thumb across her cheek. “You don’t look like a wicked witch. More like an angel.”

  Every nerve ending twitched and pulsed. The scent of his skin weakened every defense and unleashed a craving that nothing and no one could quench but Grant. He stepped closer. Her arms fell at her sides. She dropped the bottle of water; it rolled several feet across the tile floor. His eyes flickered as the heat between them raged.

  He broke the gaze first. “I’ll get some ice for our drinks. You still like your bourbon on the rocks and mostly water?”

  “That’s right. And you like yours neat. Two fingers.” She held up two fingers.

  “My fingers. Your tiny hands are not a proper guide for a pour.” He grinned as he headed for the freezer.

  With great effort, she forced herself to go into the living room. I don’t want to be away from him for even a minute. I’m in so much trouble.

  Her living room was decorated in light green and eggshell with splashes of blue in pillows and vases. She’d asked her decorator to make a space that relaxed her. A soft couch and several plush chairs were arranged around a square coffee table made from the boards of a resurfaced barn. A shabby chic cabinet in the corner served as both a bar and a dish hutch. She opened the cabinet and grabbed the decanter of bourbon she kept for when her father visited. She never had a glass; the taste of the amber liquor never failed to remind her of Grant.

  Grant walked over to her, carrying a small bowl of ice. She made them both a drink before joining him on the couch. He’d taken off his shoes. His blue socks matched the throw pillows on her couch. Perhaps that’s why he looked like he belonged there?

  “Your house is great,” he said, accepting the drink.

  She set two coasters on the coffee table. After she took a sip of her drink, she put her glass on one of them. “I’m going to run upstairs and change into some jeans. I won’t be but a minute.”

  “Yeah. Great. That way I can snoop,” he said.

  She smiled. “Feel free. Just don’t lecture me on the messy state of the drawers.”

  “Why would I do that?” he asked.

  She studied him for a moment, unsure if he was teasing. Did he not recall how disorganized she could be? “You might not remember how messy I am. I throw everything into drawers and closets before my cleaners come, then forget that I’ve done it. When I open a drawer, I’m often surprised at its contents.”

  “That doesn’t sound like a serious offense, counselor.” He crossed one leg over the other and took a sip of his drink.

  She shot him a smile before heading upstairs to change. Bees buzzed in her chest. Happy bees. Singing bees. In her bedroom, she discarded her work clothes and put on a t-shirt and pair of loose-fitting jeans she’d tossed on the chair the night before. She checked herself in the mirror. Horrified at how tired and wan she looked, she settled for running a brush through her hair and pinching her cheeks to scare up a little color. Any further repairs would certainly be noted by Grant. She didn’t want to seem like she cared how she looked for him. She did care. Way too much.

  When she returned to the living room, he was standing at the bookshelf, leafing through a coffee table book featuring great inns of America. It had been a gift from Peggy last Christmas with a card that suggested she might like to take time off and enjoy one of these inns with her favorite sister.

  She watched him from her location at the bottom of the stairs until he glanced up from the book. “Hey.” He’d taken off his button-down shirt and wore a white t-shirt that showed off his muscular chest. A jab of desire coursed through her.

  Darkness had fallen outside the windows. She turned on another lamp and grabbed her drink. He placed the book back on the shelf, watching her. “Better?” he asked, indicating her clothes.

  “Much. Should I turn on some music?”

  “Sure.”

  He stepped closer as a ballad filled the room. “I love his rough voice. Do you follow him?”

  She moved a vase on the cabinet two inches to the left. “I don’t listen to country music these days.”

  “Why?” He tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, forcing her to look
over at him. “You used to love it.”

  “I know.” Music had been an instant conversation starter the first day they’d met.

  “Do you remember what we talked about the first day we met?” he asked.

  “Like it was yesterday.” He’d slipped into the seat next to her in the lecture hall on the first day of law school. They were fifteen minutes early, and the hall was nearly empty. He could have chosen any seat, but he’d picked the one next to her. She wore a t-shirt she’d bought at a Garth Brooks concert when she was a freshman in college. It was her favorite—soft and comfortable. Good things happened when she wore it. She hoped it would be a good luck charm for the first day of law school.

  Next to her, Grant leaned closer. “I went to the same concert.”

  “Pardon me?”

  “Your t-shirt. I saw him too. Same night. I have the same t-shirt. Only quite a bit larger.”

  “Really? Weird.” She smiled at him. Why was he talking to her? He was good-looking, with a quality that reminded her of a wild animal, untamed and fearless. She’d only recently started wearing contacts instead of glasses. Was it that? Could he not tell she was a shy, nerdy girl?

  “Isn’t it, though? Think of it. We were there on the very same night. If only I’d known, we could have sat together.” A wolfish grin and the glint in his blue eyes sent goosebumps up and down her arms.

  “You can’t just sit in any seat you want,” she said. “There’s protocol.”

  He tugged on his ear and tilted his head to the right, observing her. “A rule follower. Interesting.”

  “Well, yes. Aren’t you? I mean, isn’t that why you go to law school? To interpret rules?”

  “Maybe so.” He held out his hand. “I’m Grant Perry.”

  “Liz Teeny.” They shook. Callouses.

  “Teeny? Your last name suits you.”

  “If I had a nickel,” she said.

  He laughed. “Touché.”

  Now, he turned her to face him. “What do you listen to these days?”

  Licks from a steel guitar came out of the speakers like an old friend. “Just pop from the radio. I don’t really follow music much.”

  “Really? Lizzie, I’m shocked.”

  “What’s the old song from Elton John?”

  “Sad Songs Say So Much?” he asked.

  “Right. Sad songs make me sad.” She turned away, finishing her drink as she made her way across the room. He followed her. She set her empty glass on the coaster. His drink was also empty. Two empty glasses, once with ice and one without, sat next to each other. Like us. The bourbon had returned her buzz. As she was about to sink into the couch, he held out his hand.

  “No sitting. No sadness.” He yanked her to her feet and brought her close, an arm encircling her shoulder. “You’re going to dance with me.”

  He took her left hand in his and encircled her waist with the other. Without her shoes, she came to his chest. She had no choice but to rest her cheek against him. His heart beat in rhythm to the music. The ballad ended, and a faster-paced song started. They swayed to the music without much foot movement.

  “I remember this,” he said.

  “We were too broke to go to a bar, so we made our own dance floor.”

  “Those were some great nights.”

  “The best.” She spoke into his chest.

  They danced to several songs, the music and movement taking the place of conversation. After the fourth song ended, he spoke softly into her ear. “I want ice cream.”

  “Ice cream?”

  “I’m dying for some.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake. Let’s go see.”

  In the kitchen, she opened the freezer. “All I have is half a pint of mint chocolate chip. That’s my niece’s favorite. She’s the only other guest who’s ever asked for ice cream.”

  He laughed. “Well, she obviously has her priorities straight.”

  She handed him the carton and a spoon. “Enjoy.”

  “There’s hardly any left.” He shoveled a spoonful into his mouth. “So good. You want some?”

  “No thank you. I’m still full from dinner.” What she wanted was another drink. Keep the buzz going. Otherwise, she might start thinking clearly.

  He scooped another spoonful and held it toward her. “Doesn’t it look delicious? Come on, just one bite.”

  “Fine.” She scooted over to where he stood by the island and reached for the spoon.

  He moved the spoon out her reach, shaking his head. “Come closer.”

  She sidled up next to him.

  “Now open up.”

  “Don’t drip it on me,” she said.

  “Shh…just open your pretty mouth.”

  This time she obeyed. The sweet, creamy ice cream melted on her tongue. “Delicious.”

  He set the spoon aside. “Unless you tell me no, I’m going to kiss you.”

  “I won’t tell you no,” she whispered.

  He hoisted her onto the kitchen island like she weighed no more than a doll and settled between her legs.

  She held her breath, waiting for his mouth.

  He traced her bottom lip with his index finger. “I could spend every waking moment looking at you and it still wouldn’t be enough.” He cupped her face between his hands and kissed her. She breathed in his familiar scent. How could he still taste the same? How had she ever kissed anyone but him?

  With her arms around his neck, she pressed her chest to his bulky frame. His hands moved from her face to her thighs as his kiss deepened in urgency. She met him with the same intensity. If only this moment could last forever.

  The squeak of the back door pulled her from the trance. Someone was here. Oh, crap, it’s Joel. He has a key. Why is he here? She stiffened and pushed her hands into Grant’s chest. “Joel’s here,” she whispered.

  She expected him to jump away from her. He didn’t.

  “I don’t care.” Grant tightened his grip around her thighs. “Lizzie, you’re mine. You always will be. He’s going to have to leave you alone.”

  His attitude should have made her angry. What right did he have to act possessive? He was not her boyfriend. But she wasn’t angry. She was his. She always would be.

  They locked eyes. “What do you want me to do?” Grant asked.

  There would be no denying or hiding. This was her life, her choice. How dare he come over uninvited? “I will tell him to leave. I won’t lie.” She took his hands from her thighs. “But we shouldn’t be cruel.”

  He stepped away, his expression grim. Grant won’t back down. He’s a junkyard dog, scrappy and territorial.

  She straightened her t-shirt and jumped to the floor.

  The sensation of pinpricks rushed through her limbs at the tinny sound of Joel’s keys being tossed on the mudroom counter. A second later, he appeared in the kitchen. He stopped abruptly, like he’d run into a glass door. His head snapped back like his forehead hit first. She imagined what it looked like from his perspective. Mussed hair. Flushed cheeks. The scent of booze on her breath. Joel might be arrogant, but he wasn’t stupid.

  “What going on, Liz?” Joel asked. “Who’s this?” He pointed at Grant.

  “I’m Grant Perry. An old friend of Lizzie’s.”

  “Lizzie?” Joel cocked his head to the side as if she’d suddenly grown two heads. “What? Is this friend from kindergarten?”

  “That’s just what Grant calls me,” Liz said stupidly. Was that even what he was referring to? God, why did I drink so much?

  Joel was dressed his hospital scrubs. He loved wearing them in public because they communicated his status to the world: I’m a surgeon.

  Grant held out his hand. “Nice to meet you.”

  They shook. “Liz, what’s going on?” Joel asked. “I’ve been trying to reach you all night. I saw the news.”

  “We’re having drinks,” Grant said. “And ice cream.”

  “I can see that.” Joel was a runner. Lean and fit, but not tall or particularly muscular—maybe
5’8” and 145 pounds on a good day. He looked scrawny next to Grant. Stop comparing. Not fair. No man could compete with Grant in your eyes. “You’re the guy who carried her down the steps.”

  “That’s right. And then I took her to dinner.” Grant leaned against the refrigerator with his arms crossed over his chest.

  “Grant and I knew each other in law school and worked together on the Murphy case,” Liz said. “He was at the courthouse this afternoon and saw me faint. He rescued me.” A smile had snuck in and grabbed her mouth when she said Grant’s name. This was a disaster.

  “Yes, I saw the news. For Christ’s sake, Liz, I’ve been worried sick.”

  “It’s nothing to be worried over,” Liz said.

  “Are you drunk?” Joel moved closer, as if to smell her breath.

  Liz instinctively stepped backward, closer to Grant. “It was a rough day, and we went to dinner. I had a little too much wine.” No need to mention the bourbon.

  “What a great idea. Take a sick girl out drinking.” He flicked his fingers at Grant as if to eliminate a piece of lint from an itchy sweater. “You can go now. I’ll take care of Liz from here on out.”

  Grant leaned against the refrigerator with his arms crossed over his chest. “I’ll leave when Lizzie tells me to leave.”

  Rage traveled up her legs and twirled around her body like a thorny climbing plant around a trellis. She squelched a scream. Why had Joel barged into her home? Couldn’t she have just one night that she wanted? It was always about everyone else. Her clients. Joel’s ego. Her sister’s loneliness. Her parents’ expectations. Grant had been hers. This night had been hers. Joel ruined it. Squash it now. Kick him out. This was her life. “Grant, could you hang out in the living room for a minute? I want to talk to Joel alone.”

  His eyes flashed. He jerked his head like a yoked stallion. Liz held her breath. Would he go?

  The moment the door closed, she expelled with suppressed fury. She would no longer be pushed around, made to feel uncertain or apologetic. “You need to leave. Now. We’re over.”

  “Is he why?” Joel narrowed his eyes and thrust his head forward like a chicken pecking at a bug.

  She crushed the laugher rising from her chest by biting the inside of her lip. Blood mingled with the lingering bourbon into the acrid taste of contempt. How had she never noticed he looked like a hen? Not a rooster, but a chicken. “He has nothing whatsoever to do with it. This was an unexpected evening. However, I have every intent on going into the other room and making the most of an unforeseen trip down memory lane.”