A taste of texas, p.15
A Taste of Texas, page 15
She leaned deeper into the hardness of his body and absentmindedly stroked his back with her fingers. Her head rested almost on his shoulder and the warm moistness of her breath against his neck quickened his pulse.
Yes, he wanted more.
He turned his head toward where hers lay and caught her mouth in a sweet kiss.
Slowly she lifted her head, allowing the hands she’d twined about his shoulders to slide to his hair. The moment she ran her hands through his hair was the moment the kiss turned from sweetness to fire.
He caught her soft gasp with his lips, moving his hands up her side to capture her face. He drank from her. She was everything sweet and wonderful. It was like lapping up brown sugar and brandy. Passion inflamed him and he spun them both out of control.
He turned her toward the counter, pushing her against the edge, banging his elbow on the mixer, causing it to fall over. Vaguely he knew something had spilled. He felt the wetness.
But he couldn’t stop kissing Rayne. It felt as if he’d waited forever for this moment. It was like coming home. It was like riding out liftoff in the space shuttle. Beyond description.
Rayne whimpered.
He broke the kiss.
“Lemon juice is running down my back,” she whispered against his lips. “At least I think it’s lemon juice.”
Her breathing was ragged, matching his, mingling as they stood for a moment in each other’s arms.
“Brent,” she whispered.
“Huh?”
“Lemon juice is cold.”
He laughed against her lips and pulled her from where she stood against the counter. She grabbed a towel and swiped at her back.
“Here,” he said, taking the cloth from her. “Let me.”
She turned and, oh, what a sight it was. The cotton had plastered itself to her, revealing the delicious curve of her waist and a sweet little thong on the nicest backside he’s seen in a while. It seemed a shame to soak up something that gave him such an eyeful.
He pressed the towel to her and swiped. “I really didn’t take you for a girl who’d wear a thong.”
She tossed a few red curls over her shoulder and smiled. “What? You think I wear granny panties? Wanna come look in my drawer?”
He narrowed his eyes. “Is that an invitation to your lingerie or your bed?”
“Well, I know you like to peek in women’s underwear drawers.”
He rolled his eyes. “Real funny. Shoulda been a comedian. Especially since that stuff you’re cooking smells like it’s burning.”
Rayne squeaked and hotfooted it toward the stove. She jerked the saucepan from the burner and clicked the flame off. “Shit.”
“Such an ugly word coming from such a pretty mouth,” he said, moving to peer over her shoulder at a purple-and-black lumpy…something.
“You sound like your mother,” she said, shaking her head and using a scraper to rake the ruined fruit into the trash bin. “What a waste.”
He took the pan from her and set it on a burner. “I wouldn’t call it a waste at all.”
He tugged her back close and nibbled her lower lip. “I wouldn’t mind seeing if we could burn something else.”
He dropped several little kisses on her lips.
“I never burn stuff.” There was almost a purr to her voice. He could feel her warming up to him again as her nipples brushed the front of his T-shirt. He slid his hands to where her gown still clung to her backside. He pulled the fabric away so he could feel her skin. Her sweet bottom filled his hands and made her gasp. He caught that gasp with his mouth.
She opened her mouth and let him fan the fires. He moved his hips allowing his erection to slide against her belly. She moaned and his body started on that journey toward utter loss of control.
But he wasn’t ready to go there. Not yet.
He broke the kiss.
Her eyes had been closed. They flew open. “Why’d you stop?”
He smiled and caught one of her curls. “Because you like labels. And so far we’ve established friendship. Friends don’t kiss like we just kissed. Are you ready to move toward something else?”
Her mouth was still open, still glistening and beckoning. Her chest moved up and down, the nipples brushed the placket of the gown, so very visible, so very tempting. Not to mention, her ass had been made for his hands. For a moment, Brent wondered if he was the biggest idiot in Howard County.
“Oh, so you’re not ready?” she asked.
He didn’t know whether to be offended or flattered. “Well, it’s pretty obvious I want you, Rayne.”
Her gaze moved to his crotch, and it felt like a caress. His body tightened. His erection pulsed. So he tried to think about the hair in his third grade teacher’s nose. Mrs. Gryder had displayed a veritable broom from each nostril. And Lenny Holden. He’d wiped boogers under his desk. And only yesterday Apple had rolled on a dead toad.
Better.
Rayne crossed her arms over her chest. It wasn’t defensive, and, thank heavens, it covered her breasts from his hungry gaze. “I—I think you’re right. Friends don’t do what we just did, and I think we need to evaluate—”
“No.” He shook his head. “I don’t want it to be about thinking and planning, Rayne. Just knowing what is right for each of us. Timing. I’ve always thought more people should listen to their bodies, their hearts, their natural rhythm. Not necessarily what their minds tell them. Hell, the mind is a dangerous thing. I’d rather trust my gut.”
“Hmm. Trusting instincts. I suppose. You’ll have to understand I like knowing the score. I’m not good with mucking through.”
“You used to be good at mucking through. At listening to what your gut said.”
She frowned. “Listening to my gut or heart or whatever didn’t get me very far last time. In fact, it got me hurt.”
Brent didn’t miss that she was referring to him. To his indifference to her the night she’d stepped to the mike to read the poem she’d written for him. It hurt. But he couldn’t change the past. He wanted to move forward. “You’re hurt anyway. Your husband died, your son is struggling. And what about you, darling? Where are you right now?”
She pressed her lips together. Nerve hit. But he could see her rally. She squared her shoulders. “I’m where I choose to be. I’m not hiding who I am. And I’m deciding where I’ll go. There’s a difference.”
He gave her a peck on the cheek. “If you say so… friend.”
Then, obeying his gut instinct, he turned and left.
His watch read ten thirty-seven and the moon still cast a glow on the quiet beauty of the night. Any other time he’d hurry to his office, plop into his chair and crank out a few more words on the scene he’d been fleshing out. But he didn’t hurry down the steps. Instead he stood in the gloom and took a deep breath.
He could smell the sharp scent of earth unfurling. Spring had arrived and with it a great possibility for change.
He felt Rayne at the screen door.
“Night, Rayne Cloud,” he said, using one of the childhood nicknames he’d given her. “Night, Hambone.”
It was not the name she’d given him. It was the name the cheerleaders had.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
A WEEK LATER, RAYNE STILL hadn’t resolved where she was heading with Brent. And she still hadn’t heard from her agent. So no progress there. But things were progressing nicely with the inn. Brent had stopped work on the porches for a few days in order to finish another job. It had given her a temporary reprieve from his presence but not from the desire that sat hot and heavy in her belly. He was a Krispy Kreme doughnut and she was a dieter. The more she tried not to think about him, the more she did. So she kept busy trying to not think. Instead, focused on doing. The result was a completed menu for the inn, a first draft of the cookbook and a new website ready to go live when the inn reopened for business.
They had three weeks until the magazine writer’s visit and they still had much to accomplish. Today Brent had returned to paint both porches. Which meant, of course, she kept looking out the window or going to check the mail…and the male. She was no better than the hootchie mamas down at Cooley’s honky-tonk. Or the viperous Brandi, who’d hired Brent for personal eye candy.
She tore her gaze from the window and examined the parlor critically.
“Put the sofa under the window. I think it will balance the room,” Rayne said, motioning the two teenagers holding the large piece of furniture. They shot each other a look. It was a long-suffering look. She shrugged. They’d only moved it three times. She was helping them build muscles. Plus, they’d gotten out of school with the career shadowing program. Lifting a couch was better than doing calculus, wasn’t it?
“Rayne, you know everything about running a restaurant, but I’m not sure you’re great at decorating,” Aunt Fran said, surveying the room with a critical eye.
Rayne felt herself bristle, but then realized her aunt was absolutely correct. “But this is our project. I don’t want to call in a designer.”
Aunt Fran shook her head, making her silver-streaked brown bob ripple. “We don’t have to call in a designer. Let’s ask Dawn if she’ll come take a look. You should see what she’s done to Tucker House. Not to mention, the bungalow she and her husband remodeled actually landed a page in Southern Living.”
Rayne smiled. “Perfect.”
“Yes, all us backwoods folks don’t have cotton for brains.” Aunt Frances left the room and returned with a ragtag address book stuffed with note cards and scraps of paper. Rayne was certain her aunt had had the same one when Rayne lived with her years ago. Some things didn’t change, which was oddly comforting.
“Whoever implied you were backwoods or cotton-brained? I happen to know Grandmother Rose was from Chicago, and you scored the highest in your class on your college admission test.” Rayne motioned the two high school seniors to the kitchen where delicious zucchini bread rested on the baking rack. A glass of milk and three pieces later, she sent them outside to help Brent haul away the lumber scraps and rotten boards.
By the time she’d made it to the parlor, Aunt Frances had moved a side table to sit between two wingback chairs. “Dawn is going out of town tomorrow and said she’d pop by in about thirty minutes.”
“If it’s too much trouble…” Rayne narrowed her eyes at the newly arranged seating. Something wasn’t right.
“Nope, she’s taking her car to get the oil changed and said she’d swing by.”
Rayne shrugged and went and made coffee.
An hour later, the coffee was gone and the room looked incredible.
“I like the way the chintz looks against the soft gold of the wall. Warm and inviting. I’ll whip up a few throw pillows in a toile and paisley when I get back from Houston,” Dawn said, nudging the sofa an inch more to the right so that it was perfectly centered across from the hearth. Her hair was gathered into a low ponytail and she wore a navy short-sleeved sweater set with a trim pair of plaid pants. A silver cuff on one slender arm along with a pair of Brighton wedges gave her a Town & Country appearance. But there was nothing remote or snooty in her warm smile.
“It’s odd,” Rayne said, wrapping several pieces of zucchini bread in waxed paper for Dawn’s husband. “We shoved this furniture all over the room and couldn’t figure it out. But you step inside and whamo you knew exactly where to place it.”
“Sometimes it takes an outside person to see what ought to be,” Dawn said, picking up her purse and surveying the room with a satisfied gleam in her eye. She gave Aunt Frances a small squeeze before heading for the door. “And I’ll be glad to serve the outside person role anytime. Tyson might start hiring me out if I come home with treats like this. He’ll mow through this bread in seconds. Thanks.”
“You’re welcome—” Rayne’s words were interrupted by a crash on the front porch.
All three of them spun toward the door.
“What the—” Aunt Frances said, her hand clasped to her chest.
A really dirty word and a tinny thump served as a finale to the crash that had shaken the house.
Rayne was closest to the door, so she opened it and stuck her head out. She couldn’t believe her eyes. She felt Dawn and Aunt Frances at her back, but didn’t turn around. She didn’t think she could have ripped her gaze from Brent if a pig had sprouted wings and flown into the elm tree out front.
“Don’t,” he said, from beneath a thick coat of latex paint that dripped down his face and streaked onto his burgundy T-shirt. From the top of his wavy brown hair to the tips of his well-worn work boots, Brent was splattered with Cottage White paint. Nearby a bucket oozed its contents across the porch boards. A small ladder with a bent leg lay next to the railing.
“I—I—” She snapped her mouth closed. She tried really, really hard not to laugh. Of course, the thought of not laughing made her snort. Which made her issue a most obnoxious guffaw. Really obnoxious.
“Son of a bitch,” Brent said, wiping paint from his eyes. “I should have replaced that damn ladder last week when the leg— Oh, for Pete’s sake, stop laughing.”
But she couldn’t. And it felt good to laugh so hard. It was the pee-your-pants kind of laugh she hadn’t used since she was a girl. And with Dawn and Aunt Fran joining in, they sounded like a chorus of hyenas.
Rayne finally managed to take a few steps toward the towel Brent had slung over the rail, then handed it to him. “Here, use this. It might—”
“So, think this is funny, huh?”
Rayne screeched as one of his paint-soaked hands clasped her arm. “Brent Jamison Hamilton! Let go!”
But he didn’t. Instead he pulled her into his arms and gave her a squeeze. Then he gave a devilish laugh.
“I can’t believe you,” she said, struggling against his arms. “You’re ruining my dress!”
“So? I’ll buy you a new one. One that’s tight and shows off those nice assets,” he said, grinning at her. He looked like a crazy person, albeit a happy crazy person.
Her heart started thumping against her ribs. She caught his crazy happy bug and grinned. “I don’t want one that shows my assets. This is highly… irresponsible.”
Then he did something even more reckless. Something insane. He leaned down and kissed her. Not a peck. Nothing teasing. But a real kiss. Full of passion. Full of something she couldn’t quite taste. And it wasn’t the awful taste of latex paint. It was more like joy.
She couldn’t stop her body from coming to life and it felt so good, so freeing, that she giggled against his lips. A rumble of laughter started in his chest. Pretty soon it emerged and their lips were no longer locked. So they stood there, wrapped in each other’s arms, covered in paint, laughing as if they’d sniffed glue. Or latex fumes.
Eventually, Brent released her and she jerked her head around and took a look at her butt. Sure enough two white handprints marred the backside of her sundress. She looked like one of those cards Henry brought home with his handprints on them each Mother’s Day. Except these were large male handprints…on her ass.
“Look at my dress,” she said, spinning around to show him. She should have been disgusted. Instead she felt giddy. As though she was thirteen and crushing on a guy who made her heart flutter.
“Just putting my mark on you,” he teased, grabbing the towel that had fallen and trying unsuccessfully to mop up his face.
“You do realize we’re still here,” Aunt Frances said.
Rayne spun toward her aunt. She could feel her face ignite. How had she forgotten her aunt and Dawn? Good gravy.
Dawn smiled. “Looks like a good way to forget the world. Little messy, but fun.”
Brent delivered a trademark Hambone smile, his gaze sliding to Rayne. “Never say Hamilton Construction doesn’t make sure the owner is satisfied with our work.”
“How is this satisfactory?” Rayne quipped, rubbing at the droplets of paint on her arm.
“You didn’t let me finish the job,” he said silkily. He grinned the way Henry did when he’d done something naughty but worth it.
“Oh, brother.” Rayne’s groan caused the two others standing on the porch to snicker. She rolled her eyes but couldn’t stop the silly smile. How did one get latex paint off oneself? Thank heavens, she’d worn a braid and hadn’t had her hair curling around her shoulders. That would have been messy.
“Hey, Brent, I meant to tell you earlier that Tyson wants you to call him about the proposition,” Dawn said, breaking the absurdity of the moment. She readjusted her oversize purse on her shoulder and dug inside, coming out with keys in hand. “I think he’s definitely interested.”
Brent nodded. “Good. Tell him I’ll call in a couple of days. My parents are coming back from their trip tomorrow.”
Dawn smiled. “Well, I’ll let you two get back to your fun.”
“Oh, no,” Rayne said. “This is not my kind of fun.”
Dawn laughed. “Oh, yeah? Well, in this designer’s eyes, I’m seeing what you’re not. I know when things go together.”
She trotted down the front steps. “See y’all later. I’m off to Houston. Good luck getting off all that paint.”
“Bye,” Brent and Aunt Frances called.
Rayne didn’t say anything. It wasn’t as if she was stunned by Dawn’s words. Brent had left everything up to her with regard to their relationship. She knew he wanted more. He’d said so. And she knew she wanted something more, too. But sharing that something out in the open felt too real. It made Rayne feel as vulnerable as a newly born fawn on shaky legs. She wasn’t sure if the feelings Brent stirred were worth the problems that were sure to come. She wrapped her arms about herself, wincing at the stickiness of the drying paint.
“Well, I better rustle up some olive oil for getting the paint out of your hair. Best be glad it’s not oil-based.” Aunt Frances gave them a knowing smile before slipping into the house. This time she didn’t allow the door to slam. She closed it gently.
Brent stomped around a few moments more before pulling his shirt over his head and tossing it toward a cardboard box he used for debris. Brent still had a football player’s body. One that had not gone soft. She thought about Brandi and the other women who used him for eye candy, and she turned away.
