Page 22 of Takes Two to Tango

Apple's nails clicked on the floor as she responded to his curse. Thankfully, no pillow or similarly fluffy item dangled from her mouth. Not that he had many fluffy items left. Apple had wreaked havoc on socks, slippers, and his memory foam neck pillow the first week his parents left. All he had left were a few feather pillows he'd tucked in the top of a linen closet. She ignored the rubbery dental bones he'd bought.

Just like a woman.

Immediately Rayne came to mind. He suspected she was the reason his usually energetic muse had abandoned him. Raynewas like his flighty muse-fickle, teasing, and infuriating without meaning to be.

He still couldn't figure out why she was in Oak Stand. Sure, the inn needed some spiffing-up, but it seemed odd Rayne would take the time out of her busy schedule and pull Henry out of school to splash some paint on the old house. Something more was going on at that bed and breakfast. Too much activity and he sensed it had something to do with Rayne's newly acquired fame.

And here he was, yet again mixing himself up in thoughts of Rayne. The sensible part of Brent knew he should have found someone else to do the work on the house. Should have kept his nose out of the baseball business with Henry, not to mention he shouldn't have fetched one of his books for the kid. But something niggling in the back of his mind told him he'd done the right thing by Henry. The boy, as capable as he looked, had a vulnerability about him that made Brent want to take care around him.

Just like Rayne.

She seemed capable as hell. So unlike the girl he'd once known. A girl with a silly grin and romance in her soul. This woman was so different he almost didn't know her. The Rayne he'd known stopped to smell the flowers and got lost in them. This new Rayne would have cut the flowers, arranged them into an acceptable bouquet, and displayed them on a weathered farmhouse table next to a perfect round of brie. Efficient, tamed, controlled. It was almost too much of a change. Almost enough to make him want to stay away from her. But he suspected the old Rayne, the dreamy, romantic waif, was somewhere inside this new woman.

So his heart wasn't buying the notion of keeping Rayne Rose at arm's length. In fact, his heart wanted her close. Very close.

He pushed his chair toward his desk, tugging with him the book he always grabbed when words defied him. It was a beaten, ragtag textbook full of American poetry. He'd bought it his junior year of college when he'd signed up for a poetry class. It was the semester after he'd ridden the pine through most of the football season, the season he'd disappointed everyone. Something about the words he'd read in the tome had allowed the fetters of his life to fall away. He'd felt emboldened and full of conviction in a way he'd not felt since those hours he'd spent with Rayne reading Longfellow and Poe, playfully trying his hand at crafting internal rhyme or drawing caricatures of their teachers. Doing things his father said were "girly things." But they were things Brent had found value in.

He thumbed through the dog-eared pages past the words of masters, opening to the page that held the crumpled paper. He lifted and unfolded the much handled poem. The handwriting was spidery with periodical fanciful loops. A small red heart sticker had been affixed to the upper left corner of the page. His finger traced the title "The Courage to Be He."

He smiled and tucked it back between the pages, hiding it as much as he hid himself. Closing the book of poetry, he stared at the blank page on the monitor before rolling the mouse. Maybe some research would motivate him. Or not.

A knock interrupted his lack of progress.

Brent glanced at the clock. It was well after nine o’clock.

He padded barefoot into the living area, drawing together the strings of his pajama pants.

Rayne stood outside, worrying her bottom lip with her teeth. She'd been showing upon his porch way too often for comfort. This, too, was a new habit of hers. The old Rayne hemmed and hawed, ducking behind trees and hiding behind curtains. This new Rayne invaded.

He unlatched the French door. "Hey."

Her gaze hit his own before dipping to his bare chest. She swallowed and redirected her gaze, but not before he caught the interest that flared in the warm depths of her eyes. "Hey."

A frisson of awareness skipped up his spine. She'd looked at him as though he was the last scoop of ice cream in the tub of rocky road. It made his body tighten with anticipation even though he knew it wasn't a good idea. Screwing Rayne wouldn't get him what he wanted. Well, it would get him something he wanted, but he wanted more than sweaty sheets and sexual satisfaction. He wanted a piece of what he'd once had with her... and that had nothing to do with lust. He stood a minute waiting for her to say something. She didn't. "Rayne?"

"Huh?"

"You knocked."

She blinked. "Oh, yes. Sorry. My mind has been wandering lately." She paused, as if to give herself a mental shake. "I wanted to say thank you."

He wanted to invite her inside so he could turn the glimpse of desire he'd seen into something full-fledged and worthy of bleary eyes in the morning. But that sort of behavior was his standard way of operating. Rayne wasn't just any girl. He couldn't go there with her. At least not yet. Or maybe never. He pulled logic in front of his libido and propped a hand on the doorjamb, blocking the entrance.

The scent of Rayne's perfume skated on the night breeze. Vanilla. Her scent was almost enough to make him fling logic to the corners of the earth and throw open the door. ''Thank me for what?"

"For taking Henry to task for the... incident at the ballpark. And for giving him a ride. I didn't get a chance to thank you before you left the parking lot." She caught her lower lip with her bottom teeth and fidgeted with the hem of her shirt.

“Sure.”

He expected her to say goodnight and leave. But she didn’t. What did she want from him. Why was she saying she didn’t want him around and then show up at his door twice in a two days? Mixed signals much?

"You came here at-" he checked his wristwatch "nine twenty-six to thank me for something anyone would have done? It couldn't wait?"

She straightened. "What?"

"What do you really want?"

After the comment she'd made the last time she stood in his house, he was wary of asking what she wanted. She'd said barging in on him while he was naked was cliche, but there was a spark of desire that had ignited when she'd looked at him two days ago. And there was one now. She kept turning up with contrived reasons.

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