Page 17 of 40 and (No Longer) Fighting It
“Can I give you something else to consider while you're thinking about it? About us?” he asked.
She eyed him warily. Smart girl. “What something else?”
He didn't bother with words. He slid his free hand beneath her hair, cupping her nape, and held her there as he leaned in. Claire opened her mouth to protest…
Just in time for his lips to meet hers.
Memories exploded in his brain, of that first time he’d held her, kissed her. But those memories were old and this was new, right here, right now. Her slightly parted lips allowed him access, and he slid his tongue inside. She tasted of peaches and cream and the spice of the vinegar in their desert, and he found himself pushing deeper, searching out more of her, showing her exactly what he wanted to do to her if she said yes. Claire’s body went stiff, surprised, but within moments she melted into him, her body conforming to his. More blood rushed to his cock, so fast that he sucked in his breath at the pain.
She chose that moment to break the kiss.
She couldn’t go far, not with his hand on her neck, but she pulled away the slightest bit. Linc was nowhere near done, but when he saw the tension seep once more into her body, when she opened her eyes and he saw pain there, he didn’t push it. He didn’t say anything. If he did, he’d beg, and Claire deserved the time to decide exactly what she wanted without any pressure. Instead he swiped his thumb over her lips, one last feel of her, and walked out the door without saying goodbye.
Eight
Jimmy managed to get her mixer fixed by Tuesday morning, so the “morning after,” as Claire dubbed it in her mind, was packed as she caught up with the baking for her own shop. She appreciated modern equipment, had saved scrupulously to add to her kitchen over the years to increase her efficiency and extend the number of outside clients she could serve, but damn, when a piece of it went down, the cascade effect on her work was a total bitch.
Thank goodness Lincoln didn’t show up. She didn’t know what she’d do if he did. She didn’t know what she’d say.
Because she didn’t know her own mind yet. In fact, the hamster wheel turning in her brain, trying to figure out their relationship—if it could even be called that—was about to drive her crazy.
On the one hand, she could totally understand his fear of any relationship, however casual, so soon after his wife’s death. The hurt and grief of her divorce had put her off men for years. That hadn’t meant much to her libido when Lincoln had waltzed into her life, and apparently not to Lincoln’s either. With so much pain in his heart, the fact that an attraction to her would impact him so negatively made sense. It was how he’d dealt with it that she was having trouble getting around.
Her work was once more wrapped up with his. How could she trust him not to take it out on her business if they ended up not working out personally?
And even that phrase,not working out, felt wrong. Lincoln had a full life and a high-profile, very successful business back in New York. He had a TV show and charity work to get back to. He wasn’t staying here in Tennessee, and yet the way he’d talked, a one-night stand was also not what he was looking for, so what exactly were they talking about here?
She finished in the shop midafternoon, leaving things to DeeDee while she retreated to the office to go through paperwork. Her day started at four a.m., so she tried to finish by four p.m. if at all possible, but that was getting harder and harder to do the more the business flourished. The coffee shop was also busy, and Maria needed her daughter more than ever. Claire had to quit relying on DeeDee and get busy on hiring help, both for the store and the kitchen. Once Black Wolf Resort was ready to open, she’d have two full-time shops and kitchens to staff.
Better get on that, Claire.
After getting home later than she’d planned, as usual, she took a cool shower and changed into comfortable cotton shorts and a soft sleeveless tee to combat the heat still hovering over the evening. A pan of uncooked lasagna waited in the fridge, and she grabbed it and a bottle of wine before heading out the door.
The bakery was just off the square, where everything was closed for the night by seven, so the evening was quiet as she walked in the opposite direction. Leafy maples rustled overhead, throwing shadows onto the ancient cracked sidewalks. Warm yellow lights spilling from each house filled in the gaps.
These were the times when her soul settled in her body. When she’d left the South a decade ago for New York City, she’d fully intended to stay, to build a new life far away from everything she’d ever known. Being forced to return hadn’t been the plan, but now, looking back, seeing the way life had led her into her own business, her own power, she could accept that this life was just as good as any she might have led up north. Maybe better. Wandering through the bakery and coffee shop or driving through the mountains or walking down the street—those were the moments when everything felt just right. When she knew this was where she was meant to be. Those heartfelt moments washed away the irritations and left her with a sense of rightness that nourished her spirit like nothing else.
She turned onto Lily’s street a couple of blocks down. That street dead-ended after about a mile, overlooking the Salalai River as it flowed through town. There, on the banks, stood a Craftsman much like the one Lily lived in a couple of blocks earlier, but instead of a cheery yellow, this house was painted in a bright blue-green shade she’d only ever seen in the Gulf of Mexico during family visits to Navarre and Destin. White trim and shutters set off the rich color, and in the fall, with the maples a brilliant yellow and orange, the house reflected the vivid colors of a Van Gogh painting.
Balancing the food in her arms, she climbed the steps to a wide front porch with white swings at each end, giving the occupants a choice of a view of the rest of the street or the water churning white over the rocks in the river below. A quick push brought the distinctdingof the doorbell chime inside, but when a few minutes passed with no answer, Claire wrangled open the screen door and let herself inside.
The interior was vibrant in a different way than the outside, an abundance of rich jewel tones on the walls, in the decor, and even the furniture. Claire soaked in the cozy atmosphere as she searched for the sole occupant. “Hello! Scarlett? Where are you?”
Grinning, because she was pretty sure of what she’d find, she wandered down the central hall, ignoring the front parlor to one side and the dining room to the other. Farther back, the kitchen was to the left, and to the right was a cozy room with leaf-green walls and rich wood floors. Claire tucked her head around the doorway and struggled to hold in a laugh as she caught sight of her friend in a long, oversize T-shirt and leggings, her ears covered in bulbous headphones as she danced around the room. Scarlett Coleman, romance author extraordinaire, was as short and curvy as Claire was, and she fairly vibrated with life. Her thick, long blonde hair was twisted up on her head, her bangs hanging into her closed eyes, and Claire wondered how she could manage such enthusiastic moves without banging into furniture and tripping over the edges of the rug.
Waiting until Scarlett swung around to face her direction, Claire raised her voice. “Scarlett! Hey, Scarlett!”
Green eyes shot open, zeroing in on Claire with a spark of fear before relief, then laughter overtook her friend. “Hey!” Scarlett dragged the headphones down, and Claire caught the sound of something loud, with a heavy drumbeat, before Scarlett bent to the phone on a nearby side table and clicked the music off. “Sorry. I was just—”
“Stuck?”
It was a habit Claire, along with Lily and Erin, knew about: anytime Scarlett was stuck on a story, she put on her headphones and danced around the house, losing herself in the music until the story unraveled in her brain and finally came out on the page.
The other woman blushed—or maybe that was heat from the exertion. She rubbed at the back of her neck. “At least the blinds are closed.”
Scarlett had given the neighbors a show more than once when she forgot about open blinds. Claire chuckled, remembering Scarlett’s embarrassment at one particular incident when she’d first moved into the house. “At least you have on pants, you mean.”
Scarlett stuck out her tongue. Claire arched a brow and hoisted up the lasagna. “Careful; I brought dinner.”
