Page 32 of It's You
He swallowed, bowing his head. “Of course.”
Darcy followed him over the pebbled driveway to the two-story, two-car garage made of logs varnished to a medium brown. One bay was open, so Darcy stepped onto the new cement, smiling at her brother’s handiwork.
“It’s nice.”
“He’s talented.”
“Can I go upstairs?”
“Sure,” said Jack, standing at the foot of the stairs.
She brushed by him, and as her elbow grazed the hardness of his chest, her stomach ignited with heat, like striking a match. She paused on the first step, adjusting to his nearness behind her. If she turned, they’d be face-to-face, eye-to-eye, her lips a breath away from his. She took a deep breath, running her hand up and down the smooth banister to her left.
“Is everything okay?” he asked softly, his voice low directly behind her.
“Th-this banister is unique,” she blurted out, cringing, wishing she could recapture her composure.
“It’s from a tree that used to be on the property.” He leaned forward, and she could feel his breath on her neck. “I cut it down. Sanded it. Shined it. I like working with my fingers.”
Was it just her imagination, or did she feel those fingers touch down lightly on her hips? Her eyes shuddered closed, and she took a deep, ragged breath, trying to steady herself. All she had to do was turn around, and the hot, soft miracle of his lips would be waiting for her.
A small whimper sounded with the force of her breath escaping, and she swallowed, opening her eyes, steeling herself.
Don’t get distracted, Darcy! Answers first.
Her feet were like lead, but she forced herself to move them up the stairs, not looking back at him, placing distance between them. After three steps, she heard him moving up behind her.
Her fingers skimmed lightly over the banister, and her heart pounded with the thought that his hands had touched every inch of the hard, satin wood lovingly, working it, molding it, smoothing it. She imagined his hands on her body, touching every inch of her skin, working it with his muscled fingers, molding her flesh, smoothing it, soothing it with his long, long-awaited touch.
When she reached the top of the stairs, she sighed, grateful to be distracted by the most comfortable, welcoming studio she’d ever seen. The walls were paneled in bright white beadboard, and the floor had been painted a light gray. Dying light poured in through windows to her right and a skylight overhead.
She sighed, stepping into the cheerful room and turning to Jack with a smile. “What a lovely room. Do you use it much?”
“No,” he answered. “But I thought…at some point…”
His words trailed off, and he shrugged lightly from his position at the top of the stairs where his hand rested lightly on a newel post, watching her with a slight smile and dark, warm eyes.
“This is just like mine,” she said, moving to stand beside the desk, feeling hot and self-conscious under his gaze. She looked away from him, peeking out the windows, which looked out at the front drive, bridge, and river.
She gestured to the desk chair. “May I?”
“Of course,” he said softly, still watching her with the same steady, hungry stare.
It made her shiver as she sat down and swiveled in the chair, straightening her back to look out the window again. Anywhere else but at the intensity of his face.
“It’s a beautiful view,” she murmured. “I’d barely be able to work. I’d daydream all day.”
He stepped closer to her, resting one hand on the desk and using the other to turn the chair to face him. He squatted down before her.
“What would you dream about?” he asked.
She was incredibly aware of him so close to her, his bent knee grazing hers, his face just slightly lower than hers, but no more than a few inches away.
Jack, I don’t?—
He looked down at the hands on her lap, releasing her eyes. He reached out and touched one of her hands, tracing her index finger with his, a feather touch, a breath, a whisper.
“What would you dream?” he asked again, his hand gently covering hers, his thumb massaging the soft, sensitive skin of her palm.
