Page 57

"You already have a job."

"I know."

"You're not taking it."

That isn't a question and it isn't a request. I should probably be annoyed by the presumption. Instead, something warm floods through me, reckless and stupid, and I tip my face up at him. "You going to drink that or just stand there being terrifying?"

He sits next to me. Even closer than Whitmore was. His knee presses against mine and stays there while he drinks his beer and says absolutely nothing about what just happened.

Because he's Aiden Cole and talking about it would require admitting he cared enough to show up and glare daggers at one of his best customers. Just like we haven’t discussed sleeping together last week. I woke up to find him gone the next morning. He’s been professional at work. Not as cold as he was after the kiss. But he’s avoided being alone with me until now.

The band switches to something slow and there are couples drifting onto the grass in front of the gazebo. The devil on my shoulder has me standing up and holding my hand out to him. He looks at it like he’s never seen a hand before.

"I'm sober this time," I tell him. “Can’t promise I’ll step on your toes any less though.”

He gets to his feet, takes my hand and leads me to the grass. His arm goes around my waist and pulls me in close. His fingers spread warm and wide against my spine, and he holds me like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

We dance in a slow circle, his chin resting on the top of my head. I can feel his heartbeat through his shirt, steady and solid, and my hand curls into the fabric at his chest. The guilt is always here, but his thumb is tracing a line back and forth on my hip and the evening is warm and the band is terrible and I am so far gone for this man that the thought of the job offer makes me want to laugh.

A flash goes off.

I look up. A woman with a county press lanyard is lowering a camera, grinning. "That one's a keeper," she says to no one in particular and moves on. Aiden watches her go. If he's bothered, he doesn't show it. His hand doesn't move from my back. His thumb doesn't stop.

Fireworks start over the harbor at dusk, low booms shaking the air, and we watch them from the grass, his arm still around me, my back against his chest. Color breaking open across the water, red and gold reflected in the harbor. The whole town is here and I'm standing inside his arms in front of all of them.

I tip my head back against his shoulder and say plaintively, "Take me home."

His arm tightens. One squeeze. Then he lets go and his hand finds mine in hurry. We walk to his truck through the crowd not seeing anyone but each other.

His house is up a gravel road past the last streetlight, trees closing in on both sides. Diesel meets us at the door with his whole-body wagging, nose going straight into my palm like I'm the one he's been waiting for.

Inside is exactly what I expected. The kitchen is clean as a whistle with absolutely no frills. One pan and one pot hanging from the hooks above the stove. A table that seats two positioned against the far wall.

The living room window has a view of the harbor, curtains pushed open wide to let as much of the outside in. The comfortable looking couch has a folded blanket on the arm and a mystery novel face down on the cushion. No art or scatter cushions for a pop of color.

Comfortable but bare.

His bedroom is down a short hall. The bed is huge. I’m assuming it was custom made. We could lie side by side and both stretch out and still have room left over. His feet won’t be hanging off this mattress. A quilt that looks handmade covers it. The nightstand has a glass of water and a pair of reading glasses on it and nothing else. Not even a bed lamp.

Every other thought is violently shoved from my mind as I picture his huge body stretched out naked on that bed, wearing nothing but the glasses and his trademark scowl, ordering me to suck his cock while his hands are crossed behind his head, green eyes ruthlessly grading my performance.

"Stop taking inventory of my house."

"What?"

"Inventorying. Stop it."

I pull the hair tie out of my hair, releasing it from the high ponytail it was in all day. He stares avidly as it falls around my shoulders. "Actually, I’m fantasizing," I admit huskily, taking a step closer to him. He doesn’t wait for me to reach him, he crosses the room in two long strides and slides his fingers into my hair with a satisfied groan.

Then his mouth finds mine and I taste beer and want and every thought collapses in on itself.

My back meets the wall. His hips pin me there and I can feel him through his jeans, thick and hard against my stomach. I push against his erection, and he makes a sound low in his throat that I feel in my entire body.

His mouth is on my throat and every sound he makes vibrates through my skin. Low groans that land between my hips and stay there. My fingers are in his hair. His hands are under my shirt, huge and warm, thumbs dragging up my ribcage.

"Bed," I beg.

He lifts me into his arms like I weigh nothing and lays me down on his enormous bed with infinite care. I sink into it. There's so much room. After my creaky twin with the crooked floor, this feels like falling into a cloud.