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Julianne was hard-pressed not to fall for his charming smile and naughty tone. “I’m sure you’d be pleased at the time. So would I. But then what? Is that all it is? Just sex? Is it worth it for just sex? If not, are we dating?”
“Running off with me was very much out of character for you,” he noted. “You can’t just do something because it feels good and you want to. You have to rationalize everything to the point that the fun is stripped right out.”
“I’m trying to be smart about this! Fun or not, you want us to get divorced. Why would I leap back into your bed with both feet?”
“I didn’t say I wanted us to get divorced.”
That wasn’t true. He’d had her pressed against the dresser when he’d made his ultimatum. He’d demanded it yesterday. The papers were three feet away. “I distinctly recall you—”
“Saying you needed to make a choice. Be with me or don’t. No more straddling the fence. If you don’t want me, then fine. But if you do...by all means, have me. I’m happy to put off the divorce while we indulge in our marital rights.”
Julianne frowned. “Do you even hear yourself? Put off our divorce so we can sleep together?”
“Why not? I think I deserve a belated wedding night. We’ve had all of the drama of marriage with none of the perks.”
“You just want to catch up on eleven years of sex.”
“Maybe.” He leaned in closer, the gold fire in his eyes alight with mischief. “Do you blame me?”
The low, suggestive rumble of his voice so close made her heart stutter in her chest. “S-stop acting like you’ve lived as a monk this whole time. Even if you did, eleven years is a lot to catch up on. We do still have a farm to run and I have a gallery show to work on.”
“I’m all for making the most of our time together here. Give it the old college try.”
Julianne shook her head. “And again, Heath, what does that leave us with? I want you, you want me. I’m not about to leap into all this again without thinking it through.”
“Then don’t leap, Jules. Test the waters. Slip your toe in and see how it feels.” He smiled, slinking even closer to her. “I hear the water is warm and inviting.” His palm flattened on her denim-covered thigh.
The heat was instantaneous, spreading quickly through her veins until a flush rushed to her cheeks. She knew that all she had to do was say the word and he would do all the things to her she’d fantasized about for years. But she wasn’t ready to cross the line. He was right. She did strip the spontaneity out of everything, but she very rarely made decisions that haunted her the way she had with him. She didn’t want to misstep this time. She had too many regrets where Heath was concerned. If and when she gave herself to him, she wanted to be fully content with making the right choice.
“I’m sure it is.” She reached down and picked up his hand, placing it back in his own lap. “But the water will be just as warm tomorrow.”
Six
Julianne rolled over and looked at the clock on the dresser. It was just after two in the morning. That was her usual middle-of-the-night wake-up time. She’d gone to sleep without issue, as always, but bad dreams had jerked her awake about thirty minutes ago and she’d yet to fall back asleep.
She used to be a fairly sound sleeper, but she woke up nearly every night now. Pretty much since Tommy’s body was unearthed last Christmas. As much as they had all tried to put that day out of their heads, there was no escaping it. Even if her day-to-day life was too busy to dwell on it, her subconscious had seven to eight hours a night to focus on the worries and fears in the back of her mind.
As much as he wanted to, Heath couldn’t protect her forever. Julianne was fairly certain that before she left this farm, the full story would be out in the open. Whether she would be moving out of the bunkhouse and into the jailhouse remained to be seen. Sheriff Duke smelled a rat and he wouldn’t rest until he uncovered the truth. The question was whether the truth would be enough for him. A self-defense or justifiable homicide verdict wouldn’t give him the moment of glory he sought.
With a sigh, Julianne sat up in bed and brushed the messy strands of her hair out of her face. Tonight’s dream had been a doozy, waking her in a cold sweat. She had several different variations of the dream, but this was the one that bothered her the most. She was running through the Christmas-tree fields. Row after row of pine trees flew past her, but she didn’t dare turn around. She knew that if she did, Tommy would catch her. The moment his large, meaty hand clamped onto her shoulder, Julianne would shoot up in bed, a scream dying in the back of her throat as she woke and realized that Tommy was long dead.
You would think after having the same nightmares over and over, they wouldn’t bother her anymore, but it wasn’t true. It seemed to get worse every time. Most nights, she climbed out of bed and crept into her workshop. Something about the movement of the clay in her hands was soothing. She would create beauty and by the time she cleaned up, she could return to sleep without hesitation or nightmares.
For the last week, she’d had no therapeutic outlet to help her fall back asleep. Instead she’d had to tough it out, and she would eventually drift off again around dawn. But now she had a functioning workshop downstairs and could return to the hypnotizing whirl of her pottery wheel.
She slipped silently from the bed and stepped out into the hallway. The house was quiet and dark. She moved quickly down the stairs, using her cell phone for light until she reached the ground floor. There, she turned on the kitchen light. She poured herself a glass of water, plucked an oatmeal raisin cookie from the jar on the counter and headed toward her new studio.
The fluorescent lights flickered for a moment before turning on, flooding the room with an odd yellow-white glow. Heath had worked very hard to help her get everything in place. A few boxes remained to be put away, and her kiln wouldn’t be delivered for another day or two, but the majority of her new workshop was ready to start work.
Julianne finished her cookie and set her drink on the dresser, out of the way. One of the boxes on the floor near her feet had bricks of ready-to-use clay. She reached in to grab a one-pound cube and carried it over to her wheel. A plate went down on the wheel, then the ball of soft, moist gray clay on top of it. She filled a bucket with water and put her smoothing sponge in it to soak.
Pulling up to the wheel, she turned it on and it started to spin. She plunged her hands into the bucket to wet them and then closed her slick palms over the ball of clay. Her gallery showing would be mostly sculpted figurines and other art pieces, but the bread and butter of her shop in the Hamptons was stoneware pieces for the home. Her glazed bowls, mugs, salt dishes and flower vases could be found in almost any home in the area.
When she woke up in the night, vases were her go-to item. Her sculptures required a great deal of concentration and a focused eye. At three in the morning, the creation of a vase or bowl on her spinning wheel was a soothing, automatic process. It was by no means a simple task, but she’d created so many over the years that it came to her as second nature.
Her fingers slipped and glided in the wet clay, molding it into a small doughnut shape, then slowly coaxing it taller. She added more water and reached inside. The press of her fingertips distorted the shape, making the base wider. Cupping the outside again, she tapered in the top, creating the traditional curved flower-vase shape. She flared the top, forming the lip.
With the sponge, she ran along the various edges and surfaces, smoothing out the rough and distorted areas. Last, she used a metal tool to trim away the excess clay at the base and turned off the wheel.
