Chapter Seven #2
“Hmm...” She tapped her phone to her chin, drawing his attention to her lovely face. “Once something’s opened, then all of it should be used.”
He leveled a glance at her. “I’m not sure what they’re paying you, but I suspect it’s not nearly enough.”
Her smile went wider, her face illuminated by the dash lights. “I do believe there’s a compliment in there. Thank you.”
He wanted to compliment her on more than her professionalism, but she’d only just started to relax again. So he offered a more general explanation. “I don’t want you to overwork yourself. I’ll ask my family what things they might want to make over the holidays. Traditional stuff.”
The whole blended Christmas thing would be a challenge. Merging traditions never seemed to be without hiccups.
“Hmm.” She wagged a finger at him. “Very slick of you to figure out a way for me not to stuff your turkey with sprouts.”
God, he liked the way she made him laugh. Holidays were usually hell for him, and somehow, she was making this one more than bearable. Fun even.
“All right, now,” she said, directing her attention back to her phone, red hair pooling in front of her, making her seem mysterious, like a siren from a classic film. “Moving along to the drink menu. What kind of beer and wine do you prefer?”
Her words iced the warmth between them. He turned his focus back to the road. “You choose. The party scene isn’t for me.”
“This is just a fund-raiser thrown by your family’s business—at Christmastime, no less.” She held her hands in front of the blasting heater. “I hardly think that qualifies as barhopping.”
“I keep a tight rein on my life.” He had to. It could spiral out of control with just one slip.
“What do you mean?” Her voice was laced with deep, genuine concern.
He weighed his words. “I know myself and what I want for my future.”
“What would that be?”
“Peace.”
“I think there are many people who feel that way.” She toyed with her cell phone. “I guess it’s none of my business, really. I’m sorry to be nosy.”
For a reason he couldn’t decipher, he found himself admitting, “I’m a recovering alcoholic.”
The words settled between them. For a moment, a half a heartbeat that felt a helluva lot longer, he wondered if such an admission had been wise. But Marshall heard her draw in a sympathetic breath.
She set aside her cell phone carefully, directing her full attention to him. “I didn’t know.”
“No one does, other than my support group.” He turned at a corner, the new Christmas flags on streetlamps flapping in the snowy wind.
“Why are you telling me, then?”
He searched for an explanation that made some kind of sense.
“I had a particularly intense meeting with my sponsor. Keeping this locked in—faking everyone out by drinking nonalcoholic beer and water in drink glasses—isn’t a healthy way to live.
” He glanced at her to gauge her reaction.
“I guess I’m trying out the openness on you first since you were so open with me about your past.”
She looked away, fidgeting with her phone. “How long have you been sober?”
“Just over four years.” Four years. Two months. Seventeen days.
“You said you had an intense meeting with your sponsor recently?”
“Every day is a battle.” He didn’t see the need to go into detail about how wanting her, envisioning her in his life, was adding to the tension every day.
“Holidays are tough. And parties are the worst with all the alcohol flowing. It causes talk if I don’t drink, so there are times I hold a drink or bottle and fake it just to keep the questions from driving me crazy. ”
She stroked her thumb across the screen to her phone, where she’d been making her list. “I can see why opening up from the get-go might make things easier.”
“Maybe.” His sponsor had said the same, but even testing that out with Tally was tougher than he expected. He pushed himself ahead, eyes fixed on the growing strength of the northern lights. He found them anchoring. “You’re probably wondering what my story is.”
“Of course I’m wondering, but it’s up to you if you want to tell me.” Her voice was soft, caressing the air between them with understanding.
“You’re good at the passive-aggressive technique.
” He steered the SUV through the main gate leading to his property, onto the winding road to his home.
Thick trees reached toward the sky, providing him with a sense of security.
There were worse settings for a heart-to-heart than on his land, his space.
“I’m not so sure that’s a compliment.”
“I started on the rodeo circuit young and partied hard, too hard. Before I knew it, I needed the drinks to function.” Now that he’d started speaking, the words flowed from him like bourbon from a bottle, smooth and biting all at once.
“Then I found out what a beast booze can be. It seduces you, then turns on you and you’re so far underperforming you’re ready to crash and burn.
” The vehicle jostled along the icy road, the ranch looming ahead. Home.
“That’s what happened to you? A crash?”
He stopped at the side entrance, shifting the SUV into Park, idling. He killed the headlights so that the only light in the vehicle came from the motion sensors outside the garage. After a minute, they’d flick off, too.
“I took a fall so bad in the ring it landed me in the hospital.” He rubbed his cast lightly, leaning back in his seat. “After that, I checked myself into rehab and pulled back from the circuit. I only do charity functions now.”
“I imagine the broken arm brought back some painful memories,” she said insightfully.
God, she was easy to talk to. “This didn’t even happen in the ring. It was a simple accident afterward. I was thinking too much about the past and got distracted.”
“I’m so sorry.” She stroked along his cast. “But I’m also glad it wasn’t worse.”
“That’s one way to look at it.”
She tipped her head, catching his eyes. “What would you have said to someone in your group who shared what you just did? I assume you’re in Alcoholics Anonymous since you said you have a sponsor.”
A solid question. He thought through to the obvious answer he should have come to on his own. “I would remind them to attend meetings—which I do. You’re a good person with good instincts.”
“It’s more than instinct.” Her face pinched with pain. She pushed back her wavy hair with a shaky hand. “It’s experience. My father struggled with inner demons of his own. Sometimes he drank too much to quiet those demons.”
“I’m sorry.” He understood well from confidences at meetings how much grief alcoholism could bring to relatives, part of why he’d tried so hard to keep his problems from his family.
A part of why he’d stayed alone on the ranch?
He shuffled aside the distracting thought and focused on Tally.
“My mother and I begged him to get help, but he was resistant.” She looked at him quickly, then averted her eyes. “He wasn’t physically abusive, so he insisted he didn’t have a problem. He just couldn’t accept the other ways it affected his life.”
He could hear the lack of peace in her soft tone, the burden of it still hanging over her. “And now your parents are gone. I’m so very sorry.”
“It’s tough to know there’s no do-over to make things right,” she said, her voice cracking.
He shifted in his seat, reaching out his good arm and stroking her fragile shoulder. Her hair glided across his wrist in a silken wave. “You’re living your life to the fullest. I’m sure they would be proud.”
“I hope so.”
Such sadness radiated from her he ached to pull her into his arms, to take on all that hurt for her. But he couldn’t forget his promise to leave any move up to her. So he simply caressed her shoulder, his fingers sketching lightly along her back.
Even with his determination to keep his distance unless she made a move, his senses went on high alert, fine-tuning into the moment—the hum of the idling engine, the whisper of the heater.
Northern lights streaked through the sky, casting a multicolored hue through the vehicle’s cab, giving her a luminescent glow.
Heat pumped through him until he went hard with want. The spark of awareness in her eyes intensified, echoing in him.
She swayed closer. Closer again. All the encouragement he needed. He angled nearer, sealing his mouth to hers. The connection was instantaneous and combustible. Her palms slid over his chest, gripping his jacket with urgency. Her lips parted, welcoming him.
An invitation he couldn’t resist.
He swept his tongue over hers, exploring, the taste of syrup and her an enticing blend that called to him to take more. As much as she would give.
Her hands slid around his neck, her fingers threading through his hair.
Desire pumped through him, urging him on for more.
Grateful his arm was free of the sling, he pressed her back against the seat, her chest to his, the softness of her breasts searing him even through their jackets.
He burned to get rid of their clothes, to sample every inch of her creamy skin.
Her kittenish sighs encouraged him, the chemistry deepened by the day they’d shared, the ways they’d bared their secrets to each other. He wanted more. All of her, craving her so much that he couldn’t trust himself.
As he eased back to suggest they take things inside, he saw the wariness in her eyes; the full weight of their conversation hit him. Her father had been an alcoholic. That had left a painful mark on her she wouldn’t want to repeat in her personal life.
Which left him firmly on the outside.