Chapter 17
17
T race couldn’t get that morning out of his mind. He’d been going over it and over it in his head, trying to figure out how JT had gotten in. Avery might think she’d left the door open, but Trace doubted it. Even exhausted, Avery was a creature of habit. And safety was one of her habits.
The forklift eased roof tiles into Trace’s truck, and he tossed a thick nylon rope across the bed.
“Can you grab some more nails?” he asked JT. “And wait for the receipt?”
“Sure thing.”
JT turned and whistled his way into the office of the building supply warehouse. Trace finished tying down the roof shingles, his mind back on that morning. He didn’t believe she’d left the door unlocked, let alone open. And even though—according to the cons at Folsom—no lock was pick-proof, Trace had installed the highest-quality dead bolts to minimize amateur break-ins.
And JT was an amateur.
Through the office window, Trace saw JT talking to the woman behind the desk and slipped into the cab of the truck. With his gaze on the office, Trace grabbed the jacket JT had left on the seat and dipped his hand into one pocket.
Matches, receipts, gum.
He slid the jacket across the seat to reach the other pocket and felt the unmistakable weight of something heavy. He pushed his hand into the pocket and touched metal. Trace pulled out the object—and found a small black gun in his hand.
Trace’s stomach went cold, his chest tight. “Fucking A.”
“Hell, how do you know he doesn’t have a weapon?”
Trace glanced toward the office again before he set the gun aside and dug deeper into the pocket and found more metal. But this was small. And Trace pulled out a key. A single, shiny key.
Rage slammed against his rib cage, demanding release, but Trace knew he had to keep that emotion locked down if he wanted to stay out here in the real world.
JT exited the office with a box of nails and a piece of paper. With his teeth clenched, Trace tossed the gun into his glove compartment, grabbed JT’s jacket, and met him in the middle of the parking lot.
He held up the key. “Explain this.”
JT’s gaze jumped between the key and Trace’s face a few times. “Explain what? My apartment key?” His expression turned sour. “What are you doing? Going through my stuff? That’s not cool, man.”
He grabbed for his jacket, but Trace pulled it out of reach. “What’s not cool is me going out on a limb to give you a job and you cutting off the branch.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I’m talking about the way this key matches up with my key to the café .”
JT’s belligerence turned angry. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I know exactly what I’m talking about.” Trace shoved the jacket against JT’s chest. “You’re fired. Get the fuck out of my sight, and don’t ever let me see your face again. You got that?”
Trace walked backward until he was out of jumping range, then turned for his truck.
“Dude,” JT yelled. “You lifted my gun. Give it back.”
Trace stopped and pivoted. “You can have your gun or peace with your PO. Which do you want more?”
JT read Trace’s threat to tell his PO about the weapon, and fury broke over his face. “That’s fucked, man. That’s fucked .”
Trace walked the rest of the way to the truck with JT yelling obscenities and threats, and drove away with JT’s furious gestures in the rearview mirror.
He drove two miles, then stopped on the side of the highway, where weeds and bushes lined the fence. Dragging the gun from the glove box, he pulled the clip, emptied the chamber, and wiped down the metal with the hem of his T-shirt—ironically, all things he’d learned inside prison. Then he made damn sure there were no cops in sight and tossed the weapon out the driver’s window.
Only when he was on the road again, free from JT and rid of that gun, did he breathe easier. Taking him on had been one of the worst decisions Trace had ever made. And the thought of that weapon so close to Avery, of JT so close to Avery, of what he could have done to Avery when Trace’s back was turned...
His teeth clenched, and a feral sound vibrated in Trace’s throat.
He spent the first fifteen minutes of the drive back just wrangling his fury under control. The next fifteen minutes planning how he’d finish the roof on his own before the rain came. And the last trying to figure out how to apologize to Avery in a way that conveyed his epiphany about how wrong he’d been.
He pulled off the highway with a sick knot in his stomach and dragged his phone from the center console to make a call to Gram to see if she could go check on George. Trace had to track Avery down to deliver the news and the apology he hadn’t figured out yet.
At the stoplight, he tapped the “Home” button. Instead of lighting up with the background and the time, a row of two missed calls and two awaiting messages faced him—all from Avery.
A lick of panic burned up his chest as his mind raced over reasons she would be trying to get ahold of him this late. An urgent problem at the café, an opportunity to ream him for acting like such an asshole today...Hell, she could have been calling to fire him.
He tapped the speaker on his phone, held his breath, and played the messages back.
As soon as Trace heard the words, “Your dad showed up at the café,” all his air whooshed out.
“What?” He ground his teeth, holding in his fear and anger until he’d heard everything. The apology in her voice hadn’t been anywhere close to what he’d been expecting. But he didn’t jump to the conclusion that she’d want to mend fences with him, because, well, this wasn’t his first asshole moment with her. When her message finished playing, Trace scraped his fingers into his hair. “Jesus Christ.”
He deleted her message and played the next one.
“Me again,” she said to voice mail. “Just an update. Your dad doesn’t want to go home, so we’ll wait for you at the café. See you soon.”
“Oh, great,” he muttered. His dad was having one of his stubborn moments. “Just fucking perfect.”
Trace pushed harder on the gas. This was the last thing Avery needed—an ornery old man, with dementia no less—planting himself in the middle of her café at the end of a very long day. And his father’s mind only slipped deeper into confusion when he was stressed. The bar’s transition into a café, the replacement of Joe with Avery, the absence of alcohol and cards would rattle him enough to twist his thoughts into a dust devil and push his acceptance of change into the negative zone. All that would trigger irrational anger and mix memories until he made no sense at all and turned belligerent.
Thinking of that stress on top of all the stress Trace had already caused Avery made him anxious as he pulled into the café’s drive.
The first sign of trouble hit him immediately—a half-dozen cars in the lot besides Avery’s Jeep. The next sign hit a second later—Zane’s patrol car among those vehicles.
“Shit.”
Fear joined Trace’s stress. Reasons for all these cars to be here bounced around his brain, making it hard to think, to plan. He pulled up behind a couple of cars and turned off the truck’s engine but left the lights on and keys in the ignition as he jumped out and took the front steps two at a time.
Inside the café, he halted at the sight that greeted him—a bunch of people sitting around two square tables that had been pushed together near the piano. They all had cards and piles of chips laid out in front of them. The lighting was lower than usual, and the murmur of familiar voices touched Trace’s ears. Familiar faces registered in his brain.
What he didn’t understand was what . . . or why . . . or how . . .
“Okay, yo,” Zane said, turning his head toward Ethan, who sat in the next seat, letting a stack of chips slide through his fingers over and over, “we’re surfin’ the wall here. Are you grabbing your board or not?”
“Speaking English is a requirement to play at this table, kid,” Harlan McClellan groused. “If you can’t say something we can all understand, then stop your jabberin’.”
Ethan tossed his cards toward Delaney, who held the deck. “I’m out.”
That pleased Zane, and he turned his sharklike gaze on Phoebe in the next chair. “Come on, Pheebs,” he cajoled. “You know you wanna.”
“I know I wanna kick your arrogant heinie,” she said as she matched Zane’s bet and lifted her chin toward Trace’s father, who sat across from her. “Take it away, George. Because if I can’t be the one to kick his ass, there’s no one I’d like to see kick it more than you.”
The laughter around the table climbed. And his father was among those laughing. Trace hadn’t seen his father laugh in...He searched his memory and realized he couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen him laugh. Possibly sometime in Trace’s childhood.
“Good call,” George said, matching his son’s sly grin. “Because no one can kick his ass like I can.” He tipped his head and shrugged. “Well, except Trace. Trace has a knack for kicking ass.”
Trace’s confusion deepened into shock. His father sounded positively lucid as he pulled up the corners of his two cards for a quick glance, then tossed in chips to match the others. “I’m in. You gonna wake up to play this hand, Avery? Or just win it while you sleep?”
Trace’s gaze slid to the shadowed chair beside his father, just outside the pool of light overhead. Avery had her arm curled on the table and her head resting there. He shifted to get a better look at her face and found her eyes closed. She opened them long enough to glance at the table and throw chips in the pot.
She closed her eyes again. “I’m a multitasking guru.”
Trace planted his hands at his hips and watched as the hand moved forward and his brain pieced together the answers to his what, why, and how. It didn’t take long for him to realize that because his father still thought this was Joe’s bar, he’d demanded to do what he always did at Joe’s bar when he’d come—drink and play poker. When Avery couldn’t convince him to go home, she’d either had to provide the environment his father wanted or suffer his wrath.
She’d obviously enlisted help from the piano, where the keys were uncovered, and called in the cavalry, soliciting those closest to her to put together the poker game his father had been asking Trace for since they’d arrived in town. Judging by the beer bottles littering the table, it was obvious Ethan had brought the alcoholic refreshments. By the food sitting on the counter, he knew Avery had provided snacks. And between her family and his, she’d pulled together his father’s dream night on the spur of the moment.
When it all came together in Trace’s head, he experienced a sudden wash of emotion that almost overwhelmed him. Gratitude, affection, longing...and so much more. Too much more. He couldn’t process it all in the moment. He’d been so lucky to have Delaney call him at the start of this job, doubly lucky when Avery kept him on after the café had traded hands. Now both he and his father had the support of Avery and her entire extended family. Phoebe, Delaney, Ethan, even Harlan had jumped when Avery had asked, giving up their night to satisfy a crazy old man’s frivolous wish.
A round of shouts and laughter brought Trace’s thoughts back.
Zane jumped from his chair and planted his hands on the table, leaning toward Delaney. “Come on, baby—bring me a diamond.”
“Watch who you’re calling baby,” Ethan said.
“I’m talking to the cards.”
Avery chuckled, eyes still closed, head still resting on her arm. “He has to. If you don’t have skill, you’ve got to have a little crazy.”
Delaney laughed. “Amen, sister.”
Trace could only guess by the body language and card placement at the table that only Avery and Zane remained in the hand, and a shitload of chips were piled at the center of the table.
“Come on, Delaney,” Avery murmured. “Pull a lady for me, if for no other reason than to watch Zane writhe in pain.”
“Why you gotta be like that?” Zane said.
“You’ve met your poker match, kid,” their father told Zane, then chuckled like the man Trace had once known. “And it’s a damn beautiful sight.”
Zane ignored George and told Delaney, “You’re killin’ me here. Just pull it.”
Delaney pulled a card and turned it faceup. Trace couldn’t see what it was, but by the way Zane dramatically pumped his fists overhead with a, “Yes,” it had obviously been a diamond.
“You are the luckiest little shit,” Avery said without an ounce of anger.
“Luck of the Irish,” Zane said.
Avery opened her eyes and lifted a grin to Zane. “Irish prick, maybe.”
The group busted up with laughter, and playing stopped for a moment. Trace realized he was smiling. Realized his chest felt light.
Ethan noticed Trace and lifted his chin in greeting. “Hey, you’re back. Pull up a chair—join the next round.”
Avery sat up, her dazed gaze searching for him. And when her eyes slid to a stop on his, Trace felt a warm, gooey knot pull deep in his chest.
A tentative smile turned her lips, and her hair fell over her shoulder, reminding him of the way she’d looked at him during their first night together. “Hey. How was the trip? Did you get what you needed?”
He’d gotten rid of JT, and that was a serious relief to his mind, heart, and conscience. “I did.” And he needed to break this up and let everyone get on with his or her life, including Avery. “Dad, you ready to go?”
“Don’t you worry about that,” Harlan told Trace, pushing back from the table and standing in a slow, stiff movement. “Your daddy’s stayin’ at the ranch house with me. Gonna plow with me in the morning. You and Zane deserve a night off. George and me got lots of old times to talk about.”
“Hey, wait a minute,” Zane complained as the hand broke up. “It’s not over.”
Avery tossed her cards toward the deck, and Delaney slid them back in the cardboard box. “You win, Zane.”
“It’s no fun to win like that.”
“Too bad.”
“Jeez.” Zane dropped his cards on the table, his shoulders sagging. “Trace, your timing sucks.”
But with Avery walking toward him, blue eyes sparkling, he was thinking just the opposite.
“Hey,” he said, “thanks for doing this. I’m sorry I didn’t get back to you sooner. I didn’t hear the phone and didn’t see your call until I picked it up to call and check on Dad?—”
“It’s fine. It all worked out fine.”
“Right,” he said. “I forgot you’re the goddess of fine.” But in Trace’s book fine meant settling. And Avery didn’t need to settle anymore.
As everyone collected their jackets and headed for the door offering their “good nights,” including his father, Trace told Harlan, “Call me for anything. Anytime tonight, okay?”
“You kids,” Harlan said with a chuckle. “You forget we raised you , not the other way around.” He slapped a hand to Trace’s shoulder. “Relax for a change.”
But Trace felt like a worried father when his own dad walked down the stairs in his pajamas and someone else’s shoes, with bandages peeking out around his ankles.
Phoebe followed with a hug for Avery and a warm squeeze to Trace’s forearm.
Zane walked out with Delaney and Ethan and paused on the porch. “Do you girls ever hear from Chloe? I was hoping to see her pop up in town since the two of you were back.”
“Last I talked to her,” Avery said, brows lifted, “she was teaching yoga in Bali.”
Zane’s mouth dropped open. “Bali?”
“Bali.”
“Huh. Rough life.”
Avery shrugged. “It may seem glamorous, but in a month, she’ll call and probably be somewhere in Africa building houses, or in Belize saving turtles, or in Mississippi waiting tables. She hasn’t quite found whatever it is she’s looking for. When I talk to her again, I’m going to offer her a job at the café.” Avery’s beautiful face broke into a grin. “I can’t wait to hear how she responds to that.”
“Keep me posted,” Zane said. He promised Trace he’d call and talk about their dad’s logistics in the morning.
Before Ethan and Delaney headed down the steps to their cars, her sister gave both Avery and Trace a pointed look. “Be good now.”
Standing together, watching the trail of cars flow toward the country road, Trace both relished the quiet and dreaded leaving. “Zane’s nursed a wicked crush on Chloe since sixth grade.”
Avery chuckled. “Along with every other male in Wildwood. The wild little Hart blonde. I know a lot of people think Delaney was the craziest, but that’s only because they’d never experienced how well Chloe could lie, charm, and con anyone and everyone. Zane was lucky she never took an interest in him. In her short twenty-four years, she’s left a trail of broken hearts around the world.”
“Think she’ll come back to take a job at the café?”
“Hell, no,” Avery laughed. “But a girl can dream. I miss her. She’s always so upbeat and positive no matter what. Always fun, larger than life. The girl everyone wants to be, you know?”
“Hmm.” Trace didn’t know. He’d known Chloe only in passing, and even though her type was the kind of woman he’d sought out for years, the description didn’t appeal to him now. Now only Avery appealed to him. Which brought his mind around to Avery’s older sister. “Why did Delaney tell us to be good?”
Avery heaved a sigh, one that sounded exhausted. “She has my aunt’s intuition. She knows we slept together and isn’t thrilled with the idea.”
Trace cut a look at her, shock burning in his gut. “You told her?”
Avery lifted a shoulder. “Only after she’d already guessed.”
Right. Fucking around with an ex-con wasn’t exactly news to write home about.
“Trace,” she said, “I’m so sorry about what I said earlier. I know that doesn’t make up for it, but I didn’t mean to lump you in with all ex-convicts. I was just?—”
“You were right.” Instead of touching her the way he wanted to, he kept his hands on the railing and held tight to keep them there. Then looked toward the darkness. “I’m sorry I even brought JT onto the property. He won’t be back. I fired him.”
She rested her hip against the railing. “What happened?”
“Found the key to the café in his jacket pocket. It was brand-new, still shiny. He must have lifted my key and had one made. He wouldn’t have had access to yours.”
A soft breath exited her lungs, and a moment of silence stretched between them. Then she finally said, “I’m sorry he disappointed you.”
That sparkle of compassion was all it took for Trace’s barriers to melt away. But the guilt remained. “And I’m sorry I’ve disappointed you.” He met her gaze again. “I’ll get the roof done tomorrow myself, then start on the finish work. I promise you, Avery—I’ll have this café ready for your opening day.”
She searched his eyes, then nodded and stroked a hand over his arm. “I know you will.”
A warm, tight feeling gathered at the center of his body. She had every right to doubt him, yet didn’t. Every reason to back away, yet stepped closer.
“Thanks for helping out with my dad. I know he’s the last thing you needed to deal with on top of everything else today.”
“If I wasn’t so stretched thin for time,” she said, “I’d offer to have him hang with me while I bake. He’s quite the piano player. I could listen to that all day.”
“He remembered?” Trace asked, stunned. “He actually played?”
She nodded. “The most poignant ‘Ave Maria’ I’ve ever heard.”
“Wow.” He was speechless.
“And boy did his mood improve. He came in all pissed off, and as soon as he sat down at that piano, it was like flipping a switch. Absolutely amazing.”
“You’re the one who’s absolutely amazing,” he said. “I overreacted this morning. I’m...overly sensitive...to being lumped in with the ex-con pool, which is stupid, because that’s what I am. I’m sorry for snapping at you.”
“We’re both stretched thin. I can see how difficult it would be to take care of your father on your own.”
He shrugged. “Yeah, well, I was no easier as a kid.”
“That’s not what he says.”
Trace huffed a sarcastic laugh, but a tingle of unease rose along his spine. “Dementia, remember?”
“That’s what I thought at first. When he insisted Zane was the troublemaker of the family, I was sure he had to be mixed up. So when Zane finally showed up tonight, I asked him.”
His unease turned to fear. It wasn’t logical, he knew. But what he’d done to end up in prison hadn’t been logical either. Trace was only beginning to realize how much of what he did in life was rooted in emotion.
Like holding out hope she didn’t pull away when he lifted a hand to brush a lock of hair from her cheek and tuck it behind her ear.
When she leaned into his touch instead of backing off, he asked, “And what did he say?”
“He said I should ask you.”
Trace’s mouth quirked. “He would.”
He was rolling words around in his head, unsure how to get out of this conversation without giving an explanation about something he’d rather forget, when she lifted her hand to cover his and took another step closer. This time, she closed the distance completely, pressing her body to his and slipping her arms around his waist.
That was all it took for Trace’s body to break through the mental restrictions he’d put in place. A craving unique to Avery and getting stronger by the day bubbled low in his gut. Every inch of his body felt tight and hot and hungry. Hungry for the feel of her, the smell of her, the taste of her. He craved the sensation of fulfillment she left in the wake of giving herself over to him.
“You know,” he said, laying his hands on her shoulders, unsure how to push her away without hurting her or pissing her off, yet sure that was exactly what he had to do, “it’s been a really long?—”
“I don’t care what your father meant,” she said. “It doesn’t matter. We all made mistakes when we were kids, right?”
He didn’t understand why she always gave him the benefit of the doubt. Why she trusted him at all after what she’d been through with her ex. “I wasn’t a kid when I made my mistakes. I knew better.”
“So did I, but I still did it.”
“You ran off to get married . I...” He didn’t want to get into that. “Forget it. That’s beside the?—”
“You what?”
“It doesn’t matter.” He looked around the café for something to distract her and allow him to pull away. “Come on—I’ll help you clean up.”
But she wasn’t having it. She locked her arms at the small of his back and pulled his hips into hers. The feel of her supple belly cradling his cock forced blood into all the right—or wrong, depending on how he looked at it—places, and he couldn’t keep his eyes open.
He was gathering the strength to push away, when she said, “You’re right. It doesn’t matter. We all end up where we’re supposed to be eventually.”
Where we are supposed to be?
He opened his eyes to Avery’s light-blue gaze looking up at him with heat and affection and need. A need that seemed more emotional than physical. Wrapped in her arms like this, Trace realized she was as close to where he was supposed to be as he’d ever felt.
But Avery was a completely different story. At only twenty-five, with a supportive, loving family behind her, a prosperous new business on the horizon, and her newfound freedom at her fingertips, she was at the launching pad of her life, not the final destination.
“Eventually, I suppose we do.” He ran the backs of his fingers over her cheek. “But you have a lot more life to experience before you’ll know where you’re meant to be.”
“Maybe for the long term.” The spark in her eyes dimmed, her soft smile faded, and she let her gaze drift to his chest. “But right now I have no doubt I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.”
She pushed up on her toes and kissed his throat. Fire streaked along his skin, and his cock swelled. He stroked a hand over her hair, framed her head, and pulled her mouth off his skin. Time for a little dose of reality.
“And what about tomorrow?” He met her eyes directly. “Your sister will still disapprove, to say nothing of what Phoebe will think if she finds out. And I’ll still be a struggling ex-con, almost a decade older than you. It might feel good now, but reality is reality, Avery, and that’s not going to look very appealing in the morning.”
“I’ve seen you in the morning,” she quipped back, “and I promise you, it’s extremely appealing.” She grew serious, and her eyes did that smolder thing that made him ravenous. “And tomorrow, I’ll still see the man I see right now. The same man I met two months ago on the tour of this hellhole.”
She slid her hands up his chest and wound her fingers around his wrists. “I don’t see the man you see when you look in the mirror, with all the flaws of the past staring back at you, Trace. I see the competent contractor who works twice as hard as anyone I’ve ever met, while doing twice the job, and all for next to nothing just for the possibility of getting future work from others. I see the man who constantly has his client’s best interests at heart, a man who can admit when he’s made a mistake and who can apologize for something that’s only half his fault. I see a man twisting himself inside out to take care of his sick father and trying to make ends meet.”
Trace was slipping again. His chest ached. His body throbbed. And his eyes kept falling to her mouth the way a drunk’s clung to a bottle of whiskey. Avery promised him the same blissful relief, the same heavenly escape. If he could just figure out a way to indulge and not wake up with a hangover that continued to gnaw away at him until his next sip.
“You’re amazing.” He heard his words, realized he’d spoken the thought, and continued. “After everything you’ve been through, I don’t know how you could see the good in any man, let alone a man like me.”
She shook her head. “You can’t appreciate the good without experiencing the bad. And even though I only have one man for comparison, I spent all my time with very chatty wives of other soldiers. I knew exactly what I was missing in my marriage—emotionally and physically. Which makes me qualified to tell you, Mr. Hutton, that you are way the hell above average, just as you are.”
Trace was speechless. Emotions overpowered logic again, and he couldn’t stop himself from pulling her to him for just a taste of heaven. Her lips were as warm and welcoming as they always were. Her mouth open and hot, her tongue aggressive, begging for him to respond the same way.
And just like a drunk, one taste, and Trace fell headfirst into the bottle. He slanted his mouth over hers and tasted her. Licked her. Sucked her. And when she made that hungry kitten sound at the back of her throat, Trace wobbled on the edge of losing his mind and doing what he’d done their first night—throwing her onto the butcher block and fucking her until they were both a sweaty, juicy mess.
He broke the kiss and pressed his cheek to her forehead. Taking deep drags of air, he fought to clear his mind. The logical side tried its best, but its wheels spun in the mud with the same weak argument it always threw at him.
She’ll eventually hate you for continuing this dead-end fling. She’ll end up feeling used. She is exactly why you stick with casual hookups, because women like Avery don’t belong with men like you. There’s no way this will end well, you are what you are.
“I’m exhausted.” Avery’s words pulled him from the impossible dilemma, and Trace saw them for what they were—his escape hatch.
He leaned away and nodded. “Yeah. Really long day.” He forced his fingers to uncurl from her hair. “You should get some sleep.”
“Mmm-hmm.” She may have agreed, but not only didn’t she release him, she slid her hands under his T-shirt and stroked his belly and chest. “I’m so glad my bed was delivered earlier tonight.”
His gaze refocused on hers. “Bed?”
She nodded, smiling like a little imp. “For the apartment. As soon as those appliances come in—which should be any day now—I’ll be living here. Personally and professionally. And as hard as I work during the day, I decided I deserve a good bed for my nights.” She scraped her fingers through his hair and dragged her lower lip between her teeth. “Come check it out with me. Make sure it’s not too soft, not too hard, you know?—”
“Just right,” he murmured, already following her as she pulled him toward the stairs by his T-shirt.
She beamed over her shoulder. “Exactly.”
But at the bottom of the steps, that logic caught up with him, and he grabbed the banister, using the physical anchor to stop himself. Her hand slipped from his shirt, and she stopped on the first stair, turning to face him with a curious frown.
“Really, Avery. Don’t you think it’s better to back off now rather than wait until we’re in even deeper and then have to cut it off cold turkey?”
Say yes. Say, “You’re right, Trace. Go home.”
But just the thought of those words coming out of her mouth cut him down the middle. He definitely had a bigger problem on his hands than he’d realized. He was fucking crazy about this woman.
Disappointment clouded her expression, but within seconds that sadness shifted to resignation. Her shoulders dropped. Her head tilted as if considering. “If that’s really the way you feel...”
She ascended the stairs backward. Her arms crossed and her fingers grabbed the hem of her tee, then pulled it off over her head, dropping it on the stairs.
Pink lace cupped her tits, and Trace’s mouth watered as his gaze skimmed all the perfect curves from her shoulders down to her waist.
She backed up another stair and slid her hands down her body in an incredibly intimate way that made him think of touching her, of watching her touch herself. Then her fingers slipped into the waistband of her jeans and popped the button. The zipper’s rasp sounded loud in the dark.
“I’m not going to force you into my bed if you’re ready to move on.” She climbed another two steps. Shimmied her jeans over her hips and pushed them down her thighs.
“Avery...” Her name came out half plea, half breath, and it was all he could manage, caught between two impossible choices. He could walk away from the most beautiful, most generous, most amazing woman he’d ever met, one who’d somehow snuck into his heart and filled a space he hadn’t realized was vacant. Or he could stay with her, love her the way he wanted, the way she deserved, and hurt like a mother when it was over.
She toed off her shoes and stepped out of her jeans, leaving them in a puddle on the stairs as she took the last step to the landing in the prettiest matching bra and panties Trace had seen in a long time.
He gripped the banister until his fingers stung, and a low groan ebbed from his throat.
“Have I ever mentioned that I love the way you say my name?” she asked, reaching into her hair and pulling the band holding it up. “Without the e .”
Trace had no idea what she was talking about, because all his blood was feeding the wrong brain. Her hair tumbled down in a ragged mess, and she combed her fingers through it.
“Especially,” she added, reaching between her tits to grasp the clip on her bra, “during sex when you use that deep, throaty, can’t-get-enough-of-you voice. God, that’s so hot. I’m already wet.”
Snap.
The clip broke open, and Trace’s barriers shattered with it. She let her tits fall free of the bra and looped the fabric around the banister, leaving her in nothing but sexy, sheer, skimpy panties.
Trace went up in flames.
With her hand on the matching banister at the top of the stairs, her gorgeous body shadowed in the dim light, she said, “Well, then...I guess I’ll be rolling around in my brand-new bed with brand-new sheets by myself tonight. Sleep tight, Trace.”
And she turned and disappeared up the second half of the split-level staircase.