Chapter 9
Clara
The sound of running water pulls me from sleep. My muscles protest when I stretch, and every inch of me remembers why. The ache is deep and satisfying, a pleasant thrum that rolls through my body like the afterglow of a vigorous workout.
Jeremy Weston, the unflappable, unstoppable man of iron, thrown clean off his game by a simple truth.
The look on his face when he realized—god, if I could bottle that.
For a heartbeat, I thought he might actually apologize.
Then the shock burned off, and he looked at me like a man discovering a secret he intended to worship, not regret.
Before I can wonder more about giving my virginity to Jeremy Weston, the bathroom door opens.
Steam drifts out first, followed by the man himself.
He’s naked except for a towel slung low on his hips.
Drops of water slide down his chest and gather at the edge of the fabric.
He doesn’t hurry. His steps are measured, sure, like gravity itself is working in his favor.
Sunlight from the partly open curtains cuts across his broad and sculpted chest. A fine trail of hair runs down his abdomen, drawing my gaze lower before I can stop it. I know what’s hiding behind that cloth and what it can do with a woman. I suppress a moan and lick my lips.
“My eyes are up here.”
I jerk my head up. “I wasn’t—”
The corner of his mouth lifts but his gaze softens. “You were.”
The tease fades as our eyes hold. Something pulls tight between us, making my nipples pebble and my core soften. Despite the ache between my legs, I want him again.
“I think you’re not ready for round two,” he says as if he’s reading my thoughts.
He’s right, though it annoys me. My thighs protest when I shift, muscles sore like I’ve been training for a marathon. There’s a deeper ache, too, a raw reminder of the night before. Still, I feel different, strong, and a little reckless. Maybe this is what womanhood really feels like?
“Maybe not,” I admit. “But I think I’ve finally found a workout I enjoy.”
He blinks, then laughs. The sound fills the room. It’s open, genuine, and the kind that comes from deep in the chest. He throws his head back, shoulders shaking until the last note breaks on a breath. It hits me low in the belly and opens something inside my chest. He has a great laugh.
When I stand, I pull the sheet with me, like he hasn’t seen, touched and kissed every part of my body last night.
The stretch pulls on overworked muscles and I flinch.
I lower my gaze, and the red stain catches my eye.
It shouldn’t surprise me, but it still does.
My cheeks heat. It’s not shame, exactly, more the strange awareness that everything about me feels new.
He follows my gaze. “Where’s your washer?”
I clutch the sheet a little higher. “You don’t have to deal with that.”
“I want to.”
He closes the distance in two strides, his skin still damp from the shower, his scent is a mixture of my soap, hot skin, and something distinctly him. His fingers find the back of my neck, and I melt into him.
His mouth lands on mine, before I can think.
His lips are hot, demanding, yet soft. He doesn’t take; he consumes, coaxes and claims until my thoughts melt into sensation.
His stubble scratches my chin, just enough to make me shiver.
I press closer, hands sliding up the hard planes of his chest, velvet over steel.
When I pull away, we’re both breathless and my heartbeat is frantic. “You keep doing that,” I murmur, “and you’ll never get my laundry done.”
His smile curves against my mouth. “Worth it.”
He turns me in his arms, gives my backside a firm pat and nudges me toward the bathroom. “Go shower.”
I glance over my shoulder. “Washer’s downstairs, in the kitchen.”
“Got it,” he says, already stripping the bed.
The morning light catches along the line of his back as he bends to gather the sheets. Muscles shift under his skin in a display of controlled power and remind me of how he controlled my body last night. I can’t keep from staring as he tosses the sheets over one arm and turns toward the door.
“Get dressed, baby. We’ve got somewhere to be.”
My chest warms. I shake my head and laugh under my breath.
My legs feel like I rode a bucking Bronco for more than eight seconds. The man is hung like sin itself, or maybe it isn’t his size but his skill. What would I know?
I turn toward the bathroom with the grace of someone twice my age and stumble inside. My reflection meets me with wild hair and a faint hickey high on my collarbone. I don’t need a mirror to remember how it got there or to see the other marks he left.
Jeremy
The drive to my grandparents’ place takes fifteen minutes, but it feels longer with Clara beside me, sitting in silence. She’s staring out the window, pretending to admire the fields. I know better. Every time we hit a bump, she bites back a wince.
“Still sore?” I ask, trying for casual.
Her mouth twitches. “Your ego would love that answer, wouldn’t it?”
“Maybe.”
She finally looks at me, and despite the faint circles under her eyes, there’s color in her cheeks that wasn’t there yesterday.
Pride and guilt wrestle somewhere in my chest. I should have been gentler, but hell, she didn’t exactly give me a chance.
One second she was kissing me like her life depended on it, and the next she was clawing at my shoulders.
If I’d known she was a virgin, I would have taken more time.
Then again, she came apart in my arms, so maybe ripping off the proverbial band-aid was the right call.
When we pull up to the farmhouse, the sun’s already high enough to make the roof shimmer.
Grandma’s roses spill over the porch railing, the scent of them carried on warm air.
Somewhere down the road, a cicada starts its slow, steady buzz.
The front door’s open to let in the breeze, and I can already smell coffee and bacon drifting out.
Clara straightens her jacket as we walk up the steps. “You realize I’ve had breakfast here a dozen times.”
“Not with me.”
Her glance slides my way. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”
“Maybe a little.” I grab her hand and tug her closer.
Granddad’s voice carries through the screen door before we’re even inside. “You’re late. Bacon’s getting cold.”
“We’re right on time,” I say, stepping into the kitchen.
He’s at the table, the morning paper folded beside his plate, reading glasses perched on his nose.
Grandma’s moving between the stove and counter with her usual quiet efficiency.
The kitchen carries its usual perfume of coffee and frying bacon, layered over the soft sweetness of biscuits baking and the clean, sun-warmed scent of old pine floors.
“Morning, Charles. Evelyn.” Her voice carries a quiet warmth, as if she’s stepping into familiar ground but still mindful of where she places her feet.
Granddad peers over the glasses. “You look tired, girl. The inspection run you ragged?”
Clara sits, smoothing her skirt before answering. “Nothing I couldn’t handle.”
Grandma sets a plate in front of her, piled with eggs, bacon, and biscuits. “You handled it just fine. Passed with flying colors, didn’t she, Jeremy?”
“She did.” My chest swells a little. “The inspector said he’d never seen a line so clean.”
Granddad nods once, approving. “That’s what I like to hear.”
Clara shakes her head. “It was a team effort. Everyone pulled their weight.”
Granddad sets down his fork. “You still can’t take a compliment, can you?”
Her brows lift. “Excuse me?”
He leans back, and the chair creaks a protest. “When someone praises your work, you nod and say thank you. None of that false modesty. You’ve earned it.”
She opens her mouth, closes it again. Then she smiles, a little rueful. “Thank you.”
“That’s better.” His mouth tips in approval, eyes creasing at the corners.
Grandma pats his arm. “You and that speech. You gave the same one to this one here at twenty-one.” She nods at me.
“And he still needed it,” Granddad grumbles.
I sip my coffee to hide my grin. He’s right. I used to dodge praise too, being afraid it made me look arrogant. Clara’s the same. Always putting the company first and herself last.
Conversation drifts easily after that. We talk about the inspection, the shipment schedule, the new maintenance system Clara set up.
She lights up when she talks about the workers, her hands moving as she describes their ideas for improving efficiency.
Granddad listens, nodding along, pride flickering in his eyes.
Finally, he sets his mug down and announces, “I’ve been thinking it’s time I stepped back. End of the month seems about right.”
Clara stills, the fork halfway to her mouth. “You’re serious?”
“I am. My knees tell me every morning.” He glances at me. “Jeremy’s ready to take over.”
The words hang in the air. Clara turns to me, blinking once, then twice, as if trying to read my face. “You’re taking the reins?”
“Was always the plan,” I say. “I just needed to finish what I started in Chicago first.”
Her lips part, and a quiet breath leaves her. “It’s what your grandfather built. You’ll do it justice.”
The breath I draw catches halfway. Her words land clean in my chest, heavy and bright, and I can’t remember the last time someone’s faith felt like that.
Grandma wipes her hands on a napkin and beams at both of us. “Then we’ll have to celebrate. Pancakes tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow is a working day,” Granddad mutters. “We’ll have the same oatmeal we always do.”
“Not if I’m cooking,” she fires back.
Clara laughs, and the sound makes the whole kitchen lighter. Granddad’s smile is faint but satisfied.
He pushes back from the table and looks between us. “You two’ll make a good team.”
I glance at Clara. She meets my eyes for a fraction of a second before looking away, cheeks flushing faintly. My throat tightens. She keeps her focus on the table, but every so often she shifts in her chair, a small movement she doesn’t seem to realize she’s making.
I want to apologize again, but that would only embarrass her. Instead, I cover her hand with mine beneath the table. She stiffens, then relaxes.
“Eat,” Grandma orders. “You’ll need energy if you’re running the plant and if you’re planning to keep up with this one.”
Clara chokes on her coffee. “Evelyn!”
I grin. My grandmother probably didn’t mean it like that, but she’s right. I’m a demanding man, both in the boardroom and the bedroom.
Granddad just laughs. The sound rumbles deep in his chest. “Don’t tease her too much, old girl. We need her in one piece.”
“She’s tougher than she looks,” I can’t help but say.
Clara shoots me a look that’s half annoyance, half something warmer. “You’d better remember that.”
“Oh, I do.”
We finish breakfast with the easy rhythm of people who know each other too well to bother with pretense.