Chapter Thirteen
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
R AYNE WATCHED THE BERRIES burst under the intense heat. It was a bit early for blueberries at the farmers' market, but she'd found the ones she stirred in the saucepan in her aunt's freezer. In Aunt Frances’ neat handwriting, the label said Hartner Hills which Rayne knew was in Avinger. She'd picked blueberries there when she was a girl. Her aunt must have gone with friends last summer. They'd been frozen for a while, but would serve the purpose.
She grated a hint of nutmeg into the compote and added a pinch of orange zest.
The kitchen was quiet except for the tapping of the occasional bug against the window screen. Rayne reveled in the silence, allowing it to wring out the tension in her shoulders.
The digital clock on the microwave read 10:23 p.m. Nighttime was her favorite time to test new recipes. Something about the gathered darkness around her, the freedom to saute and puree dressed in nothing but a cotton nightgown. No bustle, no shouting from the line cooks, nothing but her mind and her art.
A muffled thump sounded on the back porch.
Rayne laid her wooden spoon on the spoon rest and glanced in that direction. The door was closed and locked, but something about the windows open with only a thin screen between her and the night made her feel vulnerable.
She eased toward the door, glad she was barefoot and wouldn't make noise.
Another thump sounded followed by a muffled curse.
Brent.
She unlocked the door and unlatched the screen. Like a magician-sans his cape-he appeared in the doorway.
"What are you doing?" he whispered. "It's almost ten-thirty."
''I'm not the one creeping around someone's porch at this hour. You are. What are you doing?" she asked, crossing her arms over her apron, well aware that she was wearing a paper-thin cotton gown and no bra. It seemed strangely tempting to be so aware of what she wasn't wearing.
"I had to take a few boards out of my truck because I can't load the machinery I need at the Mitchells' tomorrow. Need my air compressor."
Rayne pretended to look at a nonexistent watch on her wrist."And you waited till nearly ten-thirty to bring them over?" She raised her eyebrows like an impatient school marm.
He spread his hands. "Maybe I had ulterior motives."
"You saw the light?"
He grinned and nodded. "And smelled something cooking. You making something good?”
“Just a work in progress.”
“Oh, well. You wanna to take a walk? As friends?"
She peered into the soft darkness covering the shrubs and trees of the newly trimmed backyard. The moon’s luminescence fell onto the glossy leaves, lustering the gloom. "I'd like to, but I have a cake in the oven awaiting the blueberry compote.”
He inhaled. "That's what I smelled."
She kept her hand on the knob as if she might not let him inside. But she knew she would, the way she knew she shouldn't have gone over to his house the last time she'd visited him. Temptation flirted with her, heated her blood, made her oblivious to all things rational. She thought about his parting words days before. He’d hit the ball in her court.
And she wanted to hit it back. Damn her.
So here stood sexy Brent Hamilton on her porch wearing a pair of well-washed jeans and a tight T-shirt that made his eyes looked even bluer than the delphiniums on the plates mounted to the wall behind him. He was a Dolly Parton song waiting to happen.
"You want to come inside for a taste?" she asked.
His eyes actually dilated at her not so obviously stated invitation. But he knew. Yes, he knew. She wanted a taste of something herself.
He stepped inside and shut the door.
"Show me what compote is," he said, moving toward the stove.
A small radio sat on the baker's rack. Her aunt liked to can tomatoes and bake Christmas cookies with accompaniment. Rayne flicked the switch and tinny music filled the quiet. Nothing like country love songs to fill a void. Or give her something to sway to.
One of Brent's arms snaked around her waist and spun her toward him. He lowered his head and whispered in her ear,"Forget compote. Let’s dance.”
He curled an arm around her back and pulled her to him. The other pushed her curls from her face before grasping her hand. Then he began to move to the music, to the man crooning about having never seen that look in his woman's eyes.
She felt mesmerized, caught in a magical place of memories and new paths. It was both frightening and exhilarating, but she knew she wanted to go there.
To a new place. With Brent.
She lifted her head and smiled. “I don’t think friends dance like this.”
His gaze was hot. So were the hands he moved in circles on her back.. “Oh, I don’t know. Depends."
"On what?" she said, laying her head against his chest with a small sigh. He felt so good against her. Like he was made for her.
"On what kind of benefits you’re wanting.”
brENT LOOKED DOWN AT THE beautiful creature he held in his arms. Every part of her fit him. From the way her cute nose bumped against his chin to the way her bare feet planted themselves on his boots as he moved them around the room. She wore a thin white nightgown that fell past her knees, but held no secrets. He could feel the warmth of her skin through the thin material, had caught sight of the silhouette of her slim legs as they swayed in the glow of the under counter lights. And, man, did he feel the sway of her unbound breasts against his chest.
God help him.
He moved his hand down her spine, savoring the sweet and yielding flesh beneath. Her sigh, signaling a sweet surrender caused satisfaction to reverberate in his soul.
“Benefits?” she asked, something in her voice. Something that made him want to sing, dance, toss her over his shoulder and stalk to his bungalow.
“The kind that means I can hold you like this.”
She leaned deeper into the hardness of his body and absentmindedly stroked his back with her fingers, an answer to his unasked question. Her head rested almost on his shoulder and the warm moistness of her breath against his neck quickened his pulse.
Yes, he wanted more. He wanted benefits. Good benefits.
“And I can kiss you like this.” He turned his head toward where hers lay and brushed a tender kiss on her forehead.
Slowly she lifted her head, allowing the hands she'd twined about his shoulders to slide to his hair. Her hands raked through his hair, pulling his head down. “Or like this?”
Her lips met his, turning up the heat. Desire licked at him, driving him to deepen the kiss, his tongue stroking her bottom lip, asking permission. Her gasp opened her to him. He moved his hands up her sides to capture her face. Then he drank from her. She was everything sweet and wonderful. Everything he needed. Sugar. Brandy. Passion.
Flames leapt and spun him out of control.
Brent moved her toward the counter, backing her against the edge, banging his elbow on something, causing it to fall over. Vaguely he knew something had spilled. He felt the wetness.
But he couldn't stop kissing Rayne. He'd waited forever for this moment. The world could burn, but he wasn’t stopping. He needed her, and she felt like coming home. Like everything good he’d forgotten all those years ago.
God, he needed her. Needed this.
Rayne whimpered.
He broke the kiss. “No?”
"Lemon juice is running down my back," she whispered against his lips. "At least I think it's lemon juice."
Her ragged breathing matched his, their breaths mingling as they blinked at each other dazed, her hands still in his hair, one leg crooked so he could access her softest parts.
"Brent," she whispered.
"Huh?"
"Lemon juice is cold."
He laughed against her lips and pulled her from where she stood against the counter. She grabbed a towel and swiped at her back.
"Here," he said, taking the cloth from her. "Let me."
She turned and, oh, what a sight. The cotton had plastered itself to her, revealing the delicious curve of her waist and a sweet white lace thong on the nicest backside he's seen in a while. Seemed a shame to soak up something that gave him such an eyeful.
He pressed the towel to her. "I really didn't take you for a girl who'd wear a thong."
She tossed a few red curls over her shoulder and smiled. "What? You think I wear granny panties? Wanna come look in my undie drawer?"
He narrowed his eyes. "Is that an invitation to your lingerie or your bed?"
"Well, I know you like to go thought women's underwear."
He rolled his eyes. "Real funny. Shoulda been a comedian. Especially since that stuff you're cooking smells like it's burning."
Rayne squealed and hotfooted it toward the stove. She jerked the saucepan from the burner and clicked the flame off. "Shit."
"Such an ugly word from such a pretty mouth," he said, moving to peer over her shoulder at a purple-and-black lumpy... something. “I’m assuming that’s the compote?”
“Yes, and I think you just muttered a mom-ism.” She smiled and took a scraper to rake the ruined fruit into the trash bin. "What a waste."
He took the pan from her and set it in the sink. Filled it with water. "I wouldn't call it a waste at all."
He tugged her back to him and nibbled her lower lip. "I wouldn't mind seeing if we could burn something else." He dropped several little kisses on her lips.
"I never burn stuff." There was almost a purr to her voice. He could feel her warming up to him again as her nipples brushed the front of his T-shirt. He slid his hands to where her gown clung to her backside. He pulled the fabric away so he could feel her skin. Her sweet bottom filled his hands and made her gasp. He caught that gasp with his mouth.
She opened to him, welcoming the stoking of the embers. He moved his hips sliding his erection against her lower belly. Rayne ground back against him, taking him once again on a journey of pleasure.
But he wasn't ready to go there fully. Not unless she chose to take intentional steps, without his hands on her bottom, his mouth against her sweet lips. She had to choose clear-headed, knowing what she was committing to.
He broke the kiss.
Rayne’s eyes flew open."Why'd you stop?"
He caught one of her curls. "Because you asked for a clear direction, a plan, a label. And so far we've established friendship. Well, the kind of friendship where we dance. And kiss. But do you want more?”
Her mouth was still open, glistening and beckoning. Her breasts moved up and down, nipples brushing the placket of the gown, so very visible, so very tempting. Not to mention, her ass felt like it had been made for his hands. For a moment, Brent wondered if he was the biggest idiot in Howard County.
“I have to decide right now?” she asked a frown marring her pretty face. “What about you? Don’t you have a say so?”
He didn't know whether to be offended or flattered. Well, it's pretty obvious I want you, Rayne."
Her gaze moved to his crotch, and it felt like a caress. His body tightened. His erection pulsed. So he tried to think about the hair in his third grade teacher's nose. Mrs. Gryder had displayed a veritable broom from each nostril. And Lenny Holden. He'd wiped boogers under his desk. And only yesterday Apple had rolled on a dead toad.
Better.
Rayne crossed her arms over her chest. It wasn't defensive, and, thank heavens, it covered her breasts from his hungry gaze. “You're right. Friends don't really kiss like we just did, so we need to evaluate-"
"No." He shook his head. “ I don’t have to evaluate. I know I want you. I want all of you. But the timing has to be right. And I don’t want to rationalize every feeling I have. Don’t need to examine every emotion, every desire. I’ve always believed more people should listen to their bodies, their hearts, their natural rhythm. It can’t be just about what you come up with in here-“ he tapped her temple, “but also what you feel here.”
He jabbed a finger in her belly.
“Lower,” she said with a twinkle in her eye.
“I meant your gut. Those instincts.”
“I know,” she said, stepping back. “You’re suggesting I trust my instincts. Those are tougher to trust. I'm not good with mucking through."
"You used to be good at mucking through. At listening to what your gut said."
She frowned."Listening to my gut or heart or whatever didn't get me very far last time. It got me hurt."
Brent didn't miss that she was referring to him. To his indifference to her the night she'd stepped to the mike to read the poem she'd written for him. That reminder hurt. But he couldn't change the past. He wanted to move forward. "You're hurt anyway. Your husband died, your son is struggling. And what about you, sugar? Where are you right now? Planning didn’t get you out of hurt, didn’t bring you a smooth path to skip down.”
She pressed her lips together and he knew he’d hit a nerve But then he saw her rally, lifting her chin and squaring her shoulders. "I'm where I choose to be. And I won’t be bullied into believing that being analytical and making choices based on what is good for me and my child is wrong. I have instincts and use them, but I also have a head that works. Both can determine where I go from here.”
He gave her a peck on the cheek. "If you say so... friend."
Then, obeying his own gut instinct, he turned, and pushed out the door.
His watch read ten thirty-seven, and the moon still cast a glow on the quiet beauty of the night. Any other time he'd hurry to his office, plop into his chair, and crank out a few more words on the scene he'd been fleshing out. But he didn't hurry down the steps. Instead he stood in the night and sucked in a deep breath.
He could smell the sharp scent of earth unfurling. Spring had arrived and with it a great possibility for change. He loved the smell of daffodils and new growth. A beginning.
He felt Rayne at the screen door behind him.
"Night, Rayne Cloud," he said, using one of the childhood nicknames he'd given her.
''Night, Hambone."
It was not the name she'd given him.
It was the name the cheerleaders had.