Coming in from the Cold (6 page)

He jutted his chin toward the barn. “Over there? It’s no trouble.”

She hesitated for only a second. “Well, thank-you, sir. Let me get the barn door.” She ran ahead to open it. The wind had blown much of the snow out of her path—it was only a foot deep most places. But Willow had to quickly shovel a snowdrift away from the entrance. When she opened it, the chickens came running toward the light. “Hi, girls!” she called. They gathered around her ankles, pecking at her jeans. She waded into the fray, grabbed the empty feed bin and pulled off the top. “Just drop it right in here,” she said. “I’ll deal with the bag later.”

He let it fall into the bin, and the chickens scattered from the sound. They ran away clucking, feathers flying.

Dane laughed. “They’re so…chicken,” he said.

“It’s really true,” Willow agreed. “They’re afraid of everything. I have a red raincoat, and if I wear it into the barn they bolt like I’m an ax murderer.”

She reached into her pocket and pulled out the raisins that had not been consumed the night before. “Look, girls.” They came running, falling over each other’s backs to get at her. She kept her hand at thigh height, and they jumped for the raisins, like retrievers leaping for a Frisbee disk. Willow had never met chickens until she followed her asshat boyfriend to Vermont. And now she found them charming. But not charming enough to stay in Vermont forever.

Willow reached into her pocket again and offered more raisins.

“There’s no way they’re enjoying those half as much as I did.”

Willow turned to meet Dane’s smile. But then his grew a bit sad, and he turned toward the open barn door.

* * *

Dane waited while Willow fed her chickens, and then he followed her into the house, into a big old room with wide pine boards on the floor. At one end was the kitchen, and a thick-topped work table on turned legs. At the other end of the space was a living area, with an overstuffed sofa and comfortable chairs. It was the sort of room where happy lives were lived.

“Breakfast first or tow truck first?” Willow asked, shrugging off her coat.

“Definitely breakfast,” he said. “I’m dying.” He put his coat on an empty hook next to hers, and tried not to notice how right the two looked hanging there together.

“I’ll bet you’re hungry. Hey! I don’t think I even lost power,” Willow said. “That’s a first.” He watched her put a hand to the side of her slow cooker, which was sitting on the counter. “Still warm,” she mused. She went to the refrigerator and took out a bottle of orange juice.

“I’ll pour,” he said.

“Thanks.” She opened a cupboard and slid two juice glasses onto the table in his direction.

“Now, coffee,” she said, turning to a very fancy Italian machine with copper pulls.

“That’s gorgeous,” he said.

“It sure is,” she agreed. “And it’s not mine. He left this, the motorcycle and a room full of art books. At least the coffee machine is useful.”

“Let’s fire her up, then,” he said. “Can I do it?”

She shrugged, flipping a piece of that silky hair over her shoulder. Without thinking, he reached out his hand and smoothed her hair down her back. She turned to smile at him, and he admired her lips again. “You can try, but it’s a fussy machine. It took me months to get the shot size correct.”

“I like a challenge,” he said. He saw her keeping an eye on him as he mounded espresso grounds into the arm of the machine, then carefully tamped them down. “How am I doing?” he asked.

“You have some moves,” she said.

“I think I proved that already,” he said with a wink.

Willow blushed, and Dane dragged his eyes off her face. He had to stop flirting right this second. It wasn’t fair to her. Never mind that he wanted to cup her sweet ass in his hands, and then back her over to that sofa on the other end of the room. He wasn’t going to do that, or any of the other fun little plans his mind would hatch every five minutes until he got himself the hell away from her.

As much as he’d love to install himself in her kitchen, in her bed or in her life, there was no way he could do that. And flirting sure as hell wouldn’t make leaving any easier. Instead, he was going to keep the conversation going nice and easy. After he’d called the tow truck, he would give her one friendly kiss and get the hell out of Dodge.

He chose a bar stool located safely across the worktable from her, watching while Willow flitted around her kitchen. She wore an endearing look of concentration, dashing between the stove and the refrigerator. He drank his espresso and thought how ordinary the whole scene should be.

But it wasn’t, not for him. He would never have a home like this, with a companion an arm’s length away frowning over the omelet pan. There was something about this girl and this room that drove that all home. Sober truths marched gloomily through his head. It happened sometimes, and he always managed to chase them away again.

Flying down the mountain at superhuman speed usually did the trick.

Dane didn’t have time for a midlife crisis. The way he figured, his life expectancy was about forty-five years, and he’d be blotto for the last five of them. The time to have a midlife crisis was well past.

Now there was a cheery thought.

Willow put two toasted tortillas on a plate, then flipped three eggs on top. She finished with a swirl of hot chili. “
Et voilà
,” she said, putting the plate in front of him. “There’s about ten-million calories there. That should be enough to shore you up.”

“Thank-you, oh great one,” he said, and she grinned.

She made a smaller plate for herself and sat down opposite him.

“Have you ever skied?” he asked, taking a forkful. It was heaven. “This is great, by the way.”

“Thanks. No skiing for me. Crazy—right? To move to Vermont, and not know how to ski.”

“You could still learn.”

“Maybe,” she said. “But lift tickets are pricey. Then there’s the gear. All your friends are skiers, I bet.”

My friends. Right.
“Well, some of them are snowboarders.” That won him a smile. But Dane didn’t have friends, he had competitors. He had drinking buddies, and the occasional fuck buddy. And none of those people knew him at all. Dane took another bite, and then tipped his head back in appreciation. “
God
this is good. You’re quite a cook.”

She beamed at him. “You’ll have to thank The Girls for these eggs. They laid them for you this yesterday. Vermont’s finest.”

“How many of Vermont’s finest do you get a day?”

“Just under one per chicken.” She had a dot of chili on her cheek, and it was all he could do not to reach over and brush it away. He took another bite instead. “So, about twenty eggs. I sell them to the gourmet store in town.”

“Does that pay well?” he asked.

“No. But every little bit helps. If I could just finish my doctorate, things would get easier.”

“Doctorate in what?”

“Clinical psychology.”

He put down his fork and laughed.

“What’s so funny? Are you afraid of shrinks?”

“Hell yes.”

“Well, I plan to work with kids. So you’re safe with me.”

I’m anything but
, he reminded himself. “Why were you interested in that, anyway?”

She held his gaze for a long moment before answering. “It’s complicated.”

He nodded. So Willow had secrets of her own. Don’t we all?

* * *

After breakfast, Willow called AAA with instructions as to where to find their two stuck vehicles. “The Jeep can probably be freed and driven away,” she said. “The truck won’t start at all.” She listened, then thanked them and hung up.

“What did they say?” Dane asked from the sink, where he was doing the dishes.

“They’ll get to us when they can. When I pressed, the guy said an hour. But he might have been blowing smoke up my ass.”

Dane passed her a clean dish, which she dried on a towel. He had it again—the strange sensation of stepping momentarily into someone else’s life—a life where there was breakfast with the girlfriend, a few dishes to wash and a second cup of coffee. He felt like he was watching a movie, and the star looked exactly like him.

“What?” she asked suddenly.

He must have been staring at her. Dane shook his head. “Nothing, sorry. Distracted.”

She put down the towel. “Thanks for doing the dishes.”

“Thanks for the awesome breakfast.” He gave her a slow smile.

She jutted a thumb over her shoulder. “I’m just going to clean myself up a bit, since we have to wait,” she said. “Make yourself at home,” she said.

“You go ahead,” he said. “Thanks.”

He made himself turn away and refill his juice glass.

* * *

Dane heard the shower running, and he was briefly tortured by the image of Willow’s naked body underneath the hot water. He shifted his weight on the bar stool to accommodate the bulge in his jeans.

Down, boy
.

The shower sounds stopped, and he scanned yesterday’s newspaper, blocking images of Willow undressed a couple of rooms away. The tow truck would come, and he’d be out of here, gone from here. He wouldn’t see Willow again. That was the way it had to be. Always.

Then the phone rang. Dane waited, wondering if he should answer. If it was AAA calling, Willow would want to know what they said. After two rings, he picked up. “Hello?”

“Um…hello?” a woman’s voice said. “Is Willow home?”

“Yes, she is,” he said. “Let me call her for you.”

But she came skidding into the kitchen then, tying a bathrobe around herself, her eyes wide. “Is it AAA?”

He shook his head. “That’s what I was thinking, but…” he passed her the receiver.

“Hello? Hi, Callie! No…no need to alert the authorities.” Her eyes flicked to his, amusement playing in them. “Long story. But he’s, um, stuck in the snow on my road. Waiting for the tow truck. Right. No serial killers here.”

Dane forced his gaze onto the same newspaper headlines he’d been staring at before. They were just as engrossing with Willow in a thin bathrobe as they’d been while she showered.

“So will I see you for yoga this week?” she asked. “No way! How come you’re
always
the one on call? I know. Okay. Text me.” She hung up the phone. “Sorry, my friend called to make sure I wasn’t dead in a snowdrift. She worries about me out here alone.”

“Should she?” he rubbed his shoulder, which was stiff from slumping onto the floor of his Jeep all night.

“No, but she’s a doctor. They’re born to worry. What’s the matter with your shoulder?”

He shrugged. “It’s fine.”

She moved to stand behind him. “I knew you shouldn’t have carried that fifty-pound bag.” She put her hands onto his shoulder muscle, the heels digging in. “Knots,” she said.

“Christ,” he said. “You’re strong for a little person.”

“Who are you calling little?” she asked, pressing her hands even further into his deltoid. “I worked as a masseuse during college. Here, bend this arm onto the table.” She shifted him, then went back to work on his shoulder.

“Holy…” The force of her touch was startling—all that power in a small package. Her hands moved up to the back of his neck, and he dropped his head forward. He could feel her body leaning against his, her stomach grazing his back. Thank God for the big pine tabletop in front of him. The tent he was raising in his jeans right now would probably be visible from space.

And she was clearly hitting on him. That made things even harder, so to speak.

Willow’s hands spent a moment or two on his other shoulder, before working down his back, his traps, his lats. By the time she got down low, to where his waist met his bottom, he was holding his breath, his arousal complete. Her hands stilled, coming to rest lightly on his waist. They both held their breath; it was so quiet. If he turned around now, he would find her waiting for him.

Don’t turn. Don’t turn.

* * *

Willow watched him turn.

She hadn’t reached for him—she made herself wait. And for a split second, she thought he didn’t feel what she felt, that he would sit tight, facing the table. He could have, and it would have been an easy way to say, “No, thank-you.”

But just as she was processing her disappointment, his broad shoulders swiveled, and he rotated on the bar stool, catching her hands in his, pulling her in. His lips claimed hers, and she watched his long lashes fall closed, felt his breath on her face. As he tightened her body against his chest, controlling the kiss, she felt his arousal, the swollen shaft pressing against her belly.

His mouth tasted of orange juice and longing.

Heaven help him, but this girl was like kryptonite on his willpower.

Dane couldn’t resist her mouth, his tongue making long draws on hers. Her hips fit into his hands, the fabric of the bathrobe thin enough that he could feel his fingers digging into her skin. He braced her body against his, her full breasts pressing against his chest.

She moaned very softly from the back of her throat, and the sound made his balls throb. Scooping his hands under her bottom, he pulled her up onto his knees, so that she straddled him on the stool. He fumbled for the knot on her bathrobe, giving the loose end one good yank. It fell open. God almighty, she was naked underneath.

Just once more
, he reminded himself.
And then you will walk away.

Their kisses heating up, he took both her breasts in her hands, all the while his cock punched against his jeans. He could take her right there on the bar stool. But Willow made him feel greedy in about a hundred different ways, and he’d get only this one chance with her. Dane wanted to lay her out and see every inch. “Willow,” he said, his voice thick. “I want you in your bed.”

Her teeth nipped his neck while she wrapped her legs carefully around him. “Then take me there.”

He braced her in his arms and headed for the back of the house. The feel of her cradled against his chest was so foreign—and so intimate—that he didn’t ever want to put her down. This must be what it felt like to belong to someone, to move together through the world.

Hello, asshole
?

Where were all these pointless ideas coming from? Clearly Dane needed to fuck a little more and think a little less.