Melt Into You (20 page)

All of them made noise—a lot more noise than Damon was used to. At his beach house, he’d realized, most of the noise had come from his own parties or, during those rare calm moments, the crashing surf. Crashing surf was one of Damon’s favorite things. It had a way of drowning out human voices, car alarms, and inconvenient police requests that Damon “ask the band to quit playing so loudly, sir” during his parties.

It wasn’t all sound and fury in Natasha’s neighborhood, though. It was activity and people, too. So far, Damon had met Natasha’s immediate duplex neighbor, Carol Jennings. He’d met her adjacent next-door neighbor, Kurt. He’d also met a number of the neighborhood kids and more than one dog. All the canines stopped because of Finn, but they hung around to give Damon a thorough sniff, too. That’s how he met all the dog walkers ... and a good portion of the stroller moms, too. Which was peculiar, it occurred to him, since they didn’t even have dogs.

Shrugging off that oddity, Damon glanced in the direction of the slamming screen door. At the sight of Natasha charging across the yard toward him, he completely forgot what he was doing. Not that anyone could blame him. Natasha was braless.

“Oh my God!” she cried, clapping her hands to her tousled hair in a way that only made her freewheeling breasts bounce even more temptingly. “What time is it? Have you seen Milo?”

“Milo is fine.” Damon examined her, taking in the appealing perkiness of her breasts. Was her white shirt partly
transparent
? he wondered, even more transfixed. He probably shouldn’t have kissed her last night, he reflected too late, but he’d honestly been trying to be responsible about it. He had to cut himself some slack. He was a beginner at being good, after all. “Milo is around the side yard, helping Carol pull weeds.”

Natasha went still. “You met Carol?”

“Sure.” Damon wiped his forearm over his sweaty brow. For January, it was a warm, sunny day. He already regretted wearing a shirt. Technically, it was just a white undershirt, but still ... now that Natasha was here, he felt overheated. “Nice lady.”

“She was nice to you?” Natasha bit her lip, casting a wary glance toward the side yard. The sounds of boyish laughter came from around the corner, followed by a ladylike chuckle. “But she
hates
you! She’s never had a kind word to say about you! Ever!” Natasha swiveled her gaze to Damon. “Did you tell her your name? Your
real
name? Does Carol know who you are, or does she think—”

“I told her I’m an IRS auditor,” Damon deadpanned. “I told her I’m here to investigate your flagrant tax fraud.”

“
What
?” Natasha boggled at him.

“I told her I’m a drifter, just passing through town.”

“Are you kidding me?”

“I told her your roto needed rooting, and I’m just the man to do the job.”

“My ‘roto’ needed ‘rooting’?” Natasha arched her brow.

“You know, like Roto-Rooter? The drain-cleaning service?” Upon seeing Natasha’s harassed expression, Damon quit joking around. “Of course I told Carol my real name! And my occupation. As if anyone would believe
I’m
good with numbers.” With a laugh, Damon finally gave in to the urge to strip off his shirt. He tossed it beside the rake he’d used earlier. “I’m better at—”

Catching Natasha gawking, he quit speaking. She was staring at his bare chest as though she’d never seen a real, live man before. Her gaze wandered from his shoulders to his midsection to the low, probably sweat-dappled waistband of his only pair of casual pants. Damon hadn’t seen his former assistant look that mesmerized by anything since at least midnight last night, when she’d sneaked into the living room to get an eyeful of him in his skivvies. Good thing, Damon thought, he hadn’t slept naked. He usually did. Out of deference for his host family—and respect for the irksome authority of the absent Pacey—he’d worn briefs.

“I’m better at activities involving tactile stimulation,” he finished with his most guileless manner, feeling secretly glad to know that Natasha wasn’t
quite
as much of a Goody Two-shoes as she seemed. Her minor transgressions made him feel like less of a miscreant. When he’d kissed her last night, she’d responded. When he’d teased her, she’d teased back. When he’d stripped half naked in front of her just now ... she’d gallivanted out braless.
Win-win
.

“I’ve met lots of people today,” Damon said to distract himself from that very same bralessness—and from the fact that he’d just noticed that Natasha had missed the top button of her jeans in her apparent bed-headed haste to get outside.

He wanted to give her zipper a nudge, too—in the downward direction. Then he could peel off her jeans, kneel on the fresh green grass in front of her, and bury his face at the junction of her thighs. He could kiss her there. They’d both like it, Damon knew. Even if she’d pulled on underthings—and he suddenly, rousingly doubted she had—he could deal with that. Her panties would be light and lacy and even more transparent than her shirt was. Kissing her, even if he did it through her panties, would be ...

“What kind of people have you met?” Natasha demanded doubtfully. With an unconsciously dampening gesture, she crossed her arms. “What are you doing out here, anyway? Why didn’t you wake me up?”

Damon tried to answer. He did. But as soon as he inhaled. . .

“Are you drunk?” she wanted to know. “I realize you told me last night that you’ve been totally sober, but—” She stopped and gave him a cagey, curmudgeonly look. “Are you being
nice
again?”

“I thought you’d probably want to sleep in,” Damon said in his own defense. He gestured toward the side yard, where Milo was hanging out with his perfectly friendly grandma. Natasha had categorized Carol unfairly. He and the elder Jennings had really hit it off this morning. “I didn’t know how long you’d been on your own with Milo, with Pacey being in Mexico and everything. I figured you could probably use a break, that’s all.”

“That’s all?” Natasha’s voice cracked. She almost broke down completely. “That’s ...” She gaped. “Do you know how long it’s been since I got a good night’s sleep?” Natasha shook her head in wonderment. “
So
long! I mean, I shouldn’t have done it. What if Milo had needed me? But still ... I could
kiss
you!”

“You already did.” Damon didn’t get it. She seemed on the verge of bawling with gratitude. Sure, it probably wasn’t easy to cope with motherhood alone—even temporarily, like Natasha was doing—but that didn’t mean she had to look at him as though he’d invented oxygen, ice cream, and those bunny-ear vibrators. “You did kiss me. Last night. Remember? But if you want another go—”

Playfully, she swatted him—which only smacked the memory of Pacey into his brain again, just where Damon didn’t want it to be. If Pacey and Natasha were such a perfect couple, Damon thought with sudden, stubborn defiance, why couldn’t he keep track of the guy? Why couldn’t he even remember his damn name?

“No, I don’t want ‘another go’ at kissing you,” Natasha told him unconvincingly. Seeming incredulous, she shook her head. “I can’t believe you got up early and did yard work for me. I always,
always
get up early. Theoretically, Carol could watch Milo for me, since she wakes up at four a.m. or something crazy like that. But because she wakes up so early, she seems to think I’m being criminally bad just by sleeping until six or seven.”

“That’s not bad. That’s just a different perspective.” Commiserating with her—even though she seemed distracted—Damon nodded. “It doesn’t feel good to be unfairly typecast, does it?”

“Huh?” She blinked, still gazing at him. “Typecast?”

“Nothing.” Stifling a grin, he touched Natasha’s chin, nudging her face upward. “My eyes are up here, Mrs. Jennings. You’re supposed to look at my face when we’re talking. My abdominal muscles aren’t very good conversationalists.”

“Maybe not. But your shoulders are gossipy chatterboxes.”

“Oh yeah? What are they telling you?”

Natasha seemed to be contemplating a whole panoply of responses, starting with
that muscles are super hot
and ending with
that we should definitely kiss again sometime soon
. “That you need some sunscreen,” she said. “You’re turning pink.”

With that, she headed back into the house, leaving Damon, as he leaned on her old-timey, push-powered lawnmower, plenty of time to contemplate the fact that from behind, Natasha looked every bit as delectable as she did from the front.

It wasn’t just that her derrière was cute (although it was super cute). It wasn’t just that she had a way of walking that made Damon want to throw her in the grass and see if she had as much energy for sex as she did for sashaying away (because she did, and he wanted to, a lot). It was that Natasha, for whatever reason, compelled him to look at her—to be close to her.

It wasn’t for just any woman that he would have staggered out of bed before noon and started pulling weeds. It was for her. It wasn’t just because he was grateful for her help.

He had, Damon realized, effortlessly thought of something Natasha would enjoy—sleeping in—and then delivered it to her.

It might have been the first time ever that he’d been so selfless. Maybe he really
could
get the knack of good behavior.

Feeling proud of himself for that, Damon looked at the lawnmower. He still had more work to do, but it felt like break time to him. After all, he was at risk of getting sunburned, right?

It would only be prudent to go inside for a while. These days, Damon was all about prudence. Moderation and prudence. And maybe, while he was at it, finding out exactly what was up with Natasha and Pacey. He
knew
there was something she wasn’t telling him. Something important. He needed to know what it was.

With that thought in mind, Damon glanced around to the corner yard. He caught Carol’s eye, then mimed that he was going inside for a minute. She nodded. Beside her, Milo waved.

Damon waved back. That kid was awesome. And that Dr. Seuss book he’d asked Damon to read to him? Incredible. Hilarious.

Damon didn’t know what other kid-style stuff he’d been missing out on via relentless bachelorhood, but if there were other kid things that were
that
entertaining, maybe he’d been too quick to dismiss Jason’s daddy-first lifestyle. Maybe Jason and Amy did know a few things about being happy.

Of course, Damon did, too. Proving it, he headed indoors.

He found Natasha in her kitschy, pink-tiled bathroom. She riffled through the mirrored medicine cabinet with her back to him, standing on tiptoe to reach the sunscreen on the top shelf.

“I’ll get that for you.” From behind her, Damon reached up. He closed his hand on the sunscreen tube and found his nose simultaneously buried in Natasha’s shiny blond hair. It smelled like grapefruit and looked like silk, and he imagined it spread across his pillow on a drowsy morning after, spilling on his shoulder as he cradled her close. “You need a step stool.”

“I need a tall man around,” Natasha joked. “Like you.”

“Or like Pacey.” Damon made himself step back. In the bathroom’s close quarters, intimacy was automatic. “Is he tall?”

“Not like you.” Natasha turned, trapped between Damon and the sink. Slowly and contemplatively, she eyed him. “You could reach everything I ever needed to. Or scratch every itch.”

“I could.” Equally contemplatively, he eyed
her
. In her semi-sheer top and still-unbuttoned jeans, Natasha tempted him in ways he could not believe were accidental. “I already said I’d do anything you want, Tasha. That offer still stands.”

She shook out her hair. It fell over her shoulders in loose waves, making him yearn to touch it. One curl in particular pulled his gaze to her breasts again. They seemed to appreciate the attention. Her nipples hardened; her flimsy shirt didn’t hide much. Damon could clearly discern everything he wanted to touch. Instead, shaking, he clasped his hands at his sides.

“Well, if I’d known your offer included sleeping in, I wouldn’t have been so hasty about making you leave the first time.” Natasha flipped open the sunscreen. She squirted some on her palm, then rubbed her hands together. Inquiringly, she raised her eyebrows. “Do you mind? I’ll put this on for you.”

Did he mind
? What was she, crazy? Of course he didn’t mind.

Natasha was going to touch him. She was going to put her warm, slippery hands all over his bare skin. She was going to get closer to him while she did it. She was going to—

She was going to be
nice
to him, Damon reminded himself sternly. Natasha was a caring person who didn’t want him to be sunburned. That was all. He had to rein in his raging libido.

“I should probably do it myself,” he said with effort.
Damn
, he thought, impressed with himself.
That was good
. It sounded pretty convincing to him, too. It sounded as if he
wasn’t
dying to know what Natasha’s hands would feel like on his shoulders, his chest, sliding over his abs, moving to his ...

“Don’t be silly!” Natasha laughed. “I already have goo all over my hands. Just hold still. This will only take a sec.”

Obediently, Damon held still. He gritted his teeth. He looked down at the crown of Natasha’s head as she approached him in the bathroom’s glaring, pink-hued light with both hands up.

She was ...
captivating
, he thought in an improbably corny way as he looked at Natasha’s pretty face, determined expression, and stubborn chin. She was sweet and generous and way too trusting. She was too good for the likes of Damon Torrance.

But
damn
, how he wanted her. He wanted her, and he wanted to care for her, too. All at once, that bizarre lusty-protective feeling came rushing back at him. Damon didn’t know whether to kiss her or fix her a nutritious breakfast; whether to fondle her ass or find her a step stool; whether to stroke her breasts or balance her checkbook. As if anyone
had
checkbooks anymore.

What the hell was wrong with him? Damon wondered. He didn’t even like math. Calculators had been invented for a reason. So had computers. Besides, he couldn’t cook or find things. He—