Sleeping in Eden (43 page)

When she finally lifted her face to his, he crushed her against him, pressing her lips as if he was drowning and her kiss was hope and air and life. He cupped her face in his hands, drinking her in, and she explored the firm curve of his back with her fingers, walking up each rib with a tenderness that made him tremble beneath her gentle attention. As she traced the line of his collarbone, she wished she could wrap her hands around the permanence of those bones and never let go. She would hold him, no matter if he changed his mind again.

Meg had no doubt that if he had been able to see more clearly, Dylan would have carried her deeper into the barn. As it was, they had to make do with stumbling around in the dark hand in hand. A cursory search of the ground floor revealed a wasteland of junk and old farm machinery, but Dylan soon bumped into a wooden crate that they could prop against the door to hold it closed. Their next discovery was a ladder, and they climbed it one rung at a time into a forgotten hayloft.

The hay was moldy and sparse, the second floor leaky, but they didn't care. Dylan still clutched the blanket he'd taken from the car, and even though it was soggy and smelled like dust, he spread it on the dirty floor. Then, fingers trembling, he reached for Meg.

“You're soaking,” he said, barely brushing the place where the strap of her sundress had slipped off her shoulder.

“So are you.” Meg took a step closer and put her hand on the very center of his chest so that she could feel his heart beat beneath her palm.

There was nothing frantic about the way they undressed each other. Nothing quick or thoughtless. There couldn't be. The world was nothing but wet clothes and warm skin, whispers
and sighs, secrets that the barn would always keep. They curled together in the hay, the points of their bodies touching like an imperfect reflection: forehead to forehead, nose to nose, hand to hand. When she exhaled, he breathed, and sometime during the long, long night, they fell asleep.

Meg woke in darkness, her muscles cramped and her shoulder blades numb and tingling where they poked against the wooden floor of the haymow. But even with her body aching, she couldn't stop her lips from forming a faint smile because she remembered where she was and who was lying beside her.

She squinted at the roof of the barn, trying to gauge the soft gray lines of morning that creased the drooping peak like strokes of blurred charcoal. By the hint of pale light that filtered through the narrow slats, Meg guessed that it was getting close to six o'clock. Not quite sunrise, but from the absolute quiet and the fact that she could already make out subtle shadows in the colorless barn, she believed the sun would rise over a clear sky. The storm was over.

Sometime in the night, she and Dylan had rolled out of the blanket, but she could still feel the thin wool beneath her and his arm like a pillow cradling her neck. She didn't want to wake him, but she was too stiff to suffer the entanglement of their bodies for another second. Holding her breath, she tried to slowly shift away.

“You awake?” Dylan asked, his lips suddenly against her forehead.

“You're not asleep?”

“Haven't been for a long time.” He moved a little so that Meg could stretch, but when she rolled onto her side, he followed her, circling his arm around her waist.

“What've you been doing?”

“Watching you. Listening to you breathe. Did you know that you snore?”

“I do not!”

Dylan laughed. “No, you don't. At least, you didn't last night.”

“You mean this morning.” Although she loved him wrapped around her, Meg felt the first niggling touch of guilt tumble down her spine. She had abandoned her life on a whim only to find herself a fugitive in some stranger's barn. It was scandalous, but the excitement of what they had been through had yet to wear off completely. She squeezed her eyes shut and was suddenly aware of her skin, Dylan's bare leg against hers, and the fact that there was nothing at all between them but air. Meg reached for the crumpled pile of fabric that was her sundress. It was still damp, but she sat with her back to Dylan and pulled it over her head anyway.

He didn't try to stop her, but he brushed his hand against her thigh, sweeping away bits of hay that clung to her skin. When Meg didn't protest, he sat up behind her and kissed the nape of her neck, smoothing his fingers across her shoulders and down her arms, and she tingled in all the places he touched.

“Dylan, I—”

“Don't,” he interrupted. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean for this to happen.” He wrapped his hands around her waist and carefully spun her around so that they were face-to-face. “But I don't regret it. I know this sounds crazy, Meg, but I'm yours. I always have been, and I always will be.”

Meg covered his mouth with her own before he could say more, and against her lips he whispered, “I love you.” She said it back.
I love you.

As Dylan trailed his fingers down the length of her arm, Meg didn't think anything of his lazy wanderings. She enjoyed his touch and had to fight the urge to arch and encourage more, when he picked up her hand and gave the ring on her forefinger a gentle twist.

“You still wear this?” Dylan asked.

She wasn't sure if he had noticed it before or if his discovery of Jess's ring was recent. Either way, she could detect a suspicious edge to his voice, though he tried to sound nonchalant.

“I haven't for years,” she said, wishing she had remembered it and wrenched it off. Especially after all that Dylan had confessed.

“Why do you have it on now?”

Meg pulled back, glad that the shadows still obscured his features. If she couldn't see him clearly, he couldn't see her. She wasn't sure that she wanted him to know that as of only yesterday, things with Jess had been anything but resolved. Should she downplay it? Or tell the truth?

“Jess and I have been talking,” she finally confessed. “I was supposed to meet him in Sutton this weekend.”

“You came home for Jess?”

“Not just for Jess,” Meg said, regretting that she hadn't simply told him that she thought the ring was pretty and considered it an accessory.

“But you've been talking. About what?”

“About us,” she whispered then rushed to explain. “I thought you were out of the picture, Dylan. We haven't talked in years. And Jess . . .”

“Has always loved you.”

“Yeah.”

“So have I.”

Meg was quiet for a long moment. “You haven't always made that very clear.”

He still had his fingers wrapped around the ring, and when he started to slide it off her finger, she didn't complain. “Can I now?” he asked. “Can I make it clear?”

She fell into his kiss willingly, and when he took off the ring and pressed it into her palm, she curled her arms around him and felt the unencumbered candor of her bare hands. The absence of the ring was like a weight lifted. There was nothing between them now.

“I'll be back in half an hour,” Dylan said, lacing up his shoes. “I'll go gas up the truck, grab some cheap coffee, and we'll hit the road. Sure you don't want to come?”

Meg yawned and blinked long. “I need to charge my phone,” she murmured, ignoring his question unintentionally. She was too sleepy to think straight. “I forgot to do it last night, and it was dead when I got to the airport. My parents are probably freaking out that I haven't called them yet.”

“We'll find a restaurant off the interstate and you can plug it in there.” He brushed a kiss across her forehead. “Go back to sleep. It's obscenely early.”

From between half-closed eyes, Meg watched as Dylan studied her for a moment. She could only begin to imagine what he was thinking. What she must look like. Hair mussed, eyes dark from lack of sleep, sundress ruined. But she could feel the expectation of all that was to come radiating off her in waves. She was so hopeful it hurt, and the only balm to ease the shame of her fairy-tale dreams was that Dylan seemed just as optimistic.

He tipped her chin and kissed her one last time, deep and thoughtful, as if he could taste her soul on his tongue. Then he pushed himself up reluctantly, picked his way to the edge of the loft, and disappeared down the ladder with a wink.

Meg sighed and stretched, pointing her fingertips and toes before cradling her head in her hands. Curling into herself, she marveled at Dylan, at the way, after all these years, they fit. Fear trembled deep inside her, but she also knew that nothing good could ever happen without risk. She had risked much, and she was ready to rest in the knowledge that Dylan was a chance worth taking.

Bathed in light, Meg dozed, slipping in and out of daydreams where her life took on the surreal quality of blurred edges and fairy-tale perfection.

When Meg startled awake, the barn was silent but for the shallow gasp of her own breath. She held herself perfectly still for a moment, straining, listening, but there was nothing to hear. Dylan? His name whispered across her lips, but it wasn't him. He had just left, hadn't he? Meg willed herself to calm down, but something dark and unreasonable was rising in her chest. And in the split second before the barn door crashed open, Meg knew.

She knew that she wasn't alone.

Her heart stopped, then stuttered back to life when she heard a heavy shuffling like an aged man walking with a laborious, uneven stumble.

“Who's there?” The shout rose from beneath her, and the strong voice didn't match the feeble swish and thud of his approach. Worst of all, the man who called out into the dim, predawn light did not sound curious. He sounded furious. “I said: Who's there? Show yourself!”

As Meg scrambled off the blanket and huddled in a crouch, she heard a strange, metallic clack that seemed oddly familiar. The sound buzzed at the brink of her memory, flirting with some ancient memory, but before she had a chance to place it, an explosion rocked the barn. Desiccated bird droppings and a decade of grime fell like soft snow where dozens of tiny holes punctured the rotting roof above them.

Meg was too dazed to scream. She threw herself backward, crawling on hands and knees to a pile of stacked bales that required her to climb if she wanted to go any farther. Turning her back to the straw wall, she slunk down as far away from the edge as she could get.

Meg's knees were scraped and bleeding from her frenzied attempt at escape, and she could hear someone scraping around down below, bumping into things and cursing as he came. The insults that he flung at her were meaningless compared to the sound of his gun being cocked a second time.

“Who's there?” the stranger yelled again.

“It's all a misunderstanding,” Meg breathed to herself. The stranger must be enraged, and rightly so, considering that she and Dylan had taken refuge in his barn without his consent. She was trespassing. How could he know that she meant no harm? A terrified chuckle rose from somewhere deep inside, but there was no mirth in the slight sound. She sat up straighter as if she was straining to see over the edge, and mustered the courage to yell, “Hello? Please, don't shoot. My name is—”

A second report burst through the floor in front of her,
sending buckshot scattering like the hail that had bounced off the ground the night before.

This time, Meg screamed. And tried to stand. “No!” she shrieked. “You don't understand!”

There was a terrible confusion of noise from below that made her limbs go numb and her steps falter. But she kept going, frantic for the chance to see him, to make him hear her voice before he did something they would both regret. She believed that he wouldn't shoot her—she had to believe that—and it gave her the rush of adrenaline she needed to stop her legs from buckling. For a second, she thought she could hear the unmistakable sound of the gun being cocked a third time, but it was drowned out by the sound of her own heartbeat pounding in her ears.

Meg was intent, blinded by the conviction that it was all a horrible mistake. All she could think was: If he could only see me, if he could just see me . . .