Blame It on Your Heart (8 page)

Apparently when he returned to Big Timber, he'd decided he wanted something different.

For some reason that thought pinched at her chest. She shoved it away and made her way to the kitchen, noting that it looked to be recently upgraded with stainless steel appliances and granite counter tops.

She bypassed the coffee and opted for ice water instead. Lord knew she didn't need anything else heating her up.

Even the ice water couldn’t help much, not with the sound of water rushing through the pipes conjuring up images of Damon, naked in the shower. Hot water sluicing over all that smooth, tawny skin, the thought of his big, soapy hands running over his body making her own tingle with the need to touch, to stroke.

God, what was wrong with her? After feeling like she was dead below the waist for the past year, suddenly it was like her libido was going into overdrive.

It doesn't mean anything, she told herself. She knew when she moved back here that if and when she saw him, it was likely to bring up a whole host of emotions and memories.

And since some of those emotions and memories involved sex, it stood to reason that she might find herself thinking about how Damon's hands had felt on her skin, sliding up her shirt, hooking under the waistband of her panties to tug them down her thighs.

To think about how he'd react if she stripped naked and climbed in the shower with him. How he'd grab her and pin her up against the wall with that big, hard, body that was so much stronger even than she remembered—

No!
She gave herself a mental slap and took several deep swallows of ice water.
You are not to go there.
Remembering what happened with Damon was a bad enough idea as it was.

But fantasizing about the man he was today? Out of the question. She was here today to try to put the past behind her, not let it muck up whatever working relationship they needed to have if she was going to be able to pull of this party.

Once she cleared the air, that was it. From that moment on they would move forward as if nothing had ever happened between them.

###

Damon killed the water and reached for a towel, cursing as he tried to will the image of Ellie's face out of his mind. But the look of her, the full soft lips slightly parted as if in awe, the unmistakable hunger in her blue eyes as she took in his half naked state.

A trickle of icy water ran down his back and he winced, but even the cold shower wasn't enough to fully extinguish the hard on that had sprung up in his shorts at Ellie's unmistakably lustful gaze. Thank God he'd had on a pair of tight undershorts he wore to keep his junk from flying around when he ran. Otherwise he would have had a freaking circus tent at the front of his baggy gym shorts.

He got dressed, his breath hissing through his teeth as he tucked himself carefully into his jeans, wondering if he could get his dick to go down before he confronted the woman waiting in his kitchen.

He so did not need this, this morning of all mornings. Not after he'd stayed up way too late watching mindless TV and nursing one—or three—too many glasses of bourbon after he'd finally finished the demo on the fireplace tile.

Only because he'd had a tough time winding down. Not because he was afraid of what memories might invade when he finally closed his eyes.

But damned if he didn't feel that punched in the gut feeling when he walked into the kitchen and her nervous blue gaze met his. "Your house is really nice," she said, strain in her voice unmistakable. "Aside from the demolition," she continued with a small smile.

"I want to put in an indoor outdoor fireplace and open the room up." he said curtly.

"You've done a really nice job with the rest of it."

He forced himself not to fixate on the sight of her slim fingers wrapped around her glass. On the way her wrists were so narrow they bordered on fragile, like the rest of her.

"I assume you didn't come over here to admire my taste in decor," he said curtly as he crossed to the coffee pot. Still, he couldn't escape the burst of pride at her praise.
See,
an immature voice wanted to shout.
See what I was capable of? See the kind of life I could have given you?

Whatever, man. Two thousand square feet in small town Montana was peanuts—no, make that peanut crumbs—compared to a penthouse in Manhattan. And that was before you threw in the house in the Hamptons, the private jets, the designer clothes and shoes.

You could multiply your income by ten and it wouldn't even come close to the kind of life Ellie had chosen over the life she'd claimed to want with you.

"I've got a lot on my plate today and I'm already running late. So..."

She shifted on the barstool where she'd perched and ran a hand nervously over her brown hair. It was pin straight, not a strand out of place he noted with distaste. New York hair. Nothing like the thick, rippling waves he'd once tangled his fingers in.

Now the rest of her outfit he could get behind, he thought as his gaze ran down over her white shirt that left her slim arms bare. Not too tight, but enough to show off the modest swell of her breasts—more modest now with her weight loss.

Ah, but he'd never cared about anything in the way of volume with Ellie. Not when she'd been so sensitive that he could get her off just by sucking them into his mouth while she rocked against his lap.

He jerked his gaze away before his thoughts wandered too far out of control. Only to find himself staring at her legs, which, though she wasn't particularly tall, looked long and lean as ever in proportion to her body.

Maybe a little too lean, he thought, his mouth tightening, an unwelcome twist of sympathy in his chest as he thought of everything she'd gone through in the last year.

She'd made those choices, he reminded himself. Chosen that life, chosen that fucking guy, for Christ's sake. Her suffering was no longer his business, her problems no longer his to fix.

"Right," she said with a tight smile.

"I came here because…" She paused and swept her tongue nervously across her lips.

He braced himself against the onslaught of images that small gesture evoked. Memories of that soft mouth parting under his, running down his throat, his chest, his stomach.

His cock strained against his zipper at the memory of her lips closing over the thick head...

"I came here because I owe you an apology."

Ah, fuck, he so did not want to go here. "For what?" he replied, opting for the play dumb strategy.

She gave him a look, cocked eyebrow, chin tilted down, that was so familiar it made his chest tight. A look she'd given him a thousand times in the past, a look that said she could read him like a book and wasn't swallowing any line he was handing out.

"That night, the night you asked me—"

"You don't need to apologize for that," he said, as though if he kept her from saying the words out loud he could keep from remembering that humiliating, heartbreaking night when he'd stupidly asked her to marry him.

"Of course I do," she said, sliding off the stool and taking a couple steps toward him. "I said horrible things to you, things I didn't mean."

Like wha
t, a stupid, pitiful voice inside him cried out. He ruthlessly choked it into silence. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered. Not what happened then, not her apology now.

Yet there was a strange feeling erupting inside of him. Like an earthquake happening inside his body, shaking him to the core, threatening to break him apart.

Lucky for him he'd spent the past thirteen years cultivating the kind of reinforcements that left him immune to any kind of emotional disaster.

"It was a long time ago."

"I know, but you were the most important person in my life, and I was completely unfair to you. Selfish, just like you said. I loved you, and even if I had a right to be angry, I shouldn't have treated you that way."

There was a hairline crack spidering its way down his soul, threatening to let everything come bubbling back up. He gave her a curt nod. "Apology accepted." He had to stop this conversation, stat.

She looked up at him expectantly. "Don't you have something to say to me?"

"Like what?"

Her eyes narrowed. "Like, maybe you're sorry for making a huge, life changing decision and expecting me to just be fine with it?"

I expected you to love me enough to forgive me and move past it.
He stifled the pitiful little voice and swallowed hard. "You're right, I could have handled it better. Both the way I went about it, and the way I left." He'd lit out without so much as a word to her, an act of spite and self preservation that he'd known was wrong the second his dad dropped him off at the bus station in Billings. "So I'm sorry for that."

"We both could have handled it better," she said with a quivery little smile that made him want to pull her into his arms and kiss her until they forgot what they had to be sorry about.

He shoved his hands in his pockets to keep from reaching for her. He couldn't do this. He couldn't start down this road. "Yeah, just goes to show we were a couple of dumb kids who had no business planning on a future together. Looking back, we saved each other from making a huge mistake." The lie tasted bitter on his tongue.

She swallowed hard and he hardened himself against the hurt that flashed in her eyes.

"And you got yourself your fancy life in New York."

She folded her arms around her waist. "That was never the kind of life I aspired too," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

Could have fooled me, the way you lit out of town the second your diploma hit your hand
. He didn't bother saying it out loud. "I guess that's a good thing," he said, "considering it didn't last."

Surprise, then hurt flashed across her face. "Harsh," she whispered softly.

"That was a low blow," he said, scrubbing his hand through his hair. "Look, it was a long time ago..."
So why does remembering that night still make you feel like someone's stabbing a hot poker into your chest?

She nodded. "I just thought, we're going to be seeing each other a lot. It was important to clear the air."

"Consider it cleared."

She came closer and held out her hand. "So we're good."

"We're good." He reached his hand toward hers, hesitating a split second as a thousand warning bells screamed in his brain. Fuck that. He was no longer a horny teenager locked in the first throes of love—more likely lust. He was a grown man who had learned to control his body and his emotions. Nothing got past his guard.

He could certainly handle a simple handshake with a girl he'd fucked a hundred years ago.

He closed the distance between them, pressed his palm tightly against hers and wrapped her fingers in a firm grip. It was like wrapping his hand around a live wire. But instead of a painful jolt of electricity, he felt a burst of white hot heat, shimmering from his hand, up his arm, sizzling out until his head was filled with a bright white light and every cell was lit up from the inside.

Like he'd been running at half speed for so long he'd forgotten what if felt like to be really awake.

Really alive.

He pulled his hand from hers, tried to shake it off, praying she was clueless to the fact that a simple touch of her hand had shaken him to his very core.

"Okay then, I'll see you soon," she said, sounding a little breathless. Was she a little wobbly on those ridiculous thick-soled shoes as she walked to the door? She winced a little on that last step and he caught sight of the edge of a band aid poking out from the thick leather strap. She must have blister from walking here. It was on the tip of his tongue to offer her a ride back to the restaurant.

He clamped his lips shut against it. Sure, back in the day, he would have carried her on his own back if it meant saving her from the slightest discomfort. That wasn't who he was any more. Now he looked after himself and the people who deserved his concern.

This was good. Letting her suffer a little just illustrated how far he'd come from that night when her rejection had left him feeling like a nuclear bomb had gone off inside of his chest.

But as he watched her step falter as she got to the end of the walkway, he didn't feel vindicated. He just felt petty and mean. Cursing under his breath, he scooped up the keys to his truck and trotted after her.

"Let me give you a ride," he said. She turned at the sound of his voice, the look of relief on her face so great it was like he was saving her from a walk across the country, not just into town.

"Thank you," she said as she climbed eagerly into the cab. "I've worn these shoes before with no trouble. Somehow it never occurred to me that walking more than a few blocks in them would turn my feet to hamburger."

He didn't say anything in reply, focused on getting her back to the restaurant as quickly as possible. Fortunately she took the hint and kept quiet for the short ride.

It was the longest five minutes of his life, spent alternately trying not to stare at her smooth, tan legs, and convince himself that this small act of kindness didn't mean he was falling under her spell again. It was what he, as a decent person, would do for anyone. Nothing more, nothing less.