How to Knit a Heart Back Home (26 page)

Owen didn’t get it. She was put together like a normal woman. She had two arms, two legs, and all the requisite parts. He’d checked. As soon as he caught what breath he could, he was planning on checking all over again. But as he slipped two fingers inside her, catching her lower lip with his teeth as he did it, he knew that no one had ever felt like this before, that no woman had ever been this silky and wet and as hot as a furnace inside, and at the same time, no woman had ever been this much fucking fun.

Because she was laughing up at him. Laughing as if she were having as great a time as he was, which was maybe the most fun he’d had in memory. She was like a ride on a roller coaster, only it didn’t come to a stop. Just when he thought he’d reached the highest part of the ride, he got higher.

Keeping his fingers inside her, he trailed his tongue down her body, taking his time, licking and teasing each sensitive point he found, her waist, her hip, the inside of her thigh, and then, when she was tensing around his hand, at the moment when she was gasping, he lowered his mouth to her, pressed his tongue against her most delicate spot, kissed her while his fingers kept up their motion, until she writhed under his mouth and hand, her hands wrapped in his hair, pressing him into her, her voice above him, begging him never, ever, to stop.

And when she’d stopped pulsing around him, when she purred and pulled him up her body, laughing, when she finally wrapped her legs around him and he pushed into her, it was as if she’d been made to fit him—she breathed into his mouth and gasped against him, pressing back against him in perfect rhythm, as if they’d been doing this for months, for years, forever. His cock found purchase and friction, heat and speed, and oh Christ, she was so fucking wet, and she screamed into his mouth, and then he came, and she did, too, and it wasn’t like anything else—she was with him.

Those incredible eyes, the way she stared into him as he spiraled down into her, as his breathing eased, as they panted against each other . . . Her grin was huge and open, and his heart lurched.

An hour later, in the most massive bed he’d ever been in, Lucy dozed on his shoulder. Owen was limp-limbed, the sheets damp and twisted around them. God, where
had
she found this bed? It looked like it had been built with the house, at the turn of the century. It matched the bookcases downstairs, tall spirals of decorative wood. The huge mattress didn’t even really fill the whole frame. Owen stretched as far as he could and his feet still didn’t hang off the edge. It was great.

And that was indubitably the best sex of his life. The way she had sounded when she came, the way she looked when he did, the way she kissed him at the last minute, the way she laughed as he fell against her, the way she tucked herself around him and closed her eyes, her cheek against his. The way her heart slowed to a steady thump.

Sure, the last time he’d had sex wasn’t even that long ago. That gal had been fun and sweet and came with no strings attached.

Whereas Lucy had strings. Lots of them. Strings all over town.

And she felt more perfect lying next to him than anyone ever had.

Goddammit. Inside his head, he groaned. He’d really done it now. Why didn’t he see this coming? He should have guessed this would happen if he spent the night in her bed.

He groaned softly. He’d screwed up. As usual.

How was this possibly going to keep him drama-free?

It wasn’t. Nothing about Lucy made him feel sane or calm.

Lucy stirred, her hand running across his chest, down his torso. . . . He had to get up before she got to . . .

There. Yeah, before she got to there.

“Mmmmm. Hi,” Lucy purred in his ear. Damn, she was
blazing
hot. How could he be ready again, when he’d thought he’d given her all he had, just minutes ago?

“Um,” Owen said. He scooted sideways and started to sit up. His hip protested. It made sense; he’d been using the hell out of it all night. “I have to . . .”

“What?”

“I should . . .”

The curtains were closed, but a ray of early-morning light had found its way in and was draped over her shoulder, grazing her cheek, the side of her face.

He’d never seen anything prettier in his whole damn life.

Something must have shown on his face, because she put her hands to her forehead and whispered, “What? My hair must be a wreck, I know.”

Owen just shook his head and leaned down to kiss her, one more time. “You’re gorgeous.”

Lucy wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him back. He lost his breath. She drew him down to her so that he was lying down again. Then she pulled the blanket back over him.

How was it possible that her mouth fit his like it did? Like they were born to kiss each other? He tried to breathe, to will himself to break the contact, but it was proving impossible.

There wasn’t really a reason he had to stop, right? Maybe there was, but he couldn’t remember it. God, she was so soft, so warm. . . .

The door of the bedroom flew open.

“Lucy? Do you know where Owen is?” Lucy’s mother, Toots, walked past the bed without looking at it, and went right to the window. She pulled the curtains back and turned to face the bed, hands on her hips. “He’s not at the parsonage and his car’s in front of your house.”

Lucy had turned to stone in Owen’s arms. She had her eyes squinched shut, as if she was going by the old if-I-can’t-see-you-you-can’t-see-me principle. Owen thanked every power there was that Lucy had pulled the blanket over them both.

“Oh, how cute! Look at you both! You’re cuddling! Owen, good morning. Good to see you. I thought I might find you here.”

How was it possible that his head hadn’t exploded?

“Good morning, Mrs. Harrison.” Shit. It had been twenty years since his voice broke like that.

Lucy’s mother flapped her hands. “Call me Toots. Mrs. Harrison is Bart’s dead mother and I never liked her very much. Now scoot.” With both hands, she pushed on the blankets where Owen’s and Lucy’s legs were still intertwined. “Let me sit here.”

Toots perched on the side of the bed.

Lucy still hadn’t opened her eyes.

“Oh! Look!” Toots grinned and picked up the box of condoms from the nightstand. “The rainbow pack from Santa! I’m so glad they’re getting some use, you sweet little bunnies.”

Lucy moaned as if she were in pain. Hysterical laughter rose in Owen’s throat that he prayed he’d be able to bite back.

Toots leaned forward and whispered to Owen, “Bart likes the green ones best, but I like the purple.”

Groaning louder, Lucy pulled the covers over her head.

“Of course, we don’t need to use them. Obviously. I’m a few years past baby age, thank God. But a little color always adds spice, doesn’t it?”

Owen nodded dumbly.

“Now,” Toots went on, “Are you ready for yoga?”

Hell
. That was it. He’d agreed to this, hadn’t he? At the bar with his mother, Toots had asked him about his hip and leg injury. She’d said yoga would help it, and she’d offered him a private lesson Wednesday morning. He’d said yes, even though if his cop buddies ever found out, he’d have to leave the country.

Today was Wednesday. She had tracked him to
here
? Could there possibly be worse timing?

“So you two get dressed and come down to the living room. I brought you a mat, Owen, and Lucy, I’ll pull yours out of the hall closet, okay?”

Lucy squeaked and went farther under the sheets.

“Good. I brought sage—I’ll go smudge.” Toots left the room with a jingle.

Owen lifted the sheet. Lucy’s huge brown eyes looked up at him in horror.

“This is a nightmare, right?” she asked.

“I hope so.”

“I’m never leaving this room. You can just tell her I died. She won’t mind.”

“Are you kidding me? You think I’m facing her without you?” Owen pulled the sheet back. “Impossible. You’re coming with me.”

Lucy’s hands moved to cover herself, her breasts swaying softly as she pulled the sheet.

“Wait,” Owen said. “Let me look at you.”

“My
mother.
” Lucy rolled onto her stomach to glare at him. “Is
downstairs.
We’re going to do
yoga
with her. And all I can see are colored condoms dancing in front of my eyes.”

Running a finger down the soft, straight line in the middle of her back, he said, “We’ll make it work, heart.” That name again. That he couldn’t stop saying. Where the fuck was his edge? And how could her skin possibly be this soft?

Lucy’s eyes crinkled at the edges as she smiled. She hesitated and then said, “You’re a nice guy, huh?”

“Well, this morning I wasn’t.” Even though he’d had the time of his life, Owen mentally kicked himself again. He shouldn’t have. “I might have . . . Well, I took advantage of you.”

Lucy laughed and slipped out of bed on her side, wrapping a pink knitted afghan around her body as she moved. “You’re implying I didn’t want my advantages taken. What if I took yours instead and you just didn’t notice?”

He sat up halfway. “Did that happen?”

Lucy looked down at the ground and back at him. She grinned, and her smile lit her whole face. “Oh, yeah. I took ’em good.”

Chapter Twenty-four

There’s no need to be careful in knitting. The worst that can happen is a hole, and you have the tools to fix it. You can fix everything.

—
E. C.

N
ow, lift the sit bones and let the inner thighs roll forward. That’s it, the ischial tuberosities feel as if they’re floating up into the air as your feet ground into the earth, bringing you into alignment. Good, Owen, good. You’re getting it.”

Lucy shook her head and hung upside down in downward dog. She cheated in the position and tucked her head and bent her elbow so she could peek under her arm at Owen. Four feet away from her, on his mat, he was also in an upside down vee, and his face looked bright red and unhappy.

Toots said, “Rest in the breath. Move deeper with each exhalation, lengthening your spine. Now, on the inhalation, move forward into plank pose. Eliza Carpenter always liked this one best, even more than downward dog. Said it was good for the wrists. Strengthens them for knitting.”

Lucy came forward into a high push-up. Owen swiveled his head up and around to look at her and then followed her motion.

“Lucy, breathe deeper, that’s it. Move that oxygen. Good, good. Now, stay here in plank. Pulse up just an inch, take a breath, moving up between your shoulder blades, and now, breathe out, remaining in plank.”

The move was subtle, and should have been barely visible, but Owen managed to make it almost a military push-up.

Toots sighed. “All right, lower yourself to the floor. And cobra, good job, Lucy. Much better than you usually do. That’s odd. Owen, not like . . . Well, okay, push back into child’s pose. Oh, Owen.”

Lucy turned her head to the side to look at him again. This really wasn’t going well.

“Maybe this isn’t your thing,” she whispered.

Folded forward into a truly uncomfortable-looking crunch, Owen looked at her. “You think? She’s trying to kill me.”

“It’s just yoga. And wasn’t it your idea?”

Toots snapped her fingers. “That’s it. Thirty minutes will have to do.”

“That’s it?” said Lucy. “Really?” Usually her mom made Lucy go at least an hour, and a session taught by Toots at the local studio was ninety minutes.

“Owen’s going to hurt himself.” Toots’s voice was sympathetic, but Lucy knew the tone. When Toots had decided something was done, it was done.

“What about savasana?” It was Lucy’s favorite, the corpse pose. Really, it was the only move she was any good at.

“Fine.” Toots looked disappointed. “Lie on your back, feet outstretched, hip distance apart. Hands open, close your eyes.” She flopped back on her own mat, and gestured that Lucy and Owen do the same.

A minute later, Owen said, “I like this one.”

“Me, too,” said Lucy.

“Quiet, both of you. Rehearse for death.”

Lucy snorted.

But the ten minutes that followed were excruciating. Why had she asked for this again? She should have just let her mother wrap up the session with no fanfare. Instead, Lucy was lying next to Owen, just feet apart, listening to his breathing.

And thinking about how his breathing had been earlier, ragged and fast. In her bedroom. Oh, God. Lucy grew warm in places she had no business growing warm in, not with her mother in the same room.

Think about something else. Anything.

That swatch for Ruby’s bookstore sweater. Think about how it had come out perfectly at four and a half stitches per inch, as if Abigail’s yarn from Cade’s sheep had been meant for the project, even though Eliza Carpenter had died two years before her nephew’s yarn began being commercially produced.

Squeezing her eyes more tightly closed, Lucy tried not to think about what was really racing through her mind—whether or not she could still taste Owen on her lips. About how her hands had fit interlaced with his, during the last moments of being together, as he’d pushed into her, their eyes locked.

Later. She’d deal with that, pay for it, later.

“Enough! Owen, honey,” said Toots, sitting up. “Namaste. Namaste, Lucy,” Toots folded her hands in front of her and gave a quick bow.

“Was I awful?” asked Owen.

Toots nodded. “Horrible. But it’s about the practice, not the execution, thank God, and I’ll make you do it again sometime. Don’t you worry about that. Lucy, can you give me a ride home on your way to work? Dad dropped me off but he was going to the hardware store, and that way I don’t have to bother him.”

“Of course.” Now Lucy had to look at Owen and deal with him sensibly, in front of her mother. “So . . .”

Toots interrupted her. “Go upstairs and get ready for work. I’ll make Owen something to eat.”

She took a quick shower and changed, and when she came back down, Toots had made Owen breakfast with ingredients out of Lucy’s cupboards that she didn’t even know she had.