Just My Type (19 page)
105
Erin Nicholas
She believed that. She really did.
“Thirteen years?” a woman repeated. “Good Lord, you look good for your age.” Sara just took the words as a compliment and did not comment further. “I should get down to the store,” she said, moving purposely for the door this time. “It was nice meeting you all.” A small lie for the sake of being polite.
“Aisle four,” someone called after her.
She heard the group’s laughter as the door swung shut.
She was so damned beautiful, Mac couldn’t breathe for a moment when he stepped through the back door into the kitchen.
He’d been looking at her—and thinking she was beautiful—for years. Why the oxygen suddenly deserted his body now, he couldn’t understand.
And even stranger was that it wasn’t the short, skimpy dress she was wearing, or that her hair hung loose and sexy, or that he was carrying a box full of sex toys and accessories.
It was because she was standing in
his
kitchen, in her bare feet, muttering under her breath, chopping something on a the cutting board—which was more food preparation than he could remember ever seeing her do—and it hit him, like a hand upside the head, that she was
his
.
Even if it was temporary. Even if her brother hated it. Even if he, himself, had resisted it. She was his, right now, in this moment.
That made him harder than seeing her spread open naked on the bed in St. Croix.
Well, okay,
as
hard.
He overheard something about “horrible manicures anyway” as she turned to dump something into a bowl sitting next to the sink.
“What are you doing?”
She jumped and spun toward him, something red running through her fingers.
“You scared me!” She said. She gave him a huge smile the next second. “You’re home.” She looked thrilled to see him. Which resulted in even more heat and want and need.
Her smiling. At him. In his kitchen.
That
was making him hard.
He was losing it.
“I’m home,” he repeated, feeling a strange tenderness. He went farther into the kitchen.
“I’m glad.” She stood just looking at him, smiling that smile.
“You’re dripping.”
Her eyes widened. “I’m…what?”
“Dripping. On the floor.” He looked down at the linoleum. “What is that?” 106
Just My Type
She looked down and then started. She swung toward the bowl. “Strawberries.” He looked at the counter as he came toward her. Blueberries, more strawberries, bananas and a cantaloupe awaited her knife. “What are you doing?”
“Cutting up fruit.” She giggled. “That isn’t obvious?”
Bananas. Like banana splits. Like the body powder in the box. Mac shifted and cleared his throat. He set the box on the kitchen table and decided to ignore it. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you actually make food.”
She laughed again. “Not sure this counts as making food.” He loved her laugh. Loved it more when he caused it. It had certainly happened before but even that felt different now. Now that they were married. Then he frowned. “Where’d you get the fruit?” She looked at him and rolled her eyes. “The grocery store. It’s so
small
. Not a lot of choices.” He nodded at that absently. “So you went to town?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
She narrowed her eyes as she looked at him. “You thought I was stranded.”
“I
knew
you were stranded.”
“That wasn’t very nice.”
“I had to work.” And he’d wanted her stranded. Bored, hating the farm, hating her new life and out of his sight—so he wouldn’t feel guilty about the whole thing—and out of his reach, so he wouldn’t make things worse. Not to mention Oscar was her punishment for using him to mess with her siblings.
“Well, I made friends with the neighbors.”
Of course she had. Sara made friends everywhere she went. “Which neighbors?” It would be either the Wesleys or the Carvers…
“Sean.”
“Sean Carver?”
She shrugged. “Is there more than one Sean?”
No. That wasn’t the point. “You didn’t even ask him his last name?” She shook her head and put a strawberry in her mouth.
“You know better than that, Sara,” Mac said. The truth was, she was usually very careful and sensible about stuff like that.
“He lives up the road. I assumed you’d known him all his life.”
“I have,” Mac admitted. “
You
haven’t.”
“Well, I was starving and he had a truck and was willing to give me a ride. If you don’t want me talking to strangers, you need to stock more in this house for food than frozen burritos, or bring my car out here.”
107
Erin Nicholas
The frozen burritos were one of his favorite things. If she didn’t like them, she should divorce him and move back to Omaha. “How do you expect me to drive both cars out here?”
“Take me to Omaha with you when you go back and I’ll drive my car out.” It made complete sense. But he wanted her here, where she would be bored and alone and learn to hate it quickly and want her old life back. Hell, if she had her car she’d drive farther than downtown Oscar.
She could easily go to Omaha anytime she wanted and not have to live with the inconvenience and lack of selection and less-than-top-of-the-line that simply went along with living in a small town. On the other hand, there was more fresh air, friendly smiles and peace and quiet in Oscar. It was a trade-off.
Then he looked at her again. The turquoise sundress, the high heels lying next to the stove. A few things clicked for him. “You went downtown dressed like that?” She raised an eyebrow. “This is one of five outfits I have here with me. It was the least wrinkled.” Right. She hadn’t maybe chosen the dress, exactly. Still she looked…not like the women in Oscar.
“Did you go anywhere besides the grocery store?” Gus, the grocer, would hardly mind having Sara show up looking like this. And he wouldn’t have tolerated anyone saying or doing anything that made her uncomfortable.
“The beauty shop,” she said with a little frown. “I like the grocery store better.” Mac almost groaned. Style With A Smile. Well, the entire town of Oscar now officially knew Sara was here.
“Did they ask who you are?” Of course they had.
“Yes. And they told me your real name is Jason.” She looked a bit put-out to have not known that.
Mac smiled. “Around here I’m Jason. There was another Jason in my anatomy lab in college. They used Mac for me to keep us apart.”
She smiled and tipped her head, watching him. “Jason, huh? I don’t know.”
“You don’t have to call me Jason.”
“It might get confusing if I don’t. No one here knows you as Mac.” She would hopefully not be here long enough for her to have many conversations about him with anyone. Mac just shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. I answer to both.”
“I could call you Sugar Cakes or something, I suppose,” she teased, sliding closer and smiling up at him.
He chuckled at that. “I don’t think I can pull Sugar Cakes off.”
“How about Stud Muffin?” she slipped her arms around his waist.
He felt the press of her breasts against his stomach and wanted to return the embrace. And then some.
“No baked goods,” he said, trying to step back.
“Maybe Big Guy.”
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Just My Type
She wiggled against his big guy and Mac quickly pulled her arms free and put a foot of space between them. There was no way she could have missed his erection, but he turned the conversation stubbornly.
“You can’t go into Oscar dressed like that, Sara,” he said. He bent to grab the plastic bag he’d brought in with her box.
“Like what?” She looked down. “I know this is a little short, but…”
“But it’s not that different for you.” He thrust the bag toward her. “You always look like…that.” He gestured toward her, indicating everything from her hair to her toenails. “You have to tone it down a bit.” She frowned, looking down again. “Tone what down?”
“Sara,” he said. “You know what I mean.” And if she hated it, then…good. One more thing for her to hate about life here.
“I don’t.”
“You look like you’ve spent two hours in a salon wherever you go. You look like a million bucks.
You could have stepped out of a magazine.”
The dazzle of her smile distracted him. “Wow, thanks, Mac.” She stepped close again. “I don’t think you’ve ever said anything like that to me before.”
Because it would have given him away. He couldn’t comment to her, or anyone else, how stunning he found her. Or how intelligent, interesting, funny, sweet… He simply avoided talking about her altogether for fear it would have been all too obvious how he felt about her.
“You know you’re gorgeous, Sara. You have men following you like puppies.” She laughed. “I don’t know about that. Okay,” she added when he started to argue. “I know there have been men who find me attractive.”
Mac rolled his eyes at the understatement.
“But,” she continued. “
You’ve
never acted attracted.” He was a hell of an actor then. “I’ve worked very hard at that,” he told her gently.
She looked into his eyes for a few seconds, then nodded. “Well, you certainly don’t have to do that anymore. I think it’s more than acceptable to be attracted to your wife.”
Wife
. The word sucked the air from his lungs again. She was his. Legally bound to him. He could do all the things he’d spent so long trying not to even imagine. It was expected even. He could see her every day. He could listen to her laugh without worrying that he was staring like a lovesick teenager. He could talk to her all night long and not worry about it being an inappropriate hour for two people who were just friends to be alone.
He stepped close. Thankfully the plastic bag she held rustled as his thighs met it, reminding him he could do none of those things. He had to work at making her
not
his wife, not bound, not accessible to him.
They had to go back to how it was before. When they didn’t talk all night, didn’t do any of the things he thought he might die from not doing.
109
Erin Nicholas
“The women in Oscar are…less…flashy, Sara,” he told her. “Not that they aren’t beautiful and sexy, they just don’t…go to such lengths.”
That sounded stupid even to him.
“What lengths?” she asked, glancing down at the bag.
“They’re just more conservative here.” That was true enough. People were much less concerned here about labels and styles and trends.
“How do you suggest I tone it down?” she asked, now looking at the bag as if he might have put a smelly diaper in it.
“Just…less. Less elaborate hairstyles, less jewelry, less skin, less heel,” he said flicking a glance toward her shoes again.
Finally she stuck her hand into the plastic bag, felt around and withdrew the gray cotton. She dropped the bag and held the garment up with both hands.
“What is this?” she asked.
“Sweatpants.”
She looked at him. “Sweatpants? It’s August, Mac. It’s eighty-eight degrees during the day.” She had to cover up. He didn’t care how she did it, but at her apartment he’d been unable to find anything baggy. “You can turn the air-conditioning up.”
“You want me to wear sweatpants?”
“Yes. Or jeans. Or these.” He squatted and dug in the bag to pull out the black workout pants with the white stripe running up the side of either leg. “They go with this.” He pulled out the zip-up jacket that matched.
“Great. At least it’s a coordinated look,” she said dryly.
He sighed and stretched to his feet. “You can’t walk around Oscar in those sundresses.”
“I bought these for St. Croix. I have other dresses.”
“I brought some of them,” he said. “They’re in the car. They’re still pretty…”
“Flashy?” she asked, seeming amused.
“Not all of them.” Though there were plenty of silky, sleeveless numbers in her closet. “They’re just obviously expensive. More expensive than you’ll see around here day to day. These women shop at the mall, not at boutiques.”
“I don’t shop at boutiques,” Sara protested. “All the time,” she amended when he arched an eyebrow.
“Only when they have sales.”
“Still…”
“I spend way more money on my hair and makeup than on clothes,” she tried to defend. “I’m not that into labels. I just like the way the more expensive fabrics lay and they last longer and…” He crossed his arms and waited. She finally sighed. “Okay, I can try toning it down.” 110
Just My Type
“You won’t be able to get massages and manicures and spray-on tans and facials and all of that either,” he told her. “They don’t have it here and if you drive to Omaha for it, they’ll think you’re stuck up.”
“Yeah, I kind of figured that out,” she muttered.
That got his attention. She’d been in the beauty shop. “What do you mean?”
“I asked about manicures today.”
“Uh-huh,” he said, motioning for her to go on.
“They said they don’t do them on Tuesdays or Wednesdays. So I’m going back tomorrow. I’m guessing they’ll say they don’t do them Thursdays either.” Interesting. “Did you ask about anything else? Massages?”
“Just cleaning ladies.”
“What?”
“Someone to come in and clean the house.”
Oh, boy. Mac shook his head. “How’d that go?”
“I think I offended them.”
“You’re new.”
“No one here cleans houses for a living? That’s not an unusual request. And it’s not like I asked if any of them were exotic dancers or something.” Her temper made her eyes flash.
“You’re an outsider, Sara. They don’t know you and the first thing you say is that you’re looking for someone to clean your house.”
“So?”
“So they might have taken it to mean you were too good to clean your own house and you’re looking for a local to do the dirty work for you.”
She stared at him. “I have no idea how to clean a house. I can wipe a sink or dust a living room, but I don’t know anything about curtains and woodwork and windows and…”