Keep On Loving you (19 page)

Weird, because they hadn't parted that many hours ago. But it came to him like a full-body slam, her sweet curves, even in something simple like jeans and a T-shirt, the shining fall of her dark hair, those dark lashes that surrounded her pale blue eyes. Suddenly he regretted not turning all the lights on in his bedroom the night before. He should have done that. Then he could have absorbed that face and those eyes as he slid inside her. He could have read all that she felt when the two of them were joined.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, moving to the coffee machine on a back table.

He noted the Russian dolls he'd brought her sat in a line on the battered desk by her computer. His heart started beating again, even though he didn't like that odd, wooden expression on her face.

She didn't look happy to see him, while she'd stopped his heart.

Hell.

He approached the counter separating them. “How's your day going?” Maybe something had gone wrong and that look on her face had nothing to do with him at all.

“Fine,” she said, glancing toward her desk. “Paperwork for hours.”

His brows shot up. “I thought you left this morning because you needed to clean houses.”

A flush turned her cheeks pink. “Houses, paperwork. All the same. I needed to work.”

Or get away from me.

But she'd smiled at him this morning, damn it, when he'd found her on the third floor. She hadn't been this stiff automaton who couldn't even look him in the eye. There'd not been a hint of morning-after remorse.

Fiddling with a stack of papers on her desk now, she threw him a quick glance. “Uh, what did you do?”

“Hung out in the village for quite a while,” he said. “But now that I'm here, I'm hoping I can convince you to go to dinner with me tonight.”

“I don't think so, Zan.”

All right, now he was certain something was off with her. Not because she refused him, but because she did it as if she had a poker up her ass and was sucking on a lemon.

And still, she looked beautiful.

Inhaling a deep breath, he leaned his elbows on the counter. “Do you have other plans?”

He could see her thinking over her answer.

“Dinner, sweetheart,” he said. “I feel like steak, okay? We'll go to that place with all the antler chandeliers and the old boating stuff hanging on the walls.”

Her mouth twitched and she darted another look at him. “That describes, like, fifteen places around here.”

Her near-smile cheered him. “Then we won't have any trouble finding it.”

Pursing her lips, she ran a hand through her hair. He decided to change the subject before she found a way to say no. “I heard a lot about the wedding from people today.”

She met his gaze, clearly interested in that subject. “Yeah?”

“Verdict is, Shay was gorgeous, her husband handsome and the entire wedding party glamorous.”

“We were kind of glamorous,” Mac said, appearing pleased.

“I'll say.” He kept his gaze on her face. “I heard a lot of talk about us, too.”

Her eyes widened. “Us?”

“Remember when you grabbed me and towed me away from the reception?”

“Oh. Yeah.”

“People noticed. Now the grapevine is buzzing about the Mac and Zan legend.” He shook his head. “It surprises me how they're still attached to that.”

“A good reason not to go out for dinner together,” she said quickly.

Shit. He'd stepped right into that, hadn't he?

“I don't care what people say. I care about taking you to dinner. I care about letting you know how much I enjoyed last night. How much I want more nights just like it.”

She'd gone stiff again, her gaze trained on the stack of papers.

“Wouldn't that be nice, Mac, honey?” He lightened his voice to a teasing tone. “We can formalize our sex buddies agreement over a pair of good steaks.”

“No,” she said. “I was wrong about suggesting we start that up. It wasn't a smart idea.”

Fine, he thought, telling himself he did not feel disappointment. Calling it a sex buddies thing was stupid anyway and hadn't sat well with him from the start. He just wanted a meal with her, damn it. “Steaks, Mac. That's all.”

“No.”

He remembered now, how she could be as obstinate as a jackass. One time, when she was about eleven years old, she'd climbed a tree and gotten stuck, then refused his help to get her down. For hours, she'd stayed up there, her cheeks tear-streaked but her will inflexible.

She was wearing the I'm-staying-on-this-branch-forever face.

He sighed. “I just don't see why we can't—”

“Think, Zan.” She seemed impatient.

“Think what?”

“You wouldn't want me to get too attached, would you?”

It was his turn to freeze. Her blue-crystal eyes were on him and under their cool power, there was no way he could bluff.

Yeah, she had him there. He didn't want her to get too attached.

He didn't want either one of them to get too attached. That was exactly why he'd left ten years before. He hadn't wanted to risk losing something he wanted so very much.

* * *

T
ILDA
AGREED
WHEN
Mac wanted to catch a bite to eat after their workday was done. While the wedding had been a success, the Monday after apparently hadn't gone so well for her boss and friend. When five o'clock rolled around, Mac suggested the two of them try the new café in town, thinking it might not be too busy so early in the evening.

There was no reason for Tilda to refuse, not even because she didn't have the money. Mac offered to buy as payback for Tilda driving out in her car—Ash had fixed it the morning after their night together—and bringing her clothes, then later picking her up at the Elliott place that morning. Providing company over a slice of quiche or some crepes and cups of hot tea was what friends were for.

Not to mention it also gave her a reason not to go home right away. Tilda had a bad feeling that Ash might try to track her down there if she continued to leave his calls and texts unanswered. Yes, she was avoiding him, despite her big talk to Mac about good things coming. Her good thing with Ash hadn't survived twenty-four hours.

The café was a far cry from the dark, paneled Mr. Frank's, where you could get bar food half-off every night between four and seven, making nachos or wings a cheap meal. It wasn't a large space, but it felt big with the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the lake. In the summer, the outdoor deck would be a beautiful place to dine. In winter, it was still pretty and cozy with a fire crackling in a stone corner fireplace. It wasn't yet crowded, but looking around at the other patrons and what they were wearing, Tilda could see it had already caught on with the affluent part-timers to the community. She crossed the sole of one sneaker over the hole on the toe of the other and was glad the pair of jeans she wore were in good condition and that she'd borrowed a nice sweater that Mac had in her car.

Fragrant tea was in delicate cups and an almost-full pot sat on their table. Salads with vinaigrette and candied pecans and crumbled blue cheese over field greens had been served. Tilda didn't often have an opportunity to eat like this—as in never, unless at the end of a catering gig—but her appetite wasn't as keen as it should be, and Mac, too, appeared to be only toying with the torn leaves on her plate.

Yep. The boss was definitely not having a great day.

Tilda cleared her throat. “The wedding was really beautiful. Jace had the smuggest expression on his face when he and Shay were pronounced man and wife.”

“Yeah,” Mac said absently. “He's a goner when it comes to my sister.”

Tilda treaded cautiously next. “I don't know if you were aware, but at the reception I was seated beside Zan Elliott.”

Mac's fork froze. “Yeah?”

“He's nice. Very handsome.” And very into Mac, that was clear. Tilda wasn't sure she should have spilled about those postcards in the bottom drawer, but champagne had been her downfall before. And the fact was, the other woman had gone to him at the end of the reception, Tilda knew, since she'd been standing right there when the arrangements were made. “Um...did you two have a nice night after Poppy and Ryan dropped you off?”

Mac looked up. “I owed Zan some packing time. That's why I went over there.”

Tilda widened her eyes. “You were in a bridesmaid dress.”

“And tipsy,” Mac added.

“Tipsy, in a bridesmaid dress, you went to do some packing.”

“That's my story, and I'm sticking to it.” A smile flickered over her mouth, but it didn't appear a happy one.

Tilda sucked in a breath, thinking she should give her friend another opportunity to share, in case that's what she needed. “Everybody knows about you two, and you've told me—”

“What we had was ages ago. And then he left. He's leaving again.”

What was there to say to that?

Mac stabbed a piece of lettuce. “We know to be careful of short-timers, right?”

“Right.” Smart girls figured that out early, when you lived in a vacation destination. There was a local mantra about it, even. “Never trust your heart to a guy who shows up in town with a suitcase.”

Lifting her head, Mac eyed Tilda. “I wasn't going to pry, but since that just came out of your mouth...what's up with you and Ash Robbins? I've heard things myself—”

“Nothing's up with us,” Tilda said quickly, then couldn't hold on to the lie. “We slept together.”

Mac blinked. “Okay.”

“I mean, we
slept
together.” Her face went hot. “I told you I met him last May. What I didn't tell you was that night we had sex. Then he came back to town recently and we kept running into each other and then the other night we
slept
.”

Cuddled together under heaps of blankets with their clothes still on. At first, they'd whispered in the dark about everything and nothing: books they'd read as kids, first crushes, his upcoming job in London, her determination to get her degree in biology. Finally, they'd fallen asleep, tangled in each other.

“The next morning, he helped me fix my car again...something about the rotor this time. I don't know.”

“Handy guy.”

Scary guy. Because she'd felt so close to him after those hours cozied up in the dark. He'd seen her terrible apartment and not run away screaming. He'd heard her voice her dream about obtaining a college degree and hadn't expressed a single doubt that she'd achieve it—even if she'd ultimately have to find a way to put in hours at a lab as well as at her computer.
You want that
, he'd said,
you'll get it
.

With his arms around her, his warm voice in her ear, it had seemed totally reachable. Actually doable, for the first time.

“And then?” Mac prompted. “Since fixing your car again?”

“Since then I've been avoiding him.”

“Uh...why?” Mac studied her face. “Because you should never trust your heart to a guy who shows up in town with a suitcase?”

Remembering that wasn't what had put her gears into reverse. It happened when they were standing by her car in the cold morning air. Smiling, he'd told her the tip of her nose was pink, and then he'd kissed her there, his warm breath bathing her cool skin.

Following that, his expression had sobered.
Tilda
, he'd said, his gaze intent on hers,
this feels so fucking real
.

Flushing hot all over, she'd looked everywhere but at him and mumbled her response.
How would you know what real is like?

My parents
, he'd replied.
I see what they have. It looks like this feels.

She'd gone from hot to frozen over in an instant. But if she was honest with herself, that last sentence wasn't what had put her into full retreat, either. What had made her withdraw was her own certain sense—that she had, for no good reason she could name—that what was going on between her and Ash Robbins was very real, too.

Mac was staring off into the distance now, a strange expression on her face. Then her eyes cut to Tilda. “You probably made the right decision.”

Tilda frowned as something small but ugly skittered down her spine. A premonition. A bad omen. “Why?” she whispered.

Her friend's gaze flicked over Tilda's shoulder again. “John and Veronica Robbins just came in. Ash is with them, and with
him
...”

This time, the feeling crawled
up
her spine. Tilda shuddered and slid down in her chair. Then she glanced over her shoulder. At the opposite side of the café, Ash's mother waited while her husband pulled out her chair. He was tall and straight, a good-looking middle-aged man whose face could sell stocks and bonds, political deals, pretty lies. He didn't look like a cheater, but did any of them?

Ash had his back to Tilda, and she could only see the profile of the blonde, glossy-haired young woman who stood beside him. From the side she was perfect, and perfect for him. Tilda's soul let out a raw cry as she watched him solicitously help slide off Perfect Girl's gorgeous, fitted wool coat that was a striking and deep sunny yellow with big black buttons running down the back.

To get completely free of it, the young woman had to transfer the big leather purse in her left hand to her right. A designer purse, Tilda was certain, the kind that cost two times more than her car. For all she knew, it cost four times more than her car. Five.

Then Ash pulled out her chair and the girl gracefully folded her slim self, dressed in a form-fitting black dress, black tights and high-heeled black boots, onto the seat. She turned her head toward Ash, looking up as he drew out his own chair, and this side of her face was just as flawless as the other.