Keep On Loving you (30 page)

Zan's hand clamped on her wrist. “Mac, baby, condom.”

She froze. God, right.

“Upstairs—” he began.

“No,” she said, refusing to interrupt their connection, even for a second. Instead, she rolled them to their sides, so they were face-to-face. Then she took him in hand again. “Remember this?” She caressed up, then down, lightly, then with more force.

Zan groaned again as his fingers traced down her belly to toy with the folds between her legs. “Sweet, baby,” he said, his voice rough. “Wet.”

She shuddered at the words, his touch, both calling back other times. Maybe this was better than intercourse, she thought, because this act wasn't one of taking and surrender. This wasn't pleasure created by him inside her, but pleasure being stoked
between
their bodies, each of them having a hand in it, so to speak.

“Why are you smiling?” he whispered.

“Just feeling good.”

His other hand came up to play with her nipples, and her back arched as goose bumps broke out over her skin. “Oh, Zan,” she said.

They'd both had practice, in those weeks and months before they'd experienced full-blown sex with each other. She was getting close now, her hips moving into his caresses, and he slid fingers inside her. Mac's hand tightened on Zan's cock and she worked him in the short, almost harsh strokes she knew he liked.

They both were breathing hard.

His gaze was fixed on hers, and as she looked into that familiar face, her favorite in the world, she found herself letting every last game go. All subterfuge dropped. The last piece of armor around her heart fell and even her pride couldn't hold her back in this intimate moment of connection. If this was their last time to be together, then honesty was more important than preserving her ego. “You know what this is, right?”
I love you.

His hand jerked, and she gasped. “God, Mac,” he said.

“You know,” she insisted, saying the words through her ragged pants. “You know.”

He closed his eyes a moment and she could sense his body tightening, all his muscles contracting in preparation for release. “I know.” Then his lashes lifted and his thumb pressed her clit as his fingers drove deep, triggering her orgasm.

She rode it out, her hand moving in time with her waves of pleasure, and then he was coming, too, his head dipping to shove his face against her throat. It was beautiful. Painfully tender. Unforgettable.

As their breathing evened out, he spoke against her skin. “I'll say I'm sorry if you want,” he whispered.

“No.” She tipped her chin to rub her cheek against his hair, no longer fighting as she'd been doing for so long—from the moment he'd returned—but instead accepting. Her newly revealed heart might feel tender and defenseless, but she also felt oddly happier now. More like herself—that arms-flung-wide, bring-it-all-on girl that she'd once been. A kind of peace settled over her. “I'm not.”

Her gaze caught on the sky outside one of the windows. Snow was falling, the soft kind, and the flakes were driven by the wind to hit the glass, where they slid down in fat, wet tears. She couldn't stop the snow or the wind any more than she could stop the seasons of the year or the seasons of a life.

You couldn't stop loving someone.

So you might as well not regret the feeling.

* * *

T
HE
PROPERTY
TRANSFER
papers were boxed up and wrapped in white with a big silver bow. Zan had taken them into the village and the fancy stationery boutique had done the packaging for him. He carried it under one arm and under the other was a different gift. This one was a blowup of a shot he'd found when clearing out his grandfather's house.

He didn't remember who had taken the photo, but it showed the Walker kids and him, aged about ten down. They were bundled in snow gear and the two youngest girls wore pink knitted beanies with pom-poms on top. He and Brett and Mac had crazier hats: Zan's had plush Viking horns atop his, Brett's was shaped like a joker's headgear and Mac's was helmet-styled with two thick, yellow yarn braids hanging from the sides. Zan had put the photo in a heavy antique silver frame he'd found in one of the other shops along the main street.

Like at Shay and Jace's wedding, he followed a long line of people from the parking lot to the event, many townspeople—including Olivia the baker and Lewis the postal carrier whom Zan also remembered from his youth—and others arriving in sleeker cars and wearing fancier clothes that he supposed were part of Ryan's Hollywood crowd. He and Poppy were holding the reception at the yacht club on Blue Arrow Lake. Guests checked in at a small building that held a welcome desk and also a small souvenir area. At the rear of that space was another door that opened onto a long gangplank—today, covered by a waterproof tunnel-type structure because of the weather—that led over the water to the octagonal-shaped clubhouse with its glass walls offering nearly 360-degree views of the lake.

Once inside the larger building, Zan placed his two gifts on a table piled with many others. Then he glanced around, orienting himself. Round tables were set around a dance floor, each white tablecloth decorated with a profusion of flowers in white and lavender and those place cards he'd watched the Walker women make one night.

French doors opened to a deck on the water and above these were great swags of the same flowers. The bride and groom were slated to come through those to join the reception.

Instead of getting married in a church or at the reception venue, the wedding rites were an immediate family–only event on a boat that toured the lake at sunset. By the time Poppy and Ryan entered the yacht club, they would already have been pronounced man and wife.

Not long after Zan arrived, the pair and their attendants did, too. A great cheer went up, and he clapped as loudly as anyone. Ryan looked like a movie star and Poppy so damn happy Zan felt his throat tighten. No nerves for that mountain girl and no sign of her recent accident. She was ready for her close-up.

Then the wedding party got swallowed up by the crowd. Zan hit the bar for a beer and propped himself in one corner. Tilda Smith found him there, and she was hand in hand with Ash Robbins.

More glow.

Tilda smiled. “Hey!”

Zan and Ash shook hands. “We're off to London soon,” the young man said. “The both of us.”

Tilda smiled up at her companion. “You could light the night,” Zan told her.

“She lights up my world,” Ash said.

Then their gazes met in a way Zan recognized. Young love, as fresh and bright as a new fall of snow.

He'd walked away from that.

Dinner was announced and guests moved about to their places. Zan found he wasn't hungry, so instead of taking his designated chair, he returned to the bar and drew up a stool, settling with his back to the rest of the room. The bartenders were busy, so no one paid him any attention and he remained apart from the ensuing frivolity, though he spared a smile when he heard best man Mason give his well-practiced toast.

Uncle Zan
, the kid had called him.

He was walking away from that, too.

The dancing began, and he got up rather than be tempted to turn and see Mac in the arms of some of the slick Hollywood guests. His tour took him along the room's glass walls, and he directed his attention to the views of the lake. It was dark outside, but there was enough light from the clubhouse and the houses ringing the shore to illuminate the thick clouds hanging low on the water. It was supposed to snow.

He was staring at the far shore when the hem of his coat was tugged. He glanced down. A little old lady stood there, somewhere in the octogenarian years, he guessed. Her silver hair was braided at the top of her head. It took him a minute to place a name to her face.

“Mrs. Lind!” he said. “You look great.”

“Thank you, young man.” She shook a finger at him. “Have you cleaned up your bad boy ways?”

He had to smile. “Uh...no?”

She placed her palm on his sternum, tried to push. “Oh, you.” Then she sipped from the champagne glass in her hand. “How's your grandfather?”

“I'm sorry to tell you,” he said, sobering. “But he passed some months ago.”

Her expression registered confusion, then it cleared. “That's right. I was sorry to hear that.”

“Thank you.”

“And your parents? How are they?”

He took a breath. “I lost them, too.”

Her silvery brows came together a long moment, and then she blinked again. “Well, of course you didn't
lose
them.” Her hand rose to his chest once more, and her fingertips brushed the center of his tie. “They're right here.”

She moved away before he could come up with anything to say. That was good, because he wasn't certain he could speak. His hand rose to tug at the silk wound around his neck. It was strangling him.

They're right here
, Mrs. Lind had said, touching his heart.

Except he knew they were on his shoulders, his mother and father and Jana and Dragon. A weighty yoke, no matter that they'd loved him and he'd loved them back. Grief had a way of solidifying, a sharp, dark ache becoming a heavy, crushing load.

They would never want to hold you down
, Mac had said.

Of course not. He didn't blame them. No one was to blame for the tragedy. But a smart man learned from it.

A stupid one let it become an excuse
, a voice said. A stupid one let staying detached to avoid pain become a habit that needed to be broken.

Okay, yes. The grief had shackled him. He'd resisted not holding on to a new family—the Walkers. He'd turned away from a future with Mac because...

Not because he'd been smart, he thought now.

Movement from the corner of his eye had him turning, to see Poppy and Ryan on the dance floor, wrapped in each other's arms. The man had survived losing a child...and he'd managed to wade out of his sadness to hitch himself to Poppy's brilliant star.

Shay was dancing with Jace, their foreheads touching as they spoke quietly to each other. The youngest Walker had found a single father who came with a challenging teenage daughter he didn't know, but Shay hadn't hesitated to take them both on.

Angelica was dragging a reluctant Brett to join the others. Her husband was grinning, and Zan could tell that his unwillingness was all for show when he swept her close for a lavish dip. Her laugh floated above the crowd and he heard Brett's lighthearted response. His old friend was not dragging his feet any longer.

His brother and sisters of the heart each had what he'd been avoiding for ten years.

Because he'd been too cowardly to take that risk.

Love means loss.

But hell, look how much he'd missed out on. So damn much.

Years.

His eye traveled over the happy couples again, and his gaze caught on someone standing at the edge of the dance floor, all alone. Mac. Her dress was the palest purple lace and strapless. It clung to her figure until it flared at the knees, with some sort of white netting peeking out from beneath that made her look as if she was standing in the froth of an incoming wave. Her hair curled around her face and was held back on one side by a tiny lavender rose pinned above her ear.

He'd walked away from her, that woman he'd loved.

And then he'd tried to bind her to him anyway, 117 times.

What a dick move.

And yet she still loved him. That was the message she'd given him the other night in front of the fire. She was in love with him.

He felt himself freeze. His heart stopped beating, his blood no longer ran through his veins, his breath stalled in his lungs.

Everything ends
, he'd said, believing it.

But not Mac's love for him.

Not Mac's love.

Everything didn't end, did it? She'd proved that.

“My man!”

A voice boomed in his ear and made Zan jump. He looked over. “Hey, Skeeter.”

The guy clapped a meaty hand on his back. “Great to see you again. Heard you were leaving soon, so I'm glad I have a chance to say goodbye.”

“Yeah.”

“What are you doing here, standing by yourself?” Skeeter asked. “Gotta join in. Be part of the group. We'll get one of the photographers to take a picture of us, what do you say?”

Without waiting for an answer, he dragged Zan in the direction of a man strapped under a couple of cameras.

“Right here!” Skeeter said, waving to get his attention. “You gotta get me 'n' Zan!”

Guests were staring. The photographer obligingly turned to aim one of his lenses at them. For a moment, Zan wished to change places. For the past ten years, that had been him, the observer, standing back from the show.

Standing back from the beauty of real life and real emotion.

A tickle pricked the back of his neck and he glanced around. There was Mac still across the dance floor, now looking at him.
His Mac.
Her lips curved in a small smile and then...it happened. His heart moved in his chest, expanding, as if the ghosts that Mrs. Lind claimed were in there were elbowing each other, creating space, making room.

More room in Zan's heart for all those he loved.

A euphoria like champagne bubbles invaded him, and his spirits soared. He had to do something, he thought, suddenly impatient. He had to make moves, tie knots, set down roots, latch on to that future he suddenly saw. The future he wanted so very much.

“You're staring at our sister.”

Glancing around, he saw that the bride and Shay had arrived at his elbow. “Poppy. Shay.” His mind was reeling, so he spouted the cliché. “You, um, both look beautiful.”

“You look poleaxed,” Poppy said, sharing a swift glance with Shay. “Something wrong?”

“Something's right...or at least I want to make it that way.” His gaze searched for Mac again. Her slender body was moving away and his gut clenched, now not wanting to lose her even for a second in the crowd.