One More Kiss (8 page)

He pushed past her folds, inserting a finger. She threw back her head and gasped. He kissed the exposed arc of her neck, losing himself in the feel of her skin.

“More,” she demanded, and he inserted another finger.

She smiled then—her hair tousled, her eyes bright with want—and an ache spread through his chest. She was beautiful and strong and perfect. He could not hurt this woman. He
would
not.

His determination to do right by her had doubt suddenly crawling along his spine. Perhaps they should take things more slowly. Perhaps he should take her out to dinner. Maybe go see a movie. But then his eyes landed on her breasts, her nipples straining under the fabric, and his desire erupted anew. His pulse raced.

He wanted Betty Lindholm. And he wanted her now. It was exactly the kind of jarring, overwhelming desire he hadn’t felt in years. It left him tasting fear. And a bone-deep thrill.

He was nearly ready to have her right there on the floor of the shop, when the bell tinkled over the front door. Betty’s eyes widened, and she pulled away from him. He felt the absence keenly, his fingers finding only cold air where her warm skin had been.

“Yoo-hoo! Betty!”

Randall straightened at the voice.

“Shit,” Betty muttered, her face suddenly pale. She tugged on her skirt and tried to fix her stockings. “Shit, shit.”

The next thing he knew, Valerie Lofgren was standing in front of them wearing a plum-colored suit and her customary string of pearls. It only took a moment for the wide smile to fade from her lips as she took in his rumpled hair, Betty’s destroyed tights, and their flushed skin.

“Hello, Valerie,” he said, trying to keep his voice controlled and calm.

Valerie blinked. “I—I just came for my—that is, my markers? Are they in?”

Her eyes flitted briefly to his crotch, where his erection still raged. Her skin flamed crimson.

“Of course,” Betty said, forcing a smile. “Let me just grab them.” Looking like she was scraping together every shred of dignity she had, she went behind the cash register and fumbled for the right box. “They came in just this morning,” she said, her voice tight. “Raspberry scented, like you wanted.”

Betty held the package of markers out to Valerie. “Here you go. I hope you enjoy writ—”

Valerie snatched the box out of Betty’s hands. Her face went from crimson to pale as she fumbled in her purse for cash. She all but threw the money down on the counter.

“Let me get you your change,” Betty said.

“Keep it. I think I’ve taken up far too much of your time today. You’re clearly very busy people.”

Valerie gave Betty a quick once-over that reeked of condescension. Then, turning on her heel, she made for the door, her nose as high in the air as it could possibly go.

Her exit was water on the flame that had been burning between Randall and Betty. He could practically see their passion flickering and faltering, hissing as it faded to cold smoke.

Frustration and embarrassment raged until he realized that maybe this wasn’t such a bad thing. Valerie’s interruption gave him a chance to take a breath and think for a second. He willed his heart to stop pounding and his muscles to relax.
Easy does it
, he told himself.

“So that was awkward,” Betty said, shaking her head. She walked back over to him, and there was a glimmer of laughter in her eyes. He could match it and crack them up all over again, just like with the banner, but he dared not. He needed to feel less right now—not more. He needed time to think about all this.

“I think the word one might use is
mortifying
,” he replied evenly.

“Screw it,” Betty said, “you want to lock the door and keep making out?” She tilted her head, grinning, and his chest ached with her simple beauty.

His reply wouldn’t come, though. When he didn’t answer after a few moments, she folded her arms across her chest. The playful spark in her eye was extinguished. In its place was doubt. “That look on your face is telling me you want to forget this ever happened at all.”

“No, no,” he said, hating how well she could read him. “It’s not that.” But how to explain that he didn’t want to rush into something that they might regret later? They just had to take it slowly is all. They had to bide their time and not get carried away. They had to be thoughtful. They had to be respectable.

Even though he wanted to throw respectable out the window and pull her to him and kiss her senseless all over again.

He couldn’t, though. Shouldn’t, really. Not when driving headlong down this path might mean feeling that same recklessness he couldn’t control.

“I enjoy your company very much, Betty,” he said, “but I wonder if we’re getting ahead of ourselves here.”

“Seriously?” Betty asked. The mixture of anger and hurt on her face had dread weighting his stomach. “Are you really going to push away something good and right between us because you made a mistake all those years ago?”

“I’m not pushing it away.”

“Well, you’re not about to stick around either. You keep looking at the door like Jesus himself is on the other side. You want to run toward it or just walk quickly?”

He sighed with frustration. He was messing up this moment with Betty and he wanted to get them back on track. Except suddenly they seemed to be going in different directions.

“This is new ground for me. Please, try to understand.”

She lifted her chin. “I am trying. But as far as I can tell, you’re still punishing yourself for something that was never your fault in the first place, and that doesn’t make a lick of sense. Either that or you’re embarrassed because Valerie Lofgren is on your church board and she just caught you making out with me.”

“No,” he insisted, “I’m not embarrassed. But Valerie’s interruption could be a good thing. It’s an opportunity to take a breath and get our wits about us. Here I was, tearing off your clothes and—I’m just saying, let me buy you dinner. Let’s go to a movie. Can we back up a bit here?”

Betty stared at him for a long moment. Under her unflinching gaze, he felt as though all his layers were being peeled back until everything was exposed.

“I’m not interested in dinner,” she said, squaring her shoulders. “I don’t want to go to a movie.”

“What do you want, then?”

“I want your heart, Randall. And if you can’t give me all of it because of what happened with your brother—well, then don’t give me any of it.”

His gut twisted. The room heated all over again. He wanted so much to pull her into his arms and tell her he would give her his heart—and his mind and his body and his soul and his very being. He just needed more time. He needed to do it in degrees, not all at once.

“Do you need all of it now? Right this very moment?” he asked.

“I know what I feel,” Betty said, her sky blue eyes as clear as ever, “and I know what I want. If you don’t feel the same, that’s fine. But I won’t be jerked around. You won’t rip my stockings off one minute, then act hangdog the next. Want me or don’t—that’s your call. But don’t give me lukewarm. I can’t stand tepid.”

She turned and, in her torn tights and with her disheveled hair, walked calmly to the other side of the counter, where the register was. She placed both hands on the glossy wood. She looked steely and strong—but he could see her fingers trembling.

He should go to her. He should kiss her deeply and throw caution to the wind and trust that this thing between them was good and right and wasn’t like his battered past at all.

Instead, he gave her a nod and headed for the door. On the other side of the glass, the day had clouded over. He could already see gray gathering in the distance, a pending rain that would strip leaves from the trees and leave the ground damp and smelling like rot.

He pushed the door open, feeling Betty’s eyes on his back. But she wouldn’t call out to him. That much he knew.

He faced the Lutheran church a few blocks away on Main Street. The rain began as he headed toward it.

My God
, he thought to himself as he jogged to beat the deluge,
what have I just done?

Chapter Five

B
etty ripped off her tights and hurled her skirt into the farthest corner of the store’s back room. She stomped to the bathroom and ran the tap as hot as she could stand it, then scrubbed her face until all her makeup was swirling down the drain.

When she’d toweled off, she looked at herself in the mirror—skin pink and raw and shining—and vowed never again to conduct a test about anything with any man ever. Because if you had to go to those lengths to find out how someone felt, then it was probably best to stay away.

She turned from her reflection, disgusted. She was such a fool. She’d let Randall Sondheim kiss her and touch her and she’d been on the brink of surrendering more—surrendering totally, if she was honest—only to discover what a wolf in sheep’s clothing he was.

All that talk about not wanting to feel too much and not trusting his heart, about wanting to slow down when they were just getting started. The hard lights of the bathroom put everything in sharp relief. The dark circles under her tired eyes, the lines around her eyes that got deeper with every year.

In reality, Randall’s words were probably just an excuse. He probably didn’t want to slow down.

He simply didn’t want her at all.

She shook her head, leaving the bathroom in search of the jeans she’d stashed in a back cupboard.

As she slammed around, looking for the denim, she marveled at how easily she’d bought his whole sob story about his brother and the accident and not wanting to hurt anyone else. She’d swallowed the tale whole, never suspecting that he was telling it specifically so he’d have an excuse if he wanted to walk away.

Because surely that was the only reason he had blabbed it at all.

Wasn’t it?

She had never known the pastor to lie, but then again she’d never known him to rip the tights off a woman in the middle of a store in broad daylight either.

She replayed the scene in her head over and over, cringing at the part where she told him she wanted his heart. Instead, she should have been ice cold. She should have pretended it didn’t matter. She should have been calm and cool and aloof.

But that wasn’t her style. And damned if she was going to wait around while Randall Sondheim took her to dinner and figured out whether he liked her. She knew the answer. Or at least she thought she had. It was the same answer sounding in her own brain over and over:
Yes, yes, yes.

Except clearly she’d been wrong about everything.

She grimaced as she remembered all the other times she’d been wrong, too. Men who said they admired her, who claimed to enjoy spending time with her, only to do the same thing—bail as fast as they could—the minute things started to tip too far into the romantic. They’d all found excuses to be too busy to take her calls, to buy her coffee instead of a drink, to fumble for something in their pocket when she went to hold their hand.

Betty sighed and put her fingers unconsciously to her lips, expecting to feel her teeth jutting. She was tired of the pattern. She was exhausted by being someone’s friend all the time. Her heart ached from it. If a man liked her, he needed to
like
her. Not pussyfoot around everything, for crying out loud.

But deep down, a cold lump of doubt sat lodged inside her, wondering if Randall was different. If maybe he really did need time, and if maybe she should give it to him. She had never known him not to be honorable. She had never known him to lie.

She pulled on her denim, her mind racing. There was another side of all this to consider as well: her store.

Would he still support her store after this? Would their arrangement with the bulletin and the PR still stand?

She buttoned her jeans and ran her fingers through her hair, mussing it up. Her old work boots were nearby and she pulled them on, savoring the soft, familiar insides.

Her clothes were well worn and comfortable. Her life was well worn and comfortable. She didn’t need Randall Sondheim to make it better.

She told herself she didn’t need him at all.

Because when Pastor Randall Sondheim was ready to settle down, it would likely be with someone like Valerie Lofgren. Lutheran pastors didn’t get joined up with loudmouthed, independent businesswomen. Not for more than a quick fling anyway.

If even that apparently.

She closed her eyes, imagining how good even a quick fling would feel with Randall. It might have been all for nothing, but the way he’d touched her and kissed her had still been—well,
heavenly
was a terrible turn of phrase, but it was close. Her thoughts had been gauzy clouds, her body filled with light and feeling. His mouth had been a halo of delight that she’d wanted on every part of her. She cringed when she remembered asking him to touch her. If only she wasn’t so loudmouthed and demanding. Maybe that was part of what had turned him off, had made him slow everything down.

And then Valerie had walked in like she owned the place, squawking about her damn markers and looking scandalized enough to pass out.

God, the whole town was going to be talking about this within hours—if they weren’t already. Which would only add to the drama surrounding her store right now, and make the situation worse.

And the man who was supposed to be helping her had just jogged away in the rain.

“It’s up to you, Betty,” she muttered to herself, battling back a wave of disappointment. She wouldn’t sit here and feel sorry for herself. She would get right back to work.

As she tied her bootlaces, an idea began to form in her mind. If the root of all the Halloween problems in White Pine was the pranksters around town spray-painting graffiti and knocking over tombstones and smashing pumpkins, then part of the solution had to be to
find
the pranksters. If she could show that she wasn’t behind the vandalism, the town would cut her—and her store—some slack.

How hard could it be to lie low and try to catch them in the act?

The police weren’t really looking into it, after all. At the Rolling Pin she’d overheard Ron Reynolds, one of the local officers, say that he was focused on catching a thief stealing power tools from people’s garages, as well as pulling over folks who were speeding on Walled Lake Hill after Roseanne Baserman’s cat got its tail run over by a speeding truck (the cat went on to make a full recovery, thankfully).