Frosted (5 page)

His bright blue eyes were dark and he was clenching his jaw when he turned to face her. For just a moment, his eyes trailed from her face to her Nordic light blue and cream sweater down to the blanket and back again.

You lied
, she thought, surprised by how easy it was to recognize hunger in a man’s eyes when she’d rarely seen it directed at her. It made her heart hammer against her ribs, and her hand fluttered to flatten against her chest as her lips parted. His eyes were focused on hers with irritation, yes, but they were also wide and fierce as they stared back at her. He swallowed and she watched his Adam’s Apple bob before cutting her eyes back up to his face.

“I won’t,” he said softly, then flinched, like he hadn’t meant to actually say the words aloud.

“You won’t
what
?” she whispered, her tongue darting out to wet her suddenly-parched lips.

“You’re a stunning woman,” he murmured, reaching down to grab her jeans before turning away from her.

Never in her entire life had a man uttered such words to her.

You’re a—smart, clever, driven, sensible, focused—woman? Sure. Stunning? Never. A fickle part of her heart, desperate to believe him, made a mewling plea for her to accept and own his words, but the larger part of her drowned out that tiny voice with suspicion. She knew who she was: angular, awkward, austere Grace. There was only one reason a man would offer such a bold, outlandish lie. Only one, and it both skewered and hardened her heart that such a lie had been delivered by Tracy Bradshaw.

“No, I’m not,” she answered, keeping her voice cool and level. “But I
am
very rich.”

He was draping her jeans over the fireplace grate as she said this, and when he turned to her, his face backlit by the orange flames leaping and spitting behind him, he looked furious.

“How nice for you,” he said.

She lifted her chin. “How nice for the man who marries me.”

His lips dropped open and he put his hands on his hips, shaking his head back and forth with a look of shock and disappointment before closing his mouth and clenching his jaw. His eyes, searing and disturbed, scanned her face with severity and even though she felt completely naked, her pride demanded that she not look away.

“I take it back,” he finally said in a low, curt tone.

“What?”

“How
awful
for you,” he whispered with feeling, his forehead deeply creased.

She blinked. “What does
that
mean?”

“Do I think you’re stunning? Yes, I do. Honest to God, on the head of my son, I do. Do I think you’re interesting? You’re a little prickly, but that just makes me more curious.” He took a step toward her, his blue eyes boring into hers. “Do I give a rat’s ass how much money you have in the bank? I do not. My own bank account is plenty comfortable, thank you very much.” He clenched his jaw, staring at her in a way that made her very
un
comfortable, even though she couldn’t imagine looking away. “How
awful
for you that a man can’t give you an honest compliment without you suspecting he has ulterior motives. How exhausting. How unbelievably—”

“That’s quite enough,” Grace said firmly, reaching up to wipe away the tear that was snaking down her cheek. “Quite, quite enough.”

Her pants had been draped before the fire for an hour now, and her phone battery was almost dead. It didn’t matter. Her signal wasn’t very strong or reliable with the storm raging outside. She was able to retrieve an e-mail from Addy, apologizing again for playing matchmaker, and wishing her a wonderful weekend. There were several others from friends and two from the hospital, asking if she’d chair the Annual Spring Ball. But New York seemed a million miles away from her nest on a couch in the middle of the woods during a flash blizzard. She set the phone on the rustic coffee table in front of the sofa and pulled the slipping blanket up a little to better cover herself.

After their very awkward exchange, Mr. Bradshaw had taken off her sock and bandaged up her ankle without a word, without looking at her, and Grace had endured his stoicism with her own quiet discontent. He’d handed her two Advil without making eye contact and found an unopened can of Root Beer in the snack bar cabinet and placed it on the table within reaching distance. Then he’d retired to the little office, drawing the line between “the guest” and “the help” without uttering a word.

Every twenty minutes or so, he’d come out and poke at the fire, adding another log, but he didn’t look at her or say anything, and as the minutes ticked by with the snow still gusting outside, she felt worse and worse about the way she’d treated him, how she’d inadvertently accused him of complimenting her only to charm his way into her wallet.

If she was wary, it was only because she had reason.

A year after Harold had died, the unexpected and unwanted attention had surprised Grace: widower friends of her late husband, single brothers and cousins of her friends, an aging actor and a respected politician…all had pursued Grace at one time or another. They were—all of them—after her fortune, and Grace knew this because she wasn’t beautiful, she had little in common with most of them and actual chemistry with none. They simpered and smirked at her, carefully agreeing with her at every turn and making it seem as though her interests were also their own. She’d only met one or two eligible, genuinely nice bachelors, who could have slipped into Harold’s place very easily. One, in fact, was Stewart Whitman, with whom Grace could probably have spent many respectful, companionable years. And maybe she would have accepted Stewart eventually if she’d never come to The White Deer Inn and never come face-to-face with Tracy Bradshaw.

Yet here she was,
trapped
in a cabin with said Tracy Bradshaw, who had impacted her life so astonishingly in the course of a few short hours. A burly ski shop manager who carried her in his arms like she weighed nothing and bossed her around like no one had ever dared. A man with sno-cone colored eyes and deep laugh lines. A man she barely knew, but to whom she was drawn, nonetheless. So, why was she pushing him away with all her might?

He’s simply not an appropriate choice for you
, she reasoned.

A mountain man from upstate New York and a rich widow from Manhattan? It was absurd. They couldn’t possibly be a match. But, after all, she wasn’t husband-hunting here in the woods with Tracy Bradshaw, was she? No. This was just an unaccountable twist of fate. Couldn’t she loosen up enough to enjoy him for a few hours? Couldn’t she let her heart and belly flutter in that hot, delicious way she thought she’d never experience? Couldn’t she allow herself the excitement of his company so that she’d recognize these feelings again if she ever happened to meet her “future someone”?

For heaven’s sake, Grace,
she thought.
Get out of your own way and enjoy him!

Every moment that they shared the compact space without speaking felt like a wasted opportunity and finally she couldn’t stand it anymore. A quick vision of Tracy kissing Hepburn popped into her head as he stalked back into the room to tend the fire, and she heard the words tumble out of her mouth,

“Tray. I’m sorry.”

It was the first time she’d used his first name, and it felt significant somehow, to hear it in her own voice, in her own ears. It felt like she was crossing over from
there
to
here
, from the
past
to the
present
, from the
shadows
of yesterday to…well, to
now
.

His back stiffened and she watched as he slowly replaced the poker and turned to her.

His face was hard and internally Grace owned up to the fact that she’d accused him of something pretty odious. He deserved a proper apology. “Since my husband’s death I’ve had some unwelcome attention because of the estate he left to me. I think I’ve become suspicious. But you didn’t deserve that. Not at all.”

He tilted his head to the side, looking at her carefully, then nodded once, accepting her apology. She watched as his face changed, then, sweeping over her features as though evaluating her. “Is it so unbelievable?”

“What?” she asked, grateful that his voice had softened.

“That I’m attracted to you?”

“I suppose there’s a first for everything.” She scoffed lightly, offering him a small, self-deprecating grin. “But you should make an appointment with your eye doctor when you get home.”

His eyes widened in surprise and he tried not to grin back. “Man, you’re hard on yourself.”

She shrugged. “I’ve known me for a long time.”

He leaned against the flagstones flanking the right side of the fireplace, arms crossed over his chest, facing her. “I haven’t. But, you’re trim. Athletic. You obviously take care of yourself. You skin looks soft. Heck, it
is
soft. I know because I’ve touched it. I couldn’t resist reaching for your face when I found you.” He cocked his head to the side, the warmth of his gaze like a caress. “Your hair’s reddish and I like that. Your eyes are blue and I like that, too. I don’t know what you think you know about yourself, but if you can’t see that you’re an attractive woman, the one who needs the eye doctor,” he said, “is you.”

His words made her heart burst, which had the unfortunate effect of compressing her lungs and making it harder to breathe. “Please don’t say such things to me…”

“Why not?”

“I have no idea what to do with them.”

“Maybe it’s time for you to learn,” he suggested, stepping around the coffee table to look at her foot. “How’s the ankle?”

“It hurts,” she said, her voice still low and breathless.

His hands were on his hips as he flicked a glance to her face. “Can I take a look?”

She nodded and he reached down, lifting her legs gently before sitting down and guiding her feet to his lap. Grace watched him, undone by his words, suddenly very aware that under the blanket she was only wearing panties. She bit her lip, wishing they weren’t the serviceable white nylon kind that grandmothers favored the world over, then berated herself for thinking such a forward thing in the first place.

“Whatever’s going on in your head, I’m dying to know.”

She looked up quickly, knowing her cheeks were pink as she caught sight of his teasing grin and twinkling eyes.

She couldn’t help it. She chuckled softly. “I’ve never sat like this with a man.”

“Like how?” he asked, gently unwrapping the bandage from her foot and keeping his eyes down, she suspected, to make her more comfortable.

He’d taken off his snow pants at some point and wore soft, broken-in Levis now, with a plaid flannel shirt rolled up to the elbows. His arms were strong and corded with muscle, blue-ish veins trailing down from his elbow to his wrist. They were thickly covered with springy blonde and white hairs, which Grace eyed with fascination, since Harold’s arms had been smooth and elegant, mostly devoid of muscle and hair. Tray’s arms made forgotten muscles deep in her body awaken, clenching and relaxing in a way that made her feel weak and wanting.

“Half naked on a couch with my bare foot in his hand.”

His fingers stilled and she heard his breath hitch, which did terrible, amazing things to her heart. She held her breath as she watched him clenched his jaw once, twice, before making another slow rotation with the bandage around her ankle.

“You, ah, you never watched TV with your husband? Sitting like this?”

“Harold didn’t like TV,” she answered.

Tray didn’t say anything.

“Did you and Mrs. Bradshaw—?”

“Lena,” he supplied softly.

“Lena…?”

“Yeah, we watched TV like this. Now and then. Sure.”

“How long were you married?”

“Twenty-six years,” he answered. “She died five years ago. You?”

“Thirty-one years. He passed away three.”

“Sorry,” he murmured.

“Me too,” she said. “Cancer?”

He nodded, and the bandage slipped out of his hands onto the floor, leaving her bare foot cradled between his careful palms.

“Your husband?”

“Same.” Grace wished that he’d look at her. There was something she needed to know, that she could only know by looking into his eyes as he discussed Lena. She had no right to the information, and frankly, it was probably best if she didn’t have it, but she couldn’t help herself.

“Tray?” she whispered.

When his blue eyes slammed into hers, she had her answer and her body fairly sighed with relief: He had loved his wife, but he wasn’t
in love
with her anymore. He had already let go.

“Are you uncomfortable talking about her?” asked Grace.

“I never have been before.”

Did he realize that his hands were gently massaging her toes and foot, easing the tension that had built up quickly as a result of her rigorous exercise and sudden injury? His fingers felt like heaven on her tight muscles and she sighed, leaning back and closing her eyes. “That feels so nice. I’m sorry I make you uncomfortable.”

He took a deep breath and sighed, just as she had a moment before. They were silent for several long, strangely charged and yet relaxing moments before he finally answered, “It’s not all bad.”

“What isn’t?” She opened her eyes.

“Making someone uncomfortable.” He swallowed. “Been a while since any woman got under my skin so fast, Red.”

I’m under his skin?
Red?
Her blood rushed, sluicing through her veins, making her feel hot and hyper-aware—of him, of herself, of being alone together. It was such a bold and sexy thing to say, of course she had to deflect it, because she couldn’t seem to let herself just relax and enjoy this man. “But I’m sure you have a girlfriend, don’t you?”

He turned away from her, looking back down at her foot, and again she had her unspoken answer. Yes, he was seeing someone.

“I don’t care,” she suddenly blurted out.

His hands froze, his head snapped up and his eyes searched her face. “Be careful, Grace.”

“No,” she answered. “I don’t want to be careful.”

“What
do
you want?”

Her heart thundered and pleaded. She held his eyes, her mind vaulting forth through time to the
here
, the
present
, the
now
. She somehow managed to smile at Tray, marveling at her bravery.

“I want you to kiss me.”

“You sure?”

She dragged her bottom lip into her mouth, holding it between her teeth for a moment before releasing it. “Positive.”

His eyes flared, darkening as he nodded at her almost imperceptibly, in agreement and acceptance. He lifted her feet and she bent her knees, giving him space to stand, before straightening her legs on the couch again. He towered over her, staring down at her, his face inscrutable and a little wild, and Grace had the feeling—again—of being utterly naked to him. Her skin flushed and for the first time since she asked him to kiss her, she dropped his eyes.

Tray bent his knees to squat beside her, his hands reaching up to cup her cheeks as he had in the snow, forcing her to look up at him.

“So soft.”

She licked her lips, her heartbeat so fast and loud in her ears, she wondered if she’d pass out before she got to feel his lips touch down on hers.

“Say it again, Red,” he demanded, his eyes hungry, almost high, as he leaned his face closer to hers—so close she could tell his breathing was fast and uneven because it fanned her lips.

“Kiss me,” she murmured, and he leaned forward, touching his lips to hers.

She closed her eyes as he caught her bottom lip between his, pursing lightly, slowly, before releasing it. His lips were warm and soft, but strong too, and for the first time in Grace’s life, she felt the marvelous rush of heat that she’d only read about in books or seen acted-out in movies, and she had this satisfied “ah-ha” moment of finally knowing what all the fuss was about.

She leaned forward and placed her hands lightly on his shoulders, her fingers curling just a little to pull him forward, and she heard him drop to his knees beside her, leaning forward, his chest settling upon hers as she lay back and the kiss deepened.

She skimmed her hands up his shoulders to his neck, her fingers trembling from the sensation of his hot skin beneath her sensitive pads. He groaned into her mouth and she arched up to push herself closer to him as he swiped her lips with his tongue and she parted her lips to meet him.