Stay With Me (37 page)

He was sprawled in one of the Adirondack chairs, one of the custom white Sugar Valley blankets on his lap. I stood there on one foot, the other scratching my leg, wondering how to approach him. We hadn’t exactly ended on a sour note, but we’d both said some harsh things.

As if he’d felt my presence, he looked back at me, and we stared at each other wordlessly. After a moment, he snorted and lifted the edge of his blanket.

I dove under, suddenly aware that I had been unconsciously asking to do so, and settled my chilly body against his heat. He retucked the blanket around me and locked his arms around that. The cold was as good as toast.

“You make eyes like a deer,” he informed me.

I snuggled against him, fitting my head in the hollow between his chin and his neck. “You just say that because my eyes are brown.”

“They’re hazel. And they’re beautiful. Everything about you is beautiful. And I can’t believe you’re mine.”

I stroked the back of his hand, adding to my mental scrapbook the map of his hand—memorizing every curve, every scar, every groove of the man I loved and only important to me. “You say that like you mean it.”

“I rarely say things I don’t mean.”

The wind whistled through the tall trees in a sweet symphony of sound that only nature could make. I heard laughter somewhere below us and the sound of the front door to the warm inn opening and closing. I snuggled closer. We would go back home, sure, but we would take this moment (and a few Sugar Valley robes) with us.

“Do you think it will snow?”

“Probably.” He tightened his arms around me. “You cold?”

I shook my head. “I meant what I said, you know.”

“About what?”

“About taking this slow.”

He stiffened beneath me, and I rubbed my hand across his chest in a manner that could only be described as soothing.

“Not to give us an out, but to make sure we do it right. I don’t want to shut you out to protect myself. I never did. It was just too hard to think about you leaving me and too hard to let you in.” I drew an imaginary circle on his shirt. Added eyes and a smiley. “I spend the greater portion of every day picking through the curdled remains of love that was. Despite my protests to the contrary, I don’t know if I even believed it truly existed. Until now.” I half smiled. “You defined my love. Short of holding a boom box over my head and singing ‘Don’t wanna miss a thing,’ that’s the best way I can describe it.”

“God no, please don’t ruin it.”

My hands slid into his hair as I angled my mouth over his. It’d been too long since we’d kissed like this… three hours? Too long since I’d felt his mouth take absolute possession of mine and too long since I’d felt the mind-emptying indulgence of his kiss.

“Say it again,” I murmured.

He didn’t hesitate, and his eyes, big-sky-country blue, seared my soul with intensity. “I love you.” After a moment, his affronted voice broke the stillness. “Don’t you have something to say in return?”

I pretended to think. “You’d better?”

I closed my eyes, a smile creeping across my face. I enjoyed my sassiness for two seconds before he dug his fingers in my ribs, causing me to laugh and shriek. “All right, all right! I love you too.”

We listened to the sounds of the inn shutting down for the night. Lights going off. Doors closing softly.

“Good night, John-Boy,” I said, and Jordan elbowed me.

“Too bad I didn’t know we’d resolve this amicably. I used up my grand gesture.”

“Yeah?” I yawned. “What is that?”

“I was going to invite my parents here and declare my love for you. Trust me, with their gossipy nature, that’s like taking out an ad in the Sun Sentinel. People I know. Not just random people seeing me hold your hand.” He picked up said hand and kissed it gently.

“Too bad,” I laughed. “I might have enjoyed that spectacle. So glad you didn’t really invite your parents here.” When he didn’t join my laughter, I looked back at his innocent face.

“You didn’t. Right?”

“My dad loves fishing. You love fishing. That’s something you guys can enjoy together.”

I groaned. “Argh! I have no desire to visit with your parents and perfect family and watch you all reenact
It’s a Wonderful Life
being a Channing.”

“Have you even seen
It’s a Wonderful Life
?” he accused.

“No, why? It’s not about a wonderful life?”

“God, Mac.” He set squinty eyes on me. “You will meet my parents, and you will be your loving, charming self. Except minus the blasphemy and sex jokes.”

“That’s all I have.” I shook my head. “The things I do for love.”

“What kind of things?”

I tossed back the blanket and stood, holding out my hand. “I show better than I tell.”

He grinned and took it, letting me pull him to a standing position. “Baby, I kind of like your style.”

S.E. H
ARMON
has had a lifelong love affair with writing. It’s been both wonderful and rocky (they've divorced several times), but they always manage to come back together.  She's a native Floridian with a Bachelor of Arts and a Masters in Fine Arts, and used to spend her time writing educational grants. She now splits her days between voraciously reading romance novels and squirreling away someplace to write them. Her current beta reader is a nosy American Eskimo who begrudgingly accepts payment in the form of dog biscuits. Visit her website at http://seharmon.weebly.com/ or e-mail her at [email protected].

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