Beneath the Patchwork Moon (Hope Springs, #2) (6 page)

A quarter of the way around it, she reached the window she knew best, the one Sierra had used to escape her first-floor bedroom more times than Luna could count. And she only knew of the times when she’d escaped, too, or stayed behind and waited up to let Sierra back in. Who knew how often Sierra and Oscar had arranged to meet past her curfew? How far down Three Wishes Road she’d had to walk to climb into his car?

How quiet they must’ve been, maybe rolling his convertible until they were far enough from the house to start it without being heard. Or perhaps they hadn’t used his car
at all, but had sneaked off into the woods surrounding the property, climbed into the Caffey children’s tree house, and lain together until dawn, planning their future, talking of music, sharing their dreams, becoming one.

Luna had never had a real boyfriend. She’d flirted, been flirted with, gone out for fast food with groups of both male and female friends, done the same with concerts and movies and swimming trips to Barton Springs. But no boy had ever found a place in her heart the way Oscar had in Sierra’s. No boy except for Angelo, and their relationship, at least during her sophomore year of high school, couldn’t really be called one. They were both full of lust and curiosity and insatiable desperation, too young to know if they were doing anything right.

It was only later, after he’d graduated and left for Cornell, that they’d talked. Really talked. Epic phone calls she’d paid for with long-distance calling cards, buying several at a time with money her daddy thought he’d given her to spend on new shoes. Hearing Angelo’s voice when she’d picked up the private line in her room, or when he’d picked up from nearly two thousand miles away, had been the best parts of her days.

Once she’d graduated, started weaving, and had the time and money to meet him halfway for an occasional weekend in Louisville, Kentucky, or Nashville, Tennessee, she’d been desperate for each first glimpse of him, desolate after the last. But boyfriend had never been the right word to encompass what Angelo Caffey had been to her.

She wanted that feeling again; it had been so long, and she missed it—the giddiness, the intoxication, the thrill. Sierra had felt it for Oscar, and Luna was a complete believer in its existence. She’d witnessed the love shared by her friends
Tennessee Keller and Kaylie Flynn. She knew well that time’s joys and hardships had only strengthened the love between her parents.

She’d seen the look in Mike Caffey’s eyes when he’d gazed upon his lovely Carlita. As young as Luna had been in those days, listening as Sierra’s father played his guitar, watching his face while he’d watched his wife’s, she’d been moved by the couple’s emotional bond, swearing if she reached into the air she could grab the feeling and hold it. It had been that palpable. That defined.

Even now from beneath Sierra’s window, she could almost hear Mike’s flamenco guitar, though he would never have left it behind. What he had left were memories. As much as Luna had loved watching Sierra’s mother with her needle and thread, doing so was made even better when accompanied by music… whether Mike’s guitar, Isidora’s ukulele, Emilio’s mandolin, or Sierra’s cello.

Slowing her steps, Luna returned to the present, realizing she wasn’t imagining the guitar at all. The sounds, plaintive and somber, yet full of something harsh, were coming from inside the house. There was only one person who could be making them. And she hadn’t even known he played.

Quietly, she returned to the back porch. The kitchen door creaked when she pushed it open, but Angelo continued to pluck and strum the strings, to strike the heel of his hand against the wooden body for emphasis—an emphasis she wasn’t sure how to take.

She found him in his parents’ bedroom, one hip cocked on the edge of the window seat, the guitar on his thigh, the other foot on the floor. His eyes were closed, his head moving as he played, a dip of his chin, and a darkly narrowed frown
when, judging by the change in the song’s tenor, he must have felt something brutal and sharp.

What she felt was indescribable as she recognized his pain, the sensation slicing through her like a garrote. Her chest clutched, reaching for air, for blood, for all the things she needed to stay alive. And yet listening to him play, seeing him entranced by the work… It made her swoon. And ache. For him. Because of him…

A sob caught in her throat, and she gasped with it. His fingers stilled; his eyes opened. He kept his gaze cast down, and she heard an audible click as he ground his jaw.

Stupid. She was so stupid. She should’ve left him alone. “Why didn’t I know that you played?”

“There are a lot of things you don’t know about me,” he said, setting the guitar on end in the window seat. Then he looked up. “There are a lot of things I don’t want you to know. A lot you never will.”

His words shouldn’t have hurt. Or at least they shouldn’t have caused more than a twinge of reaction. But to hear him put them out there with such bluntness was like being punched in the midsection by a fist.

His striking out was driven by Sierra’s death and Luna’s survival and the ten-year anniversary reminding him of both. She knew that as sure as she was standing here near tears, aching from the inside out, hurt by his indifference when her feelings for him were… No. Her feelings for him were nothing. She had to believe that.

He made it easy when he stood and turned to face the window, his hands shoved into his pockets, his shoulders slumped.

He didn’t care about her memories, or what his family had meant to her—and not just Sierra, but his parents, his
younger siblings. How much she’d loved them all. How much she’d loved him, past tense, because she’d known him only then. And this man was not that one. He was so different, angry and mean, and so much more, with the things hiding behind his eyes.

She didn’t know what to say to him, if anything at all, because she didn’t know what he wanted, or needed, or what he was going through. What coming back here had done to him, was doing even now. And so she turned to go, helplessness like a scythe cutting her in half, one part unable to leave, one part unable to stay.

As she reached the door, her footsteps slowed, then faltered, then stopped completely. She shook her head, closing her eyes and seeing again the picture of his silhouette framed against the bare window. He was alone, and lonely, bereft. How could she leave him? How could she continue to be so selfish, thinking of her loss, expecting him to think of hers, too, when his was so much greater?

Knowing she could very well be making a huge mistake, she retraced her steps, continuing to where he stood, waiting long enough for him to know she was there, then placing her palm on his back. He didn’t flinch. In fact, a shudder ran through him, and he flexed as if doing so would keep her near.

Except she didn’t know if it was her he wanted, or just… someone. She didn’t need to. All the things that had brought him here were things she was aware of, for the most part understood, in many cases shared. But touching him without his rejecting her, learning the man he was now, gave her such incredible pleasure that she pushed aside the issue of his wanting her there. It was where she wanted to be.

She slipped both arms around him, laid her cheek against his back, and stacked her hands over his belly. His muscles there contracted as she did. He was warm and solid, and she loved the feel of him, and she didn’t want to let him go, and oh, how had she forgotten what he felt like? It had been so long, and she shouldn’t have missed this so much but she had, and she hated that she had. Hated, too, that she was giving too much meaning to the moment. He would shake off the melancholia soon enough, then shake her off for bearing witness to the weakness.

But he surprised her, covering her hands with his instead, turning in her arms, breaking her hold. She looked up, and he looked down, and whatever he saw in her eyes decided him. So many emotions, like vapor trails, or wisps of smoke, manifested and then vanished, nothing clear or defined, even to her. She was wrapped up in the short years they’d had together, and a decade of deception, and Angel’s arms. Only the last remained as he lowered his head, and through his reluctance, his mouth found hers.

He was warm, and he tasted of anger and goodness and incredible need as much as incredible hurt. She wanted to give to him, and take from him, and fill herself with him, and pour over him as if she were a warm spring rain. This wasn’t a kiss she knew what to do with, or how to respond to, or one she understood. This was Angelo Caffey all grown up, and she’d wanted to kiss him forever. To let her body melt into his.

He angled his head, moving one hand from her biceps to her back, and lower, bringing her body into his, pushing, pressing. They were as close as one, yet many, many things kept them from being together, clothes the simplest to get
rid of but a barrier too risky to remove. And yet a part of her wanted that very thing.

She slid her palms from his waist up his back, his shoulder blades sharp beneath her palms, his body lean and dangerously hungry. She wished she knew how to feed him, but she didn’t know more than how to follow his lead. They’d been together, but they’d never been here. This was new, untested, and yet he was a perfect fit, as if fine-tuned by the years between them.

He kissed her hard, and he kissed her with purpose, and he kissed her with his lips and his teeth and his tongue. His mouth was harsh, but his hands were gentle, even while the pressure he used to hold her to him would not easily give. When he pushed his tongue deep to find hers, she met him, and stroked, and played, and when he pulled his tongue free to tug at her lower lip, she tugged back, shivering, tightening, sizzling in her fingertips, curling her toes in her boots.

All too soon, the sound of a text message hitting her phone punched a hole in the moment. She could’ve stood here in this room with him for hours, but he released first her mouth, then moved his hands from her back to her shoulders, before letting her go completely and stepping away.

She pushed her hair from her face, then pushed her fists into her pockets, ignoring her phone, which she hated so much right now. Her hands were shaking, but not as much as her knees, and her mouth was bruised and tingling.

Now that they’d done this, however, they needed to get past it or what was left of their five days would be disastrous. She wasn’t sure how to make that happen, so she reached for the first thing that came to mind. “I was thinking of going to
Malina’s for something to eat. I skipped breakfast, and I’m pretty much starving, and he doesn’t close for an hour.”

Angelo’s gaze darkened as it held hers, but she saw a flash, as if he appreciated what she was doing. As if he were no more ready than she was to talk about what they’d done, and what it might mean, if anything. “Malina’s Diner? You eat there?”

“Of course I eat there,” she said with a shrug. “Everyone in Hope Springs eats there. It’s still the only place in town to get breakfast and supper.”

“But not lunch.”

She shrugged again, trying to look away but unable to, and still tasting him, and wishing things between them were different so she could taste more. “You know Max. Serving breakfast and supper has worked for him all these years.” And then she wondered if talking about the diner was Angelo’s way of letting her down easy. “If you don’t want to go, that’s fine.”

His mouth, red and swollen, quirked. “I don’t remember getting an invitation.”

She thought back over what she’d just said, then smiled. “I’m pretty much starving, and wondered if you’d like to go, too.”

“I could eat.”

“Separate cars? Separate checks?”

He laughed, the sound withering and sarcastic and putting them back on an even keel. “Close quarters getting to be too much?”

“Maybe a little breathing room wouldn’t hurt.”

This time his laughter was more resigned, and more genuine. “Yeah. You being here is definitely making it hard for me to breathe.”

She didn’t know what to do with that. She didn’t know at all. “I’ll see you there in a few then?”

He nodded, but several long seconds passed before she heard his footsteps following her to the door.

CHAPTER SEVEN

A
ngelo pulled his rental car onto Three Wishes Road behind Luna’s Audi, letting her take the lead for the drive, and not closing the distance put between them by her heavy foot and her car’s many horses. He knew his way to Malina’s. He didn’t need to keep her in sight. And breathing room was definitely a good idea. He just wasn’t sure the five miles he had to travel before sitting down across from her was going to be enough.

Why had he agreed to come with her? Why hadn’t he just let her go?

The easy answer was that he wanted more of her. And that was the truth. But it wasn’t the whole truth, or the part of the truth giving him grief. He’d been the one to break the kiss when her phone had buzzed, butting into his good time to remind him whose hands were roaming with clever possessiveness over his back, whose mouth was on his, hot and wet and hungry. Whose body was aligned with his, leaving no room for common sense to pass between.

Why had he agreed to come with her? Why hadn’t he just let her go?

The hard answer was that he wanted more of her. And wanting her to any degree was going to cause him the sort of
trouble he didn’t need. He couldn’t have her.
He could not have her.
He should never have let her touch him. He should’ve moved her hands, stepped out of her embrace, given the memories time to fade. He should have set her away, not turned and fallen into her as if she were there to save his life.

Why had he agreed to come with her? Why hadn’t he just let her go?

He parked his car in the space behind hers, watching as she opened her door and stepped out, her body tight, her movements lithe, her bearing confident, her hair like an unraveled rope. He wanted to wrap the mass around his wrist and bind her. He’d dreamed for eight years of doing so again, hoping she hadn’t cut it because he’d complained it got in the way.

Their past was why he’d agreed to come with her. And he hadn’t let her go because eight years of longing meant the roots of his desire ran almost as deep as his anger.