Head Start (Cedar Tree #7) (39 page)

His arms slip around my waist and I have to swallow the yelp that wants to break free when he presses against my rather tender back.

“What are you cooking?”

“Veggie soup and I have a ham and cheese loaf baking in the oven.” I put down the spoon and gingerly turn in his arms. “Hey, baby.” I smile as I slip my arms around his neck. My handsome husband.

He’d asked me to marry him the first night we spent in our new house. I’d managed to evade answering for two months before he’d had enough. I’d just slowly started hiking again, an activity that luckily Neil and Chaos seemed to enjoy as well. Although my ankle was healing, I’d likely always have a slight limp. That’s when I started thinking about fixing my back, and Neil was able to convince me that his medical insurance would allow for broader choices. More options. It’s not like I wasn’t going to say yes eventually anyway, I just wanted to settle first. Get my feet under me, so to speak. So I told him yes, but made it clear it had nothing to do with his insurance, but rather with the fact that I love him to distraction and can’t see my life without him permanently in it. The insurance bit was just an added benefit. We were married four months after that. Caleb and Katie had generously offered up their beautiful barn house, and we had kept things simple. Neil had even spoken to his parents for the first time in many years and asked them if they wanted to come. When they’d discovered his future wife was not part of the Church of the Latter Day Saints, they’d declined. I’d been furious, but Neil just shrugged his shoulders. “I can’t control how they act. I can only control how I allow myself to react,” he said sagely.

The wedding was simple and glorious. Kara flew out from Boston with her girlfriend, who she had reconciled with, and with Neil’s best friend there and his brothers, my best Cedar Tree girls, my mom, Karly and even Franka, we had all the family we needed.

“Where is your mind?” Neil whispers against the shell of my ear sending a shiver down my spine.

“I was thinking about our wedding. Our friends. How lucky we are.”

“I’d have to agree on that. How long does that bread still need in the oven?” I can tell from the smirk on his face that he has some ideas on appetizers.

“Fifteen minutes,” I tell him, laughing at the pout he sports. “Not enough for what you have in mind, honey.”

“I can be quick,” he tries, but I shake my head.

“First we eat, then you get to play. Why don’t you give the dog a quick walk while I finish up here?”

He grudgingly complies and the moment the door closes behind him, I rush upstairs. The tattoo artist had said to leave the dressing on for four hours and it had only been three and a half, but I figured those thirty minutes wouldn’t be a big deal. I don’t want him to find a big patch of plastic on my back. I want to surprise him. I know my man, once he has his mind set on getting in my panties, he won’t waste any time. Nothing has changed in that respect.

I stand in front of the mirror and carefully peel away the plastic. It’s hard to see the whole thing, looking over my shoulder but what I can see is stunning. With a few acrobatics, I manage to get most of the tattoo covered with the ointment they gave me. Grabbing a clean T-shirt, I quickly pull it on and rush downstairs just in time for the bread to come out of the oven.

N
eil

I have to force myself to take Chaos for his usual constitutional. My instinct is to rush home, but I may as well give him his due now, since it looks like I may not get around to walking him again before bedtime. I’m planning to have my hands full.

The moment I turn from the trail onto the street our nosy neighbor is hanging over her fence, waving me over. I’m barely within speaking distance when she starts. “This morning, there was a strange car that pulled into your driveway.”

Every so often the old lady would spot something she deemed suspicious. Having discovered I work for a security company, she seemed to think I was the appropriate person to share this with. “Are you sure it wasn’t the mailman?” I ask. A valid question, since she twice had called 911 last winter when she wasn’t able to recognize him during a snowfall.

“Of course I’m sure,” she huffs insulted. “I may be old but I’m not senile. The mailman is nearing his retirement, but when he got out of his car, I could clearly see this was a young man. Even younger than you.”

“Okay. Do you remember what kind of vehicle he drove? A truck? A regular car? What color?”

“Of course I do. A hunter green crew cab F-150. My guess’d be no later than 2007,” she says proudly. I have to bite my tongue not to chuckle at her. Since the explosion at our house a few years ago, she’d made it a point to study every make and distinguishing branding of any vehicle out there. She was determined to be able to give complete reports and descriptions just in case she was called up as a witness. Poor thing had been the only one disappointed when she discovered there would be no trial for Lars Cayman. The prospect of pointing her finger at the accused and saying that is the man when asked to identify him, had been something she’d only dreamed of before.

“I’ll ask around,” I tell her.

“You do that, and let me know if anything comes from it,” she says, waving her gnarly finger in my face.

“Sure thing. Best get inside now, it’s getting chilly.”

Reluctantly she shuffles back to her porch where she defiantly sits down again, pulling an afghan over her lap. Shaking my head, I walk back across the street, wondering when Tom got back to town, since he’s the only person I know with a hunter green Ford F-150. She was right about the age too. The truck is a 2006. I know, because I bought it for him when he went to college in Denver.

“Did you know Tom was back in town?” I ask as I close the door behind me and take the dog’s leash off.

“I did. Forgot to tell you. He must’ve dropped by sometime today. He’d left a note on the front door. I called him,” she says, turning around and setting bowls and a cutting board with a steaming loaf of cheesy bread on the counter. I take off my boots and sit down on one of the stools.

“Yeah? How’s he doing?”

“Great. He says. His marks are awesome and he got a summer job as gopher with Mason Brothers.”

“Clint hired him? That’s great.”

“Says he needs the job to pay back whoever is paying for his tuition, if ever he finds out,” she says, smiling at me.

“I don’t know anything about that,” I tell her with a straight face.

“Well, of course you don’t.”

Smartass. She knows, even though I’ve never told her. I can tell from the smirk on her face as she cuts a chunk off the bread and hands it to me. It was the only way I knew to pay him back for what he did for my Pup back then. It hadn’t been hard to set up a one-time anonymous scholarship. The trickiest part had been to find out what places he’d set his mind to, but that’s where his old high school coach had come in handy.

“Soup’s great, babe. But I think I’ll save some room for later.” I push aside my now empty bowl and watch Kendra eat hers torturously slow. Minx. The instant she puts her spoon down, I grab her hand and pull her toward the stairs.

“Neil! Let me at least put away the bread before Chaos climbs up on the counter again.”

I reluctantly let her go to take care of that. The dog, although not the sharpest knife in the block, has the uncanny ability to steal our food from the oddest places. We’ve even had to put a lock on the fridge after discovering he knows how to open the damn thing. As soon as Kendra joins me at the bottom of the stairs, I bend down, put my shoulder in her stomach and carry her, fireman style, up the stairs.

“Neanderthal,” she grumbles, but I know she secretly enjoys when I toss her around a bit.

“You love it.” I slap her luscious ass for emphasis.

Once in the bedroom, I unceremoniously drop her on the mattress, catching her wince when she lands. “Did I hurt you?” I ask, sitting on the edge of the bed beside her.

“Wasn’t anything you did,” she says with a smile.

“So someone did?” I feel the hair on my neck stand on end. If someone as much as laid a hand on her, I swear I’ll fucking lose it.

“You tell me.” She crawls off the bed and steps in between my legs, grabbing the bottom of her shirt and slowly pulling it over her head. No bra. Nice. My hands automatically come up and cup her breasts in my hands, flicking lightly at her pebbling nipples. I bring one to my mouth, but before I can close my lips over it, she pulls back. “Wait.” Taking a step back, she pushes her jeans down and steps out of them, leaving her in a cute pair of pink boy-shorts. I immediately pull her back with my hands on her hips, but she turns around in my hold. And then my hands drop away. Along her spine, up over her shoulder blades and down her sides, her familiar scars have been transformed into blossoming branches. I know my mouth hangs open as my eyes look at the intricately shaped flowers, covering almost every one of her scars. Deep, rich browns for the branches and a delicate pink for the blossoms.

Kendra looks over her shoulder at me, her face insecure. “Do you like it?”

“Do I like it? You have spring on your back.”

She slowly nods her head, still waiting for an answer. There’s only one answer I can give her.

“Gorgeous,” I grunt as I stand, push her face down on the bed and yank down her panties. Fucking gorgeous. In two seconds, my shirt is on the floor and my jeans and boxers are around my ankles as I lean down over her and whisper in her ear. “Perfect.”

I slide the head of my engorged cock down her slit once, to test her and she is slick already. In one surge, I implant myself balls deep. Kendra groans and lifts her head from the mattress and tilts it to the side, finding my eyes with hers.

“Holy tater tits...”

K
endra

“What’s with the hand over my eyes?” I want to know as Neil shuffles me up the stairs. The moment I walked in the door, he had taken my purse from my hand, dropped it on the hall table and covered my eyes.

“Just bear with me,” he mumbles in my ear as he guides me into the bedroom.

I can sense we’re standing at the foot of the bed and the only thing I can think of is that my husband is planning a kinky afternoon. Something I would not think to object to. So when he whispers, “Are you ready?” in my ear and pulls his hand away, I’m not prepared.

Over our bed, covering most of the empty expanse of wall, is a giant canvass. I blink furiously to clear my vision, since it is an image I haven’t been able to see yet in its entirety.  I don’t recall him taking a picture, he must’ve done so while I was sleeping, because before me, larger than life, is an image of the beautiful cherry branches, permanently tattooed on the skin of my back. 

My throat is thick with emotion when I turn to him to find his eyes on me. Tender and soft, they convey everything he feels for me. His hand comes up to wipe the tears from my cheeks and I turn my face into his palm.

“I love you,” I manage to tell him. This man is my everything.

THE END

O
nce again I have to thank my editor, Vanessa of PREMA Editing. She and her partner Manda manage to correct and tweak my work without even once making me feel bad about it. They continually challenge and encourage me to hone and refine my writing skills with each book I write. Thank you so much for helping me grow!