Meeting Miss Mystic (14 page)

You should have told him before coming in the house! You should have gotten it over with, because now—

“I see Cleo’s made herself at home! I hope you don’t mind?”

She looked up. He’d changed from his workout clothes to worn jeans and a clean white t-shirt. And—oh, crap! —he had his glasses on now, which made him not only sexier, but more familiar to her.

Keep your tongue in your mouth, Zoë!

“No, she’s…fine,” she managed, looking down quickly, hoping he didn’t see the naked lust on her face.

Holding up a small red pouch, he gestured to her knee. “Mind if I take a look?”

Without waiting for an answer, he knelt down in front of her, his waved, dirty-blond head bowed over. She rocked forward in her chair, achingly aware of him so close to her, forcing herself not to reach out and run her hands through his hair as he had run his hands through hers on the front porch.

He looked up with a grim face. “I don’t think your jeans are salvageable. Mind if I rip them open a little more?”

He had brushed his teeth. She could smell the mintiness of it, feel the warmth of his breath on her hands, which still idly patted Cleo. If he leaned forward just a touch his lips would touch her hand. The idea made her sigh.

“Painful, right?” he asked, mistaking her gesture.

“Mmm.”
Painful, all right.
“You can rip them.”

He leaned forward slightly, hooking his index fingers into the frayed, dirty hole over her knee. She felt the pads of his fingers touch her skin then yank the fabric roughly and the breath expelled from her body in one ragged exhalation.

“You okay?” he asked, flicking his blue eyes to hers.

“Mm-hm,” she murmured, barely able to make a coherent sound with his fingers on her skin. She couldn’t ever remember feeling this turned on. Not in her entire life.

He gave her a half smile. “Just another minute, okay? I’ll clean it up and bandage it and you’ll be all set. Why don’t you tell me something about yourself…to get your mind off it.”

She cleared her throat, looking up and away from where his head bent over her leg so intimately.

“I, um…I’m here to—oh!”

He had dabbed the scrape with alcohol, which burned a little, but she wouldn’t have gasped from that. Zoë had withstood far worse pain in her life. No, she gasped because he had lightly blown on the cut, his breath cool and hot at once, making goose bumps pop up all over her body.

“Sorry!” he said, leaning back to look at her again with a small, encouraging smile. “Had to disinfect it. I know it stings.”

She smiled at him weakly, held captive by his blue eyes that crinkled at the corners.

Why did he have to be this gorgeous? Why couldn’t he have misrepresented himself too?

“It’s okay.”

“So, you’re here to…” He prompted, looking back down and blowing lightly on her knee again.

“…to paint a little, except—”

“Hey wait!” His head snapped up and he cocked it to the side smiling at her in recognition.

He knows me! Oh, my God, he knows who I am and he’s smiling!

They spoke at the same exact time.

“Just let me say—” She lurched forward in the seat, ready to blurt out her practiced speech.

“You’re the artist Nils picked up.”

“Wait. What?” she asked, momentarily taken aback. She was literally a breath away from saying:
Just let me explain why I did it and how I truly feel about you…
Instead she stared at him, confused.

“Nils Lindstrom? He picked you up at the airport. You’re staying at the Mountain View just down the street. He sent me a text earlier. The airline lost your painting supplies, right? He asked if I could help you out.”

“Oh,” she murmured, her shoulder drooping in frustration…and relief. A reprieve, even though it had been the perfect opening. “Yes. They’re still in Providence.”

“Rhode Island?”

“Uh-huh.”

“How about that! I went to school in Rhode Island! I went to Brown.”

“Small world,” she said, looking back down at Cleo, scratching behind her ears. The voice in her head insisted it was time to confess. She told the voice in her head to shut the hell up.

“So!
You
are welcome to any art supplies you want. I will gladly fling open the doors of the art department and I hope you’ll pilfer to your heart’s content.”

“Oh, I couldn’t—”

“I insist,” he said, taking the strips off the adhesive of an oversized Band-Aid and smoothing it over her wound.

“As you wish,” she said softly.

His head jerked up, stricken, and she smiled at him, not realizing, at first, what she’d said. It was
the
catchphrase from
The Princess Bride
—it must have bubbled up from her subconscious. He finally smiled back at her, but it was a startled, distracted smile and he cocked his head to the side, as if seeing her again for the first time, his fingers still smoothing the bandage, back and forth across her knee, touching her skin at the edges, distracted, hypnotic.

“I love that movie,” he said softly, then he blinked twice as if coming out of a trance and she watched as his face quickly changed. He furrowed his brows, jerking his fingers away from her knee. He caught her eyes again then flicked them away from her face, gathering the medical kit together and standing up.

“It’s, um…it’s my girlfriend’s favorite movie too,” he said, turning away from her, placing the first-aid kit on the stairs before turning back to her, sheepishly, hands jammed in his pockets like they were being punished.

Oh, my God
, Zoë realized, looking at him.
He feels guilty.

She’d have to dissect that later. For now, she couldn’t bear the uncertainty on his face, knowing she was the duel cause.

“Everyone loves
The Princess Bride
, she said, forcing a lightness into the breathy voice she’d been using since rescuing Cleo. “It’s a great movie.”

He nodded solemnly, but kept his distance, standing next to the front staircase.

Zoë looked down at her knee. “Thanks for bandaging me up.”

“Least I could do.” Her words seemed to break the tension and he ran a hand through his hair. Then, holding the back of his neck with his palm, he looked back up at her. Whatever internal struggle he was battling, he decided to overrule it with a warm smile. “Listen, you were great. Thanks for saving my dog. I inherited her, but I’d miss her a lot if she was gone. You like coffee?”

“Sure,” said Zoë, placing Cleo on the floor and standing up as if to leave. She needed to get out of his house. She needed to figure out what the heck she was doing.

“Let me take you out for a friendly cup of coffee tonight. Just to say thanks. And I’ll get you those art supplies tomorrow.”

His use of the word “friendly” wasn’t lost on her, and she couldn’t help but wonder if its use was in reaction to Zoë or out of respect for Holly. She’d think about that later too. Anyway, it meant she didn’t have to tell him the truth now. With a confirmed date later, she’d have ample time to re-group and tell him tonight instead.

“Sure, I’d like that.”

He took his phone out of his back pocket. “It’s six now. I’ll come by at eight?”

“Eight’s great,” she said, grinning awkwardly at the rhyme. “I’m at the—”

“Mountain View.”

She looked at him quizzically and then remembered. “Nils told you. Right. Very
friendly
town you have here.”

If he caught her use of his word, he didn’t let on. Instead he grinned back at her. “Wait till you get to the Prairie Dawn.”

“The Prairie Dawn?” she asked, even though she knew exactly what it was. Heck, she knew Gardiner so well from his descriptions, she could probably walk there from Paul’s house blindfolded.

“My friend Maggie’s café. We’ll head there for coffee.”

She nodded, crossing the room to stand in front of him. She couldn’t bear to leave without touching him one more time. One more time when he didn’t know yet. When he didn’t hate her. She stuck out her hand.

He glanced down at her hand, then back at her eyes, and for a brief, terrible moment she thought he’d refuse to shake. Then he took a breath and raised his hand, engulfing hers in its strong warmth. She resisted the urge to sink into the contact. How she wanted to close her eyes and step forward against his body, to feel her breasts pressed against his chest, his arms around her. After a month and a half of virtual foreplay, shaking his hand simply wasn’t enough.

“Thanks again, Zoë.”

It was the first time she’d ever heard her name—her real name—pass his lips, and her body practically hummed in pleasure. She had to drop his eyes before he saw, before she gave herself away, but couldn’t resist squeezing his hand lightly before letting go.

“See you at eight,” she said, stepping around him and closing his front door behind her.

***

Paul stared at the door, bewildered.

Damn it! Damn, damn, damn it!

He clenched his jaw, turning away from the door, reflexively pulling his phone out of his back pocket to check it, as though Holly had somehow caught him in the act of being attracted to another woman and written him an e-mail to confront him. Part of him felt relieved to see that there were no messages from her.

What the hell is wrong with you, Paul? What the hell?

She’s not even your type. Not even close.

Just in case you’d forgotten? Holly’s your type. Sweet, sunny, smiling Holly with blonde hair, blue eyes, a trim body and a tan. Not this girl. Not this dark-haired, dark-eyed, ghostly pale girl with a massive scar on her face and tattoos on her back!

She’s edgy,
he thought, his eyes softening as he thought about her dark eyes under that fringe of black hair.

Wait. He didn’t
like
edgy, did he?

No
, his brain insisted swapping Holly’s face for Zoë’s.
No, you do not like edgy. You like sunny. Sunny like Buttercup. Sunny like Jenny. Sunny like Holly.

He rubbed his forehead, exhaling in an exasperated puff. He didn’t realize he’d been holding his breath. He’d probably been holding it since Zoë closed the door behind her. Heading through the kitchen, he grabbed another bottle of water before settling on the back porch swing. He felt another wave of guilt sitting in his special
Holly
place.

Damn it. Why did you have to invite Zoë out for coffee?

He knew why. He wasn’t thinking with his head. When she’d breathed the words “As you wish” in her low voice it was possibly the sexiest thing he’d ever heard in his entire life. His whole body had reacted to the whispered words, blood rushing to places that had no business being excited by Zoë when he was seeing Holly in twenty-five days.

But, it was more than the catchphrase from his favorite movie. Her voice was so deep and soft and breathy and light; there was something about it that felt familiar, but he couldn’t quite place it. Not only that, he’d been shaken up both times he’d touched her hand. A million times he’d shaken the hands of parents and students, other teachers and single women too, and never held on that extra beat—never staring into their eyes like he was attracted, like he was interested. What was it about clasping Zoë’s small hand that had felt so right? He shook his head, disgusted with himself. Nothing. That’s what. Because he couldn’t be interested. He was already taken.

Maybe it was his pent-up lust for Holly that he was projecting onto Zoë. He was so aroused all the time lately, maybe all it took was one unexpected girl on his doorstep and he was transformed into an overeager teenager lusting after a veritable stranger.

This thought comforted him a little bit because it meant that his reaction to Zoë was arbitrary and he placed distance between them in his mind. It had nothing to do with Zoë personally, per se, it was just that Paul was so hot and bothered by the thought of Holly, touching another woman was somehow affecting him. He took a deep breath and sighed in relief.

Hey, it could even be a sort of reverse Florence Nightingale syndrome too…when Maurice said, “You can take care of this little gal, right?” and he’d answered, “I’ll take care of her,” it had felt good. Saying those words had felt good and cleaning up her knee had felt good—helping her, taking care of her. They were the sort of words Westley would say about Buttercup. Speaking of Buttercup, Zoë was
nothing
like his ethereal blonde princess, which definitely meant he
wasn’t
attracted to her, right?

Except she had saved Cleo, injuring herself in the process, but never crying or complaining. She had courage, that was for sure. She was brave like Buttercup. And she was tender with his little dog, cradling Cleo gently against her amazing breasts.

Amazing. Breasts.

He grinned to himself, remembering Westley’s comment as Buttercup held a knife to her own chest, believing he was dead and about to kill herself in sorrow. “There's a shortage of perfect breasts in this world. It would be a pity to damage yours.”

Zoë’s were perfect too.
What any man wouldn’t give to—

Wait! Stop!
He clenched his eyes shut, fisting his hands.
Stop thinking about her breasts! Think about Holly. Sweet Holly.

He fumbled, grabbing his phone out of his back pocket and clicked on Holly’s phone number, then quickly hung up before the call connected. She was out to dinner with her aunt.
You don’t want to be a clingy, cloying boyfriend, remember?
Anyway, he shouldn’t need to track down Holly just to convince himself he wasn’t interested in Zoë. He was falling hard for Holly, planning to tell her exactly how he felt when he finally saw her in person in a little more than three short weeks.

He stared at Holly’s picture on his phone for a moment, wishing for the first time that he had a close-up of her face. She stood under a weeping willow tree beside a bush with small white blossoms and suddenly he wondered what she smelled like. Zoë smelled like honeysuckle. He’d smelled it on her skin as he bent over her knee, and recognized it from his childhood—the thick, sweet, heavy scent of summer, of—