Take Me All the Way (11 page)

When tears welled behind her eyes, she pushed them back. Lord, she hadn't cried in ages. And if she wanted to cry a little now . . . well, it wasn't about Jeremy! It was about . . . accepting that, as wonderful a life as she'd built for herself, there were some things she just probably wouldn't ever let herself have. Romance. Love.

You told Christy and Cami you didn't need those things.

And you don't. Really, you don't. You've gotten by fine without them all this time. And you'll keep right on getting by.

I
T
was mid-morning that day when, at the jobsite, a local nursery delivered an entire truckload of shrubbery, ornamental grasses, and other plants—several days early.

“Looks like we'll have to change gears and get these in the ground,” she told Jeremy.

As they both stood watching the guys from the nursery unload the bushes, Jeremy said, “I'm glad you got big ones. They're extra heavy to move around.”

Tamra replied in the same dry tone. “I'll be sure to stay out of your way when you're carrying them.”

“Good idea.”

Of course, that was easier said than done, especially since the nursery had delivered different amounts of different things than she'd thought she ordered. Since the invoice amount was what she'd expected anyway,
she decided to just make it work rather than sort out the mess. But that meant having Jeremy move shrubs around as she pointed and told him where to put things, only to sometimes change her mind.

It happened enough that she began to cringe each time she asked him. “Um, can you move that hibiscus over about five feet?” Unfortunately, it was probably the fifth time she'd requested he move that particular one.

“Sure,” he said, clenching his teeth slightly as he hefted it back into his arms. “It's not like it's breaking my back or anything.”

“I'm sorry.” She meant it. “But once it's in the ground, it's in the ground. We need to make it look right.”

After two more hibiscus moves, he appeared exasperated, finally saying, “You really think it makes a difference? Whether this bush is here or five feet from here?”

She took a deep breath. “Yes, actually. If you were a landscape designer, you'd understand.”

“Are
you
a landscape designer?” he asked skeptically.

She gave him a pointed look. “For your information, I could be if I wanted to. I garden a lot.”

“Oh. Well. Then you're definitely the expert here. So go ahead, tell me the ten new places you want me to move this bush before you make up your mind.”

It took the rest of the day before Tamra was satisfied with the layout. “It's too late to plant now, but we'll get them all into the ground and watered tomorrow,” she told him.

“Good—I can get a little rest before you start cracking the whip again,” Jeremy grumbled. Then he looked
to where a large bush still rested in the parking lot. “Uh, what about that one?”

Tamra looked, too. Crap. She'd known it was sitting there, but had totally forgotten about it at some point. Where could she incorporate it in the design?

And then Jeremy seemed to tune in to her thoughts—and said, “Oh-ho-ho no. No more rearranging. I mean it. I'm done.”

So she thought a minute and said, “I suppose I could use it at my house and just reimburse Jack.”

He seemed appeased. “Good idea. And I bet Jack would even let you have it for free.”

But then she pursed her lips. It was a big bush. Too big for her lift. “Of course,” she began cautiously, “I, uh, can't really get it where I need it to go by myself.”

And he let out a tired sigh. “Let me guess. You want me to take it there for you.”

She tried for a softer expression—though he made that difficult. Or maybe it was her fault—she wasn't sure anymore. “Could you?”

“Do I have a choice?”

She shrugged, relented, tired of feeling at odds with him. “You don't have to do it,” she said. “I'll just call Jack or Fletcher or Reece and ask one of them.”

But at this, he only sighed. “No, you won't. Of course I'll take the damn bush to your damn house. Let's go.”

It was the sweetest, most mysterious-looking place anyone could imagine.

Frances Hodgson Burnett,
The Secret Garden

“T
HANK YOU,”
she said softly.

Her sudden gentleness made it hard for Jeremy to keep feeling put out. “You're welcome,” he replied, his tone quiet.

He moved his truck closer to the bush in question, then got out, lowered the tailgate, and heaved the heavy shrub up into the bed. As he slammed the old tailgate shut, he said, “Where to? I don't know where you live.”

“Sea Shell Lane.”

“Which way?”

From the look on her face, that was a surprising question.

“Am I supposed to know already?”

She tilted her head, the red spirals of her ponytail falling to one side. “Well, Reece and Cami live there. And so do Christy and Jack. So I just assumed . . .”

He felt the need to remind her, “I don't know any of them very well. Even Reece.”

She leaned her head back the other way. “You don't get out much, do you?”

“No,” he answered simply.

After which she motioned to her SUV in a nearby parking space and said, “Follow me.”

When Jeremy saw how brief the drive to Sea Shell Lane was, he almost understood why Tamra had expected him to know where it was. After turning left behind her, in the direction of the ocean, he found himself on a short street of pristinely kept pastel cottages that harkened back to a simpler time. Not much put Jeremy at ease, but there was something instantly inviting about the little street that came to a dead end just above the beach, the asphalt meeting up with a little set of wooden stairs that led to the sand.

Turning into her driveway behind her, he noticed that Tamra's little yellow house was as perfectly well kept as the rest—maybe even more so. Her small lawn was thick and well-trimmed, with a healthy flower garden and a couple of small trees. More flowers spilled from hanging baskets on her wide front porch, trimmed in white. It looked like something out of a storybook, and was, in his mind, a much softer looking place than he'd have expected her to live.

And something in that one tiny idea forced him to begin . . . rethinking her a little. Maybe he'd been right about her in the beginning—maybe there was more to her than met the eye.

They exited their vehicles at the same time, and she called to him, “Bring it around back,” pointing to a narrow stone walkway that led around the left side of the cottage. “I'll go open the back gate.”

A moment later, Jeremy hefted the bush from the
truck, unable to see around it where he was going. As he proceeded toward the rear of the house, he watched his workboots, glad when he hit the stone walkway to let it guide him.

He was only vaguely aware of nearing a tall privacy fence, painted a weathered sort of white, before passing through the open gate. He caught sight of Tamra's legs and tennis shoes, too, and said, “Am I about to walk into anything?”

“No, you're good,” she said.

“Where am I going with this thing? I want to put it down once.”

“Well, I haven't had a chance to plan for this, so it might have to be twice—unless you want to stand there holding it while I think.”

“Nope,” he said, and let it drop right in front of him on the stone.

And then he took in everything around him. It was as if he'd entered a whole new world. One of lush greenery and bright blooms. Her entire backyard was a beautiful garden. “Shit, you weren't lying,” he said without thinking.

“About what?” she asked.

“You
could
be a landscaper if you wanted.”

“Thanks.” She sounded shockingly bashful. It threw him, drew his gaze to her face.

She was actually blushing a little. He wondered why, but didn't spend much time trying to figure it out as his attention was drawn back to the garden.

From the trees hung delicate windchimes and other pieces, all made of colored glass. He caught sight of a blue glass bird that seemed to be flying past, and numerous butterflies in yellow, purple, pink. From
the ground sprung the occasional birdbath, and more pieces of glass mounted on wrought iron sticks—a green glass dragonfly, a row of glass daisies. In between it all ran the stone path—it seemed to make a circle around the yard, and near the house, where they stood, it widened to encircle a large fire pit. Wooden chairs rimmed the pit, and farther back in the garden he caught sight of a hammock that looked like the perfect resting spot.

“This is . . . freaking amazing,” he told her.

“Yeah?” she asked. Again, she sounded so much more delicate than usual.

“Yeah.” He nodded, still taking it in.

The truth was, he kind of never wanted to leave. It was . . . the perfect place to be alone, the perfect place to hide.

And then . . . he understood. The same way he liked to hide—so did she.

When his gaze returned to her, he saw her differently. He understood her better now—not completely, not by a long shot, but better. He'd sensed a certain beauty in her before—he'd witnessed hints of it wanting to creep out from around her more rigid persona—but now he really saw it. Looking down at her, here, she was . . . prettier. Her eyes more innocent. Her lips fuller, softer. Maybe he was crazy, or maybe the late day shadows were playing tricks on him, but she was truly beautiful here in a way he'd never seen her look before.

“What are you staring at?” she asked. Like an accusation. Softness vanishing before his eyes.

“Nothing.” No way would he tell her the thoughts in his head—she'd just reminded him that she liked to
keep that wall up between them, that employer/employee thing. “Where do you want the bush?”

She looked around the garden and he realized that, even as dense as it was, she knew it like the back of her hand.

“That back corner,” she said, pointing.

“Okay.” He hefted the massive bush's rootball up into his arms.

When he reached the spot where it was necessary to leave the stone path, he again couldn't see where he was going. Which earned him a “Don't crush my ivy!”

“How am I supposed to get it in the corner then?”

“Just watch where you're stepping. This garden is a lot of work.”

“Well, I can't see where the hell I'm walking.”

That's when her fingertips touched his arm.

And he felt it—damn—in a lot of other places.

“This way,” she said, now guiding him, leading him with the gentle pull of her hand.

And hell, it felt good. To be touched. At all.

When was the last time he
had
been? By anyone? Other than having handcuffs put on him. Or a cat rubbing up against his leg.

It almost made him forget how heavy the bush was, focusing on that touch, the ripples it sent up his arm, the slight reaction that tingled through his thighs, groin. Shit. From a touch so simple, so practical.

“Here,” she finally said, pulling her hand away. And the bush suddenly weighed a ton again, so he let it drop directly in front of him on the ground.

Though next to him, she gasped. “Not there!”

“What?”

She pointed slightly to the left of where he'd dropped it. “There.”

Another sigh. Stooping to lift the bush from hell once more, he found himself murmuring through slightly clenched teeth, “Mary Mary, quite contrary, how does your garden grow?” Then he plopped it back down about two feet from where it had just been. “Is that right?” he asked as he stood to face her again.

Though he hadn't realized the move would put them in much closer proximity—suddenly only a few inches lay between them.

“Yes,” she said—except now she looked annoyed. “But what's that supposed to mean? What you just said.”

Jeremy wasn't in the mood this late in the day to pull any punches, even if she
was
his boss, even if he'd learned to mostly try to keep the peace with her. So he replied, “Guess I was just thinking that for a good-looking woman, you sure are hard to get along with.”

Her green eyes bolted wider in the shade of the tree they now stood beneath, gangly branches sprawling overhead and all around them. “Is that a compliment or an insult?”

He shifted his weight from one dusty workboot to the other. “A little of both, I guess.”

She still stood very close to him—he could feel the closeness. Especially when she let out an irritated breath and said, “Then I'm not sure whether to slap you or kiss you.”

And at this, he couldn't keep himself from flashing a cocky grin. “You'd never get away with the first one, honey.”

“And the second?” she challenged, now planting her fists on her hips.

His eyes flitted down her body, then rose back to her face just before he said, “That you'd have a shot at.”

Their gazes stayed locked now and he'd have given anything to know what thoughts flashed through her pretty head. An invisible heat moved between them that had nothing to do with the late-day Florida sun.

But then, in the very split second Jeremy thought something amazing was about to happen—Tamra let out a
harrumph
, rolled her eyes at him dramatically, and turned to walk away.

Only he wasn't going to let her. No way. They both might like to run from things, but he wasn't letting her run from
this
. As she took the first brisk step away from him, his hand closed warm and firm over her wrist.

She gasped, her gaze rising back to his. He still couldn't read her eyes—he had no idea if he was seeing fear or wonder or hope or—hell, maybe it was a little of everything. His heart beat like a hammer and every instinct he possessed told him to go for it. Still gripping her wrist with one hand, he lifted the other to her face and brought his mouth down on hers.

Tamra had a split second amidst her shock to decide: Push him away the same as she did everything else . . . or be in it, all the way. And while her initial instinct was to do the first, some tiny ounce of courage and desperation rose up inside her and made her choose the second.

She didn't know the last time she'd been kissed. She barely remembered how, and she felt a little foolish as she tried to kiss him back—but she stayed with it, moving her mouth against his, and soon reveling in what it felt like simply to be kissed, to know he'd
wanted to, that something in her had drawn this from him.

Soon she even quit thinking—and progressed only to feeling. His hand cupping her face, the warmth of his mouth. She drank in the scent of him—they'd been working all day, but a little sweat and dirt had never smelled so very masculine and powerful to her. His mouth moved over hers in a slow, firm rhythm she felt in her gut, and she matched it.

At some point, the hand that held her wrist let go—and moved to the curve of her hip. Her own hands rose to his chest, her fingertips pressing lightly through his T-shirt.

As he eased her back, back, she soon realized he was leaning her gently against a thick tree trunk—and then bringing his body closer, until it connected with hers, their legs intertwining. His thigh lodged between hers and she let out a gasp as pleasure spread outward from the spot between her legs.

Oh God—this was too much.

What was she thinking, doing?

This wasn't her—it was reckless, crazy!

And she had to stop—
now
. If she didn't . . . it would get out of control. And her whole
life
would feel out of control. And she couldn't have that.

At the same moment she turned her face, ending the kiss, she pushed him away to bring an end to this madness.

They were both panting. God. How had things turned so downright feverish so quickly? Who
was
she? And who was he? That, she realized, was the bigger question. She really didn't know him at all, so what on earth was she doing making out with him as
if she did? As if, as if . . . they shared some connection.

“We have to stop.”

“Why?” he asked on labored breath.

She looked into his eyes—or tried to. But she still found it so hard to see past the beard, and all that hair.
I can't see you. I don't know you. I don't have sex with strangers.
None of those things were answers she could really give him, though, so she blurted out, “We're so different.”

“Are we?” he asked without missing a beat.

“Yes. Of course.” She spoke emphatically. Because wasn't that obvious?

“How?”

Sheesh. Really? He was going to argue this with her? She let her eyes go wide. “In . . . every way.” But she didn't elaborate, because all the ways she could think of seemed . . . cold.
You have no home or direction. You've been screwed up by war. You've been arrested.

“Tell me how,” he insisted.

She let out a sigh. Lord, why was he making this so difficult?
When a woman pushes you away, does it really matter why?
But Tamra closed her eyes and tried to summon an answer that would make him understand . . . without hurting his feelings. A few days ago, she wouldn't have cared about that, but now she did. She supposed that if he'd been worthy of kissing, even just once, that he was worthy of her kindness.

“I . . . don't really know anything about you,” she said. “And I . . . I can't even really see your face.” She finally drew one hand from his chest and motioned vaguely to his beard. “And I guess that all just makes me . . . nervous. Working with you is one thing, but
this . . .” Lord, simply looking down, seeing their bodies still so close together, remembering how much closer they'd just been, nearly stole her breath. “This is another.” And she concluded by finally drawing her other hand away from his chest, as well.

As she stood there awaiting his reply, she grew more aware of his body again, aware of the sinews in his arms, the tattoo on his right biceps, the muscles in his chest she'd unwittingly felt beneath her palms. In that way, she knew him far better now. It was one thing to see a man's body, but another to feel it, experience it, press into it. Yet it was the rest of him she still didn't have a handle on.