Moving on to the kitchen, she explained that she was adding white to the palette to give the space light and keep it airy. “We’ll paint the walls gray and the cabinetry, tables, and chairs black. The white countertop and appliances will offset the darkness, and in this room, the red will appear only as accents—red towels, red salt-and-pepper shakers. Oh, and we’re going to use more
warm
reds than bright ones. And lots of light. Smart use of light is pivotal with a dark, bold color scheme—especially in rooms you spend a lot of time in.”
From there, she proceeded to the less-detailed ideas she’d started on for his bedroom—without even blushing like a twelve-year-old as she talked about it, thank God. “For that, I’m going off the board with different colors. A simple, masculine, but rich navy for the bed and curtains will be warm and comfortable with the dark wood in there.” Then she produced some more fabric samples for throw pillows, explaining that depending on which he selected, she could draw another shade from it for a wall color. “Maybe this pale sage, for instance,” she said, pointing, “or this sandy beige.”
Only when she finished did she finally realize she’d been talking nonstop. To her surprise, even a few years after leaving her old job, she’d instantly fallen right back into the mode of spelling out her plans with brisk clarity, something she’d learned at Posh—it was easier to lay it all out for a client, giving them the full picture before letting them respond or start asking questions.
Next to her, though, Lucky looked a little stunned. And she suddenly feared she’d gone too far—with all of this. Maybe he’d wanted . . . less. Something simpler. Maybe he’d just wanted . . . new curtains or something. She swallowed uneasily and said, “Why do you look weird?”
He blinked, then lowered his chin. “I look weird?”
No
,
you look good enough to eat.
“I just . . . can’t tell what you’re thinking. And so now I’m a little nervous.” Again. As usual. She sighed.
To her surprise, Lucky tilted his head and looked her in the eye, appearing oddly . . . crestfallen, she thought. “Don’t be nervous,” he said. “I hate making you nervous.”
Oh crap—he knew he made her nervous.
So she shut her eyes for just a second, then forced herself back into the situation. She was always so adamant about being independent, handling her condition—well, she needed to handle this one, too. “If I’m nervous around you, it’s only because . . . you’re a lot different than me, and . . . have you looked in a mirror lately? You’re a pretty intimidating guy. You have death and flames all over your arms, after all.”
And then she was mentally kicking herself for just putting it out there like that—until he grinned and said, “Sorry, hot stuff—I don’t mean to scare you with my tattoos.”
“Well, I never said I was
scared
. I said—”
“And if I looked weird a minute ago, it’s probably because . . . I’m kind of amazed.”
“Why?”
“Because the rooms sound . . . perfect. And, well, you seem really good at this.”
In response, she drew back. “You really
did
think I would suck at it?”
He met her gaze. “You never told me why you’re trying to build a business in a place that doesn’t need it. So it’s not that I thought you’d suck, but—maybe I didn’t expect to be so blown away.”
She lifted her chin slightly, duly flattered. “Really? You’re blown away?” Not that Lucky would probably know bad interior design from good—yet she still liked having impressed him.
“Yeah,” he said, nodding. “Especially the bike pictures.” That was her favorite part, too—she believed every room should reflect something, great or small, about the person or people who lived in it.
But then he changed gears when she least expected it, tilting his head, leaning a little closer to her. “So, why
are
you in Destiny, babe?”
“I could ask you the same thing.” It seemed a natural question that had hung silently in the air between them—up to now anyway.
He didn’t smile, gave nothing away. He simply pointed out, “We’re talking about
you
. So tell me your long story—I’ve got time.”
Tessa swallowed. The fact was, she didn’t
want
to tell him—it was the topic she hated most. So maybe she could weasel out of it, talk her way around it. “I came home to Destiny to the promise of a job from someone I used to work with. She was setting up a small interiors shop in Crestview, mostly focusing on retail establishments since the area is growing so much—but unfortunately, the plan fell through by the time I got here. She lost her financing and never opened the shop.” All of that was true, but it conveniently ignored the heart of the matter.
“Where did you come home
from
?” Lucky asked.
“Cincinnati. I went to UC and then got a job there.”
“So you didn’t like your job in Cincinnati?”
“No, I loved it. I—” Oh, crap. Since when did Lucky talk so much or ask so many questions?
“What?” There he went again, asking.
And Tessa sighed, feeling angry. At her whole situation in life. She hated telling people about a condition so severe it had taken away her livelihood and sent her running home like a child. Its very existence left her feeling like someone people saw as “the sick girl,” making everything else about her secondary. But she supposed she had no choice now. And hell—everyone else in town knew anyway, so why not Lucky, too? “Well,” she began, her spirits dropping, “I have Crohn’s disease.”
He instantly looked worried, alarmed. “What’s that?”
“A digestive disease. Chronic inflammation of the intestinal tract. Which means, for me . . . I have a very limited diet and, um, sometimes I don’t feel well.”
“But you don’t . . . ya know . . .” His voice softened. “Die from it?”
She shook her head, but he didn’t look all that relieved.
Instead, he said, “Damn, hot stuff. This a life-long thing?”
“Well, there’s no cure.” She said it quickly, quietly. “And though I started having symptoms several years ago, the actual condition didn’t appear in my tests until recently, allowing me to be diagnosed, so at least I can take medicine for it now.”
“So the medicine is helping?”
She simply nodded. But then felt forced to add, “Even before that, though, it had become a matter of flare-ups—it isn’t constant, like it used to be.”
“And it was bad enough to make you leave a job you loved, huh?”
A whole
life
I loved.
But she only nodded once more, again hating that she was even talking about it, hating that it would surely change the way he viewed her and probably douse whatever attraction he’d felt. Her stomach churned now, not from her condition but from one more instance of it altering her life in uncontrollable ways.
Lucky dropped his gaze briefly, then met hers again and spoke a bit more softly. “I don’t like to think of you being sick.”
Oh. Wow. The simple sentiment, combined with the look in his eyes, moved all through her. Who knew Lucky Romo could be so nice? Sweet, even. Especially since they barely knew each other and he sounded completely sincere. She wasn’t sure how to reply—her chest grew tight with that strange mixture of desire and fear, but this time fear of . . . pity or something—so she just quietly reiterated the positive. “Well, like I said, things are a lot better than before.”
His eyes shone warmly on her, and she found herself wondering about the many sides of Lucky Romo. Dark biker with death on his arm and secrets in his house. Wayward, long-lost brother and son. Sexy, cocky guy who flirted with confidence and undressed her with his eyes. And this man sitting next to her right now looking . . . truly compassionate. “You know,” he said, “if you ever need anything . . . I’m right here. You can call me anytime.”
The offer caught her off guard, almost stealing her breath. Not because it was such a huge thing, but because she just hadn’t expected it. From him. Lucky Romo, it seemed, grew more mysterious by the day. “Thanks. That’s nice.” Yet . . . when had this turned into a depressing conversation about a depressing topic? She had to change that—now. “But back to the designs. Since you like them, does that mean we have a deal, that you want to hire me?”
He flinched, probably at the abrupt change in mood, but then began to nod. “Uh, yeah.”
And she smiled, because it was true—she really had a job. “Great. I’ve put together an agreement stating the fee, including materials. I ask for half down and half upon completion.” Then she drew the contract from her leather binder.
“Sounds fine,” Lucky said, glancing down at it.
“And if you decide to move forward with the bedroom, just let me know.”
“Great,” he said, taking the pen she’d offered him.
“I can start right away. And, of course, I’ll need access to your house.”
“Well, I’m here pretty much all the time, so that won’t be a problem.”
“And if you want any other rooms done,” she added, “like the bathroom, or if you want me to convert that storage room into something more functional, I’d be more than happy to add those on, too.”
That’s when his face hardened—instantly. “That won’t be necessary. For the storage room anyway.” And quick as that, he was back to sounding all stern again, his tone making her spine go rigid.
“Okay,” she said calmly, quietly, taking the pen back. So much for trying to slip that by him. But it was a firm reminder that he still had something to hide, and she clearly hadn’t just inflated it out of proportion in her mind.
“You remember what I said about that room, right?” he asked, meeting her eyes once more—yet all softness had fled his gaze now. “That it’s off-limits?”
She nodded, still managing to sound surprisingly cool about it. “Yeah, I remember.”
“That’s not a problem, is it?” he asked.
“Of course not. Why
would
it be?”
Except for the fact that I’m back to being a little worried.
She let out a small sigh she hoped he didn’t see.
What on earth are you hiding in there
,
Lucky?
It was easy to forget he might be concealing something awful or illegal when she was drowning in those chocolaty eyes of his, or even when she was feeling embarrassed in front of him. But now it was official: She was working for Lucky Romo—in a house that harbored at least one of his secrets.
This was where the nerve was touched and teazed—
this was where the fever was sustained and fed . . .
Charlotte Brontë,
Jane Eyre
L
ucky stood silently watching from one corner of the room as Tessa stood with her back to him, digging into a large shopping bag and spreading stuff out on his couch. She wore cut-off denim shorts and a tank top, and her hair was twisted up on top of her head in a messy knot. Her ass looked particularly tempting when she bent over to run her palm over a carpet sample. He thought she looked cute as hell. Then again, when
didn’t
he think she looked cute as hell? This was becoming a problem.
He kept telling himself to back off and leave the girl alone—but where had that gotten him? It had started with what had seemed like harmless flirting—then the next thing he knew, he was hiring her to work for him. And if that wasn’t bad enough, it had progressed to him poking into her life the other day, and even offering his help.
But damn. He’d meant what he’d said—he didn’t like to think of her being sick. He’d been pretty shocked when she’d told him about that because . . . well, it just went against everything that seemed right in the world. She was so pretty, and lively, and energetic. It just made no sense.
And maybe it had hit him harder than it should have. Why on earth did it remind him of Anna’s disappearance? After all, the two things had nothing in common. And one of them had happened nearly twenty-five years ago.
But as he watched her running her fingertips across different bits of corduroy fabric almost lovingly, like . . . like a blind person might, maybe he understood why he’d connected the two things in his mind. Maybe it was because most of the shit in his life, when he traced it back, was stuff he could have avoided, could have changed, could have powered through and put behind him if he’d tried hard enough. But every now and then, something happened that was truly beyond anyone’s control, wasn’t anyone’s fault, and just plain wasn’t fair no matter how you looked at it. Those were the things that blindsided you and left you trying to make sense of life.
And when his little sister had disappeared on the camping trip to Bear Lake when he was ten, it had thrown his understanding of life into a tailspin. How the hell do you compute something like that when you’re just a kid? Or—hell—
ever
, for that matter? It was the first time he’d seen how the world could slap you in the face when you least expected it.
And
this
was like
that
, in a way. After all, look at Tessa. He didn’t know her well, but he felt pretty damn sure she’d never done anything to deserve some life-changing disease. It wasn’t fair.
Now, he continued watching the way she touched things. Her long, tapered fingers seemed to glide across smooth surfaces almost appreciatively—and to stop on more textured materials, lingering, sometimes tracing little patterns. He’d stood here long enough now that he was beginning to feel a little like a voyeur, but he couldn’t seem to pull himself away. Or make himself let her know he was here. The weird truth was, watching her touch stuff was turning him on a little. It was making him imagine how it might feel if she was touching
him
.
Not that she ever would. He knew she had the hots for him a little—but he was about as far away from being Tessa Sheridan’s type as a guy could be. And even if there were moments when he wished that were different—like now, wondering if she ran her fingers across a man’s flesh as softly as she ran them over the bristles of the paintbrush she now held—it remained best that they were from two different worlds. And yeah, if she ever needed his help, he’d give it to her—but help and this job were the
only
things he could give her.
In the two days she’d been here working so far, she hadn’t mentioned the room down the hall again. Which was good. He hadn’t exactly been smooth about reminding her it was off-limits—and he hadn’t meant to sound so mean, but some habits were hard to break, and besides, he wanted her to take him seriously. That room was private for now. If she saw what was inside, she’d know why he was back in Destiny, and she’d surely tell people. He could ask her not to, but she had no reason to be loyal to him. And hadn’t she said she was friends with his brother’s fiancée?
Damn, Mike was getting married. In one way, it surprised him that his perfect, straight-arrow brother had waited this long—but in another, he was equally surprised Mike was letting himself get tied down period, because the straight arrow had also been a ladies’ man when Lucky had last seen him. And there was a part of Lucky that wanted to ask Tessa about Mike, about his parents. But he pushed that aside. That wasn’t why he’d come back. So instead he just kept watching her and enjoying every simple, sensual second of it.
Why was it sexy just to watch her spread out newspaper on the floor? Why was it hot to see her kneel before a can of paint, smoothly prying off the lid? Even watching her pour the dark red liquid into a paint tray affected his groin a little. It looked something like wet mud, or clay, like something she might stick her hands in to mold or squeeze through her fingers.
Whoa
,
down boy
. He glanced toward his zipper and just shook his head. This was getting ridiculous. But Tessa was so different from any woman he’d ever been with. He’d never in his life gone for petite, let alone cute. And those hands of hers—most women he’d been with were the type to want things hard and fast, whether they were giving or taking. Tessa, he knew instinctively, would move more slowly, would touch more thoroughly, would make his gut clench more tightly.
Aw, shit. Now she’d wrapped her dainty little hand around a thick, fluffy roller brush—and was . . . caressing it. The same as he imagined she might caress his hard-on. And he
was
hard now. Completely. Achingly. He’d never known watching somebody prepare to paint a room could feel so much like watching porn.
He tried to calm himself down as Tessa carefully climbed a stepladder by the wall, paint tray in hand. She backed down to grab a thin paintbrush and a moment later was creating a perfectly straight line of brick-colored paint along the white doorframe without even covering the edge with tape. It made him crack a smile.
She’d
liked watching
him
paint, and now
he
liked watching
her
paint, too.
Go away now
,
Romo.
Yeah, that was a good idea. He’d already stood here too long gaping at her
. Get to work. You have to do
your
work before you can pay her for
her
work.
But he permitted himself a last long look at her ass as she paused, set the brush in the tray, and began to climb up another step.
He saw it the instant her foot missed the rung and she began to lose her balance—and he instinctively rushed forward to catch her. Even as the pain tray stayed put, she tumbled backward, landing directly up against him, his body breaking her fall. The force nearly knocked him down, but he held them both upright as one arm automatically circled her torso, just under her breasts, the other coming to rest on her hip.
And then they froze that way. Partly because they were finding their balance, checking their footing. And partly because . . . aw God, she felt good. Warm. Soft. She smelled like . . . a sugar donut, he thought. Sweet and tasty. She must have had something sweet for breakfast.
Of course, he still had a hard-on. And it currently pressed into the center of her ass.
“Are you okay?” he asked behind her.
Her voice came out breathy. “Yeah.”
And that made his arousal a little worse. Or better, depending upon how you looked at it.
But at the moment, it was worse. Because they definitely had their balance now, and he’d ensured she was all right, and he still just stood there with his arm tucked up under her chest, his hand curving firmly at her hip. He felt weirdly stuck in place—just . . . plain not ready to let her go. Every fiber in his body urged him to turn her around and push her back onto the leather couch—although it was covered with plastic right now. So maybe the floor. Yeah, the floor would work just fine. He found himself squeezing her hip lightly in his grasp and then—
He stopped. Because—shit—he had to.
He let go of her and backed away. Then let out the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.
When Tessa turned to look at him, their eyes met and neither of them spoke. And—aw, hell. He knew with certainty. She felt all the same things he did. She just didn’t understand why it would be such a bad idea to fool around with him, why he’d
had
to let her go.
She bit her lip and then spewed out a few fluttery words, probably to fill the thickened air between them. “Good thing you were there.”
He managed a nod. “Yeah. Good timing. I was . . . just looking in to see how things were going.” He wanted to tell her the truth—that he’d been standing there watching her, wanting her. But again, he couldn’t. The lie protected them both.
“Things are going well,” she assured him. “If I could stay on the ladder, that is.”
He just gave another short nod. It was about all he could manage with his cock threatening to burst through his zipper right now. “Okay, good. I should get back to work.” He pointed vaguely over his shoulder. “Let me know if you, uh, need me for anything.”
And then he walked away. Sort of praying as he did that she would call him back and say something completely naughty, like that she needed him between her legs.
But when she didn’t, he reminded himself yet one more time that it was best that way. Best, best, best.
Get that through your thick head once and for all.
O
h boy. Oh God. He’d been hard. She’d felt it.
That’s all Tessa could think about even half an hour later. And she’d long since abandoned painting the wall’s edges, instead focusing on the middle portions, because her hand was shaky now when she tried to paint a straight line.
Okay, so this pretty much clenched it. Falling into his arms to discover he had an erection shored up that her desires here were not one-sided. He was attracted to her. And telling him about her health hadn’t ruined it! That revelation was nearly as stunning as the first.
She pulled in her breath remembering how incredibly good it had felt to be held by him for that strange, long, still moment. Every part of her body had pulsed. And she’d smelled him again—all musky and manly; the scent had practically intoxicated her. Those few seconds in time had excited her more than anything had in, literally, years.
And then her heart started beating harder, faster. She even had to stop painting, lest she mess up.
I want him. I really want him.
And the want was no longer a distant thing, a secret yearning she planned to keep only to herself, never to act upon. That was why her heart beat so hard. Everything had just changed. She wanted something with him. For real. Sex. Not just in her head. She wanted their bodies intertwined. She wanted him inside her.
Up until now, she hadn’t thought she could really, truly wish to pursue such a thing—because he was such a scary biker guy. But . . . she’d gotten to know him a little, hadn’t she? And she’d seen those softer sides of him that Rachel and Amy would never believe existed. So maybe he wasn’t so frightening after all. Maybe he was just . . . hot. Tattoos and all.
As he’d held her, she’d looked down to see the arm anchored around her and she’d caught sight of those flames, and to her surprise, they’d thrilled her even more. She knew anyone could get a tattoo, but somehow the flames had reminded her how tough he was, how strong. Those tattoos surely told the story of Lucky. And she longed to
explore
that story.
Still staring at the half-painted wall before her, she tilted her head, wondering: Did he have any
other
tattoos? Anywhere else?
She wanted to find out. Bad.
She wanted him to make a move on her.
If he’d done so today, she wouldn’t have pushed him away.
It was a confession of epic proportions—even if the only person she’d confessed to was herself. Because it meant . . . she was ready to make something happen here. To quit lusting and wishing and aching only in her own mind. She was ready to put herself out there and reap what life had to offer again. The very idea, the decision, nearly stole her breath and left her feeling as invigorated as if she’d just taken a step off an airplane and was plummeting through the air, waiting for her parachute to open.
Except one big problem still remained. Lucky’s secrets.
She blew out a long sigh and wished her heartbeat would slow down. She needed to think through this, carefully. Even if her head swam a little at the moment.
Maybe, realistically, she didn’t need to know
all
his secrets. She wasn’t planning on marrying the guy, after all—just . . . having some wild little affair with him that would ease her sexual aches. And yeah, she’d have to deal with the fact that he’d still be her neighbor afterward, but she was a big girl—she could handle that. The real issue was—did she want to fool around with someone who might be doing something illegal? And
was
he doing something illegal?
She glanced over her shoulder toward the hallway that led to the mysterious “storage room.” If she found out
one
of his secrets—the one she had access to—maybe that would tell her . . . enough. Enough to determine if she could,
should
, try to get lucky with Lucky. She knew he was out in the garage working now, so . . . maybe she could just sneak quickly down the hall, take a peek inside that room, and the big mystery would be over. And the door must not lock from the outside or Lucky wouldn’t have been so adamant about telling her not to go in.
But . . . did she really want to go prying into someone’s private business when he’d asked her not to? Even if it had the power to tell her if . . . well, if Lucky was a good guy—or a bad guy? After all, she didn’t like people prying into
her
business. That was part of the reason she lived out here in the woods. She let out a sigh, then got back to work.