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“I can’t think of a better thank-you.” He reached out and pushed his door open wider. “Want to come inside to do the talking?”
Her gaze darted past his shoulder, taking in the spacious living room behind him, all done in soft browns and tans. The TV played ESPN but the volume was all the way down and a half-full beer sat on the coffee table. It looked comfortable and welcoming. So much of her wanted to go inside. But she hadn’t been inside another person’s house in over a year, and it felt a little like standing on the edge of a cliff with shifting soil. “I’m not sure.”
He reached out and took the casserole dish from her and set it on a table by the door. Then he held out both his palms to her. “Here, let’s try this. I won’t ask questions because it gives your mind too much time to analyze. Just listen and follow my instructions. If any of it becomes too much, you say stop and I’ll shut up. Deal?”
She nodded, not giving herself time to think about it. “Okay.”
“Now take my hands and step inside. It’s getting cold outside and it’s warm in here. I don’t want you to be cold.”
She placed her hands in his large ones, and he tugged her gently, easing her forward like a parent teaching a toddler to walk.
“Plus, I have no idea what temperature to cook this in the oven, so I need your help,” he continued.
Another step.
“And God knows we don’t want Mrs. Benson across the street gossiping about us, so we need to get where she can’t see us.” His dimple appeared.
Another step. She was inside. He bumped the door with his foot to shut it behind her. The click of it closing sounded as loud as a thunderclap in her head. Her fingers curled into his palms. “Keep talking.”
“And for the record, I’m about as far from a vegetarian as one can get. I put meat on top of my meat.”
She snorted.
“Right, good point, probably shouldn’t talk about my meat.”
Now she couldn’t stop a laugh from bubbling up. She took another step. And another. She kept her gaze on Colby and that reassuring smile of his. Wood floorboards sounded beneath her shoes, then the soft hush of an area rug.
Soon, Colby stopped moving, but her momentum carried her forward another step into his personal space. He bent and put his lips close to her ear. “Congratulations, neighbor, you’ve made it all the way to the couch without a scratch.”
She straightened and turned her head, surprised to see she was already in the middle of the living room and far from the front door. She’d only been watching him, focusing on his eyes and voice, and somehow he’d coaxed her all the way inside without her panic switch being triggered. She was in someone else’s house.
And she was okay.
“Holy shit. We did it!” Her voice was way too loud but she didn’t care.
“You did it.”
“I can’t even believe—thank you.” Victory surged in her, and without thinking, she put her hands on his shoulders and kissed him right on the lips. Smack!
He stiffened for a half second, obviously caught off guard, and she hopped back, putting her hand to her mouth. “Oh crap, I didn’t—I’m sorry.”
He smiled and tilted his head in challenge. “Are you?”
She blinked. An auto-response jumped to her lips. Retreat, retreat, retreat. But she didn’t let the cowardly words come out. She steeled herself, reaching deep for the old seeds of confidence, and held his gaze. “Okay, no, not really. I’ve kind of been wanting to do that for a while.”
“Yeah?”
She rolled her lips inward, feeling giddy for some reason—probably some combination of residual anxiety and the rush of breaking that boundary and kissing him. “Yeah.”
“Want to do it again?”
She laughed, but nerves were trying to push in. “I don’t know, I mean—”
He reached for her belt loop and tugged her gently forward, his affable expression morphing into something far more intent as he looked down at her. “Because I’d like to kiss you again. Really kiss you. But I’m not going to until you tell me it’s okay.”
She nodded, trying to swallow past the fear bubbling up. “It’s okay.”
His hazel eyes searched hers. “Remember how I told you on the walk over here that you could say stop?”
She breathed through the butterflies trying to overtake her insides. “Yes.”
He moved his hand to cup her jaw, his fingertips brushing gentle lines along her neck. The soft, simple touch had her ready to melt on contact. God. Every part of her felt so starved for touch it was as if her neurons couldn’t make sense of it. Everything firing off in all directions—want, need, fear, anticipation. His eyes traced the curves of her face. “That applies to this, too.”
With that, he lowered his head. The moment his lips touched hers she could tell that this was not going to be a quick peck like she’d given him. This was going to be so much better. Her eyelids fell shut as his mouth met hers with a gentleness that belied the intensity she’d seen in his eyes. The kiss was so tender, so softly sensual, that she thought she would die from the slow burn of the connection. Colby Wilkes, a man in no hurry. He teased her bottom lip with a playful tug and then took it between his. The tip of his tongue grazed the line of her lips, but he didn’t push or deepen the kiss yet. It was a taste, a sip of what he could give her.
Her hands went to his chest, feeling the solid muscle and a quickly beating heart beneath her palms. His T-shirt curled in her fingers and a soft sound escaped her—her starved libido begging on her behalf. Please, sir, may I have some more?
He continued to kiss her, and the hand against her hip tightened as he guided her against him, bringing her body flush with his. That was when she opened her mouth to him, inviting a deeper, more all-encompassing kiss. Like walking into a bakery after a juice fast, she wanted to gorge on all the things, taste everything he could give her. Not just a sample. But after a gentle twining of their tongues, he eased back. “I can’t tell you how long I’ve wanted to do that.”
She blinked, off balance for a second, already missing the feel of his lips, the brush of his beard against her skin. Please don’t stop. She feared if she paused, her broken brain would take over and ruin it. “You don’t have to stop.”
He smiled, that dimple flashing again, and squeezed her hip. “I do.”
“Why?” she asked, her frustration flaring.
“Because you came here to talk to me,” he said, lines of strain appearing around his eyes, proving that it wasn’t exactly easy for him to dial back either. He pushed a stray hair off her forehead. “And I know it was a difficult challenge for you to come here. So if I push you too far too fast, the panic might catch up, and we’ll do more harm than good.”
“Sounds way too logical and smart,” she declared. “I hate that.”
He chuckled and put his hands over hers, which were still clinging to his shirt. He lifted them and kissed her knuckles. “How about you tell me what I need to do with those enchiladas, then we’ll talk? If you still want me to not stop later, I promise to throw all logic out the window.”
“Deal,” she said with a smile. “And it’s twenty minutes in a three-hundred-and-fifty-degree oven, then a minute or two under the broiler at the end to brown the cheese.”
“I can handle that.” He released her and guided her down to the couch. “Sit and relax. I’ll be right back. What do you want to drink? I’ve got beer, red wine, and soda.”
“A beer would be great.”
“You got it.” He changed the station on the TV to one that played mellow contemporary music, then grabbed the dish of enchiladas and disappeared into the kitchen. The fact that he hadn’t put on the country station made her smile because it was obviously for her benefit. She knew that was his drug of choice—old-school country. It was what he played at the bar—not that she’d ever gotten to hear him play live. But they’d talked about it one day when they’d both been outside in their yards. He’d rattled off a few names of his favorite singers and bands, and she’d only heard of one or two.
Afterward, she’d gone to her computer and Googled him, finding a few YouTube videos of performances, most of them old footage, a few recent. Apparently, he’d been a bit of a big deal when he was younger—a guy on the brink of breaking out. But he’d disappeared from the scene for some unknown reason. She’d played those videos, transfixed, watching them more than once in true stalker style. He had a singing voice so deep, she’d wanted to roll around in it. Even when he sang songs about things she had no personal connection to—growing up in a small town, falling in love with a girl, and stirring up trouble—the music had resonated with her in a way no other kind had because of the way Colby had sung the lyrics. Honesty bled into his performances, and he had a voice that could make the most frigid chick go liquid. She’d become quite a fan. But, of course, he had no idea. Just as he had no idea about her other stalker-like activities …
She sighed. With him gone, her mind kicked into gear again, dimming some of the heady high of the kiss. She was in Colby’s living room. And had kissed him. The reality was hard to believe. On her list of small steps she hoped to move through to get herself healthy for the trial, she’d just jumped from number two to like number six hundred. She glanced out the side window to find her house staring back at her like a sentinel awaiting her return. That was the extent of her whole world sitting next door. Sure, she managed to go out once a week and get her groceries and take care of necessities, but it was always a white-knuckle day made possible by her medication. That house was the only place she could exist without the crushing anxiety. Both a sanctuary and a prison.
But here she was, finally sitting outside it. Exhilarated. Terrified. Leesha was going to shoot a confetti gun when she found out. Georgia clasped her hands in her lap, her thumb rubbing her palm in a slow, methodical motion—up and down, up and down—an unconscious habit that soothed her. As long as she didn’t think about this too hard, she wouldn’t lose it. Colby had been right about that part. As soon as he’d started giving her instructions, she’d been able to focus on simply following and shutting down the racing part of her brain. She’d never thought she’d be able to hear commands from a man without thinking of Phillip, but with Colby it felt different—less of an affront to her free will and more an act of caring direction. It’d been a little like the yoga she did some mornings. Shut the mind down and listen to the teacher on the video tell you how to breathe and move.
Except yoga didn’t involve a big, sexy man and a kiss that’d been hotter than sin on Sunday.
Colby returned to the living room a few minutes later and handed her a Heineken before sitting next to her on the couch. “All right, dinner’s in the oven. Thanks for putting that together. It was going to be a PB&J night.”
“No problem. I like to cook.” Well, she’d learned to like it. Back in Chicago, it had been all about eating out. The food was to die for in the city, and she’d taken full advantage of it. But now she didn’t have that option. After moving here, she’d missed going out to restaurants and had gotten tired of microwave meals and delivery, so she’d decided if she couldn’t manage to go out anymore, she’d learn how to make her favorites at home via her friend the Food Network.
Colby shifted on the couch so that he was facing her and leaning back on the arm of it. “So what did you want to talk to me about?”
Hell. Talking. That was what she’d come over here for. But she certainly wasn’t ready to tell him her secret now. Not after that kiss. It’d ruin it all. She scrambled for a different subject and took a long sip of her beer. Then she toed off her shoes so she wouldn’t be tempted to bolt. “Is Keats still here?”
He cocked a thumb toward the hallway behind him. “Yeah, in the guest bedroom. I think he took the nighttime allergy medicine instead of the regular. He’s been out for a few hours.”
“I’m glad he’s still around. That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”
“You want to talk about Keats?” he asked, brows dipping in confusion.
“I do. And I know I’m being nosy,” Georgia said rolling the bottle between her palms and keeping her voice low in case Keats woke up. “But how bad is his situation?”
Colby considered her, looking way too tempting with his still-damp hair and that snug T-shirt, but he seemed to be pondering the question. “I’m not a hundred percent sure, but I’m guessing not good. I found him busking in a park last night. He said he needed money to make rent.”
“How long is he staying with you?”
Colby frowned and glanced toward the hallway, then took a draw of his beer. “He wants me to drive him back tonight. I’m giving him some money. He said it’ll cover him for a while.”
“You don’t seem too thrilled about that.”
“I’m not.” Colby leaned back and laid his arm across the back of the couch, looking weary all of a sudden. “But the guy’s too prideful for handouts. I offered to let him stay with me for a while, but he sees it as charity. Plus, he comes from a world where nothing is given for free. Even with one night, I could tell he was trying to figure out my angle, like there’s more to it than me wanting to help out.”
She picked at the label on her beer. “Is there?”
“No, he’s a kid I used to know who needed help. I helped. I still want to help.”
“He’s not a kid anymore, Colby,” she said, peeking up at him. “I’m sure you’ve noticed.”
He raised a brow at her. “Well, apparently, you have.”
“Come on,” she said, barely resisting the urge to roll her eyes. “You know neither of you is hard to look at.”
“Is that right? Neither of us, huh?” He grinned and pointed the neck of his beer toward her. “Does this mean I need to challenge Keats to a duel for your primary affections?”
She sniffed. “Only if you plan on taking your shirts off and doing hand-to-hand combat. Possibly while the sprinklers are running.”
A bark of laughter spilled out of him, echoing through the room. “Dirty mind, Georgia. I like this side of you.”
She smiled, feeling lighter than she had in a very long time. She liked this side of her, too—even though she suspected it was partly due to the residual effects of that kiss and might not last long. “I have my moments.”
“Oh, I have no doubt,” he said, the shift in his voice like a stroke against her skin.
She chewed her lip, the simple statement bringing to mind her nights at that window, the things she’d seen take place in the room down the hall. But she couldn’t let her thoughts wander there. Already she could feel her body prickling with awareness. She grabbed a throw pillow and hugged it against her chest in defense. “Do you think Keats would consider staying if I could offer him a job?”
His forehead scrunched. “What do you mean?”
“I need an assistant. Simple stuff—errands, emails, mailing things for me. I have an extra laptop. He could do it from here—or my place, if I can handle that. It’d only be part time, but it’d be steady work, and he could look for something full time or take classes or whatever he needs to do in between.”
“I thought you were looking for a virtual assistant.”
She shrugged, though her attempt at casual felt stiff. This was a big, major deal for her. “I was. But he needs it more than some college kid. And … I think it’d be good for me, you know, to invite some people into my life.”
He stared at her for a long moment. “You’re kind of amazing for making that offer. But why him?”
She set her beer on the coffee table. “Because he seems like a good guy who’s had some bad luck. And I don’t know, when he helped me today, there was just something about him. I feel comfortable around him—which, believe me, in my world, is like finding a unicorn.”
Colby’s mouth curved upward. “I’m sure Keats would be thrilled to know you called him a unicorn. Very badass image. You sure this isn’t just a sinister plan to live out some boss/subordinate fantasy? Because you’ve already admitted he’s not hard to look at, and I have a feeling Keats would have no problem volunteering for that game. I mean, you already got him naked after only knowing him for a few minutes.”
She grinned and tossed the pillow at him, even though the images he painted were oh-so-tempting ones. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
He held his beer out of the way and batted down the pillow, mischief dancing in his eyes. “Oh, come on, the thought didn’t cross your mind even once? Yes, Ms. Delaune, should I type this letter with my shirt off or maybe without pants?”
She pressed her lips together, trying not to laugh, but it didn’t work. “You’re terrible.”
“And right,” he said, pointing the neck of his beer bottle at her.
She shook her head, a little amazed that he’d picked up on her attraction to Keats and that they were openly discussing another man. “You know, you’re not like other guys.”
“Of course I’m not, but what makes you say that?”
“Well, we just kissed and you’re teasing me about another guy like it’s no big deal if I think he’s hot.”
Colby shrugged. “I kissed you. I like you. But I don’t own you. I don’t have any right or desire to control who you find attractive. And I’d rather have your honesty than anything else.”
Georgia tried not to wince. Honesty. Yeah, she was doing a stellar job at that one. Fake last name. Shady background. Not to mention that whole illegal-peeping thing. Just slap a big fat F on her report card for that one. Her conscience wagged its finger at her, bringing the guilt down heavy. Her thumb started rubbing at her palm again. She watched the back-and-forth motion. Maybe she should leave. Kissing Colby had been fantastic, but how could she pursue anything with him? All her issues. The fact that he was dominant. Everything was so complicated in her life right now. “It’s getting late …”
“Come on, baby,” he said softly. “Don’t chicken out on me now.”
She looked up, finding those hazel eyes studying her, flickering gold in the lamplight. “What?”
“Tell me what you really came here to tell me.”
It took a second for the request to register, but when it did, it squeezed around her throat in a death grip. “What do you mean?”
“Georgia …”
The awareness in his eyes was like a guillotine slicing through her last shreds of hope.
Oh. Shit.
“You saw the binoculars.”
TEN (#ulink_e10f82ce-235a-5f19-861e-43fff85fa118)
Colby’s expression didn’t change, but he set down his beer. “I did.”
She stared at the couch cushion between them, humiliation bleeding through her. This wasn’t happening. “I’m so sorry, I—”
