Keep On Loving you (20 page)

Perfect Girl would have an impeccable manicure, unmarred by cleansers and unchipped by hauling a cumbersome vacuum around. Not one pair of holey shoes. And the perfume she wore wouldn't be something that had been given to her mother by her mother's married lover.

Tilda couldn't sit in the same room with them. “Mac,” she said, agonized.

Her friend covered her cold hand with a warm one. “If you have to go, go.” There was sympathy in her eyes.

For the stupid girl who had almost fallen for the rich short-timer who came to town with a suitcase.

Tilda nodded. “Thanks.” She just had to make it to the exit without Ash being any the wiser.

Slipping her own cheap pleather bag over her shoulder, she scanned her surroundings, trying to figure out how best to get out unseen. Instead of the direct route, she'd skirt around a couple of tables behind where they sat, pass the kitchen door, then hug the front wall and duck outside.

Best laid plans and all that...

Because as she walked past the kitchen access, a man came barreling out with a tray of plates held at shoulder level. Tilda tried avoiding the collision, but she'd been hurrying herself. So woman met waiter and the dishes flew, only to land in a spectacular crash of noise.

The heads of the nearest patrons in the place swiveled their way.

Tilda went deer-in-headlights when she saw Ash glance around, too. His father, thank God, hadn't turned toward the sound, but she saw the instant his son decided to move. Mac was there already, however, murmuring, “I've got this,” and Tilda woke from her spooked trance and escaped.

Back at home, she barricaded herself in her apartment—that was to say, she turned the little round lock in the middle of the knob, the kind of lock that was usually on bedroom or bathroom doors. She wasn't too worried about its flimsiness. Ash had to know his gig now was up.

The girl he'd had fun slumming with knew he had one of his own kind on his arm.

Tilda's roommates had night shifts again and it was still as cold as the dark side of the moon in the place, so Tilda retreated to her room. There, she threw off her clothes, then went to the hall bathroom that had a stall shower. At least the hot water was plentiful and the pressure strong, so she was able to wash away the day, the cold and the tears that persisted in running down her cheeks.

Stupid, too, those tears.

In her pajamas—a pair of old, soft sweatpants and a man's flannel shirt that had been around forever—Tilda crawled under her thick stack of blankets. With her bedside lamp on, she picked up the tattered copy of
Pride and Prejudice
that was her first choice in comfort reads. There was homework for one of her courses due soon, but she wanted to lose herself and it would be in Lizzy Bennet's world, not in the details of cell specialization.

In a different season, it would be a night for a gallon of ice cream and copious tears, followed by a bitch session with her roomies that included plenty of trash talk about a particular guy, then all guys in general. They'd vow to become nuns, or, if not that, to have each other's backs when they were eighty and needed help recovering from broken hips.

But it was too cold to do that tonight and her roommates were making good tips up at the ski lodge, and in reality, they would not have each other's backs when they were eighty. Her roommates were sisters, so they would have each other's backs, and they had boyfriends who were ski instructors whom the two would likely marry.

It was Tilda who would end up alone. So if it was any season but winter, she would have gone to bed with an ice cream headache and another ache in her throat from trying to hold back more tears. Once in her room, she would have let them flow, just as they would tonight after she had her fill of Lizzy and Mr. Darcy.

The book fell open to a favorite spot and she was just settling in when she heard her front door pop open. Bolting upright, she held the covers to her throat. Had one of her roommates gotten off work early? But that popping sound wasn't of a door being unlocked—it was the sound of a locked door being opened with a shoulder, not a key. And her cell phone was in her purse, which she'd left in the front room.

“Danni?” she called out, clutching her paperback as if she might use it as a weapon. “Cheryl?”

Then Ash Robbins breached her doorway.

Fear morphed into anger. “You scared me!”

He eyed her coolly. “It took me three seconds to get from the front door to this one. You survived.”

Tilda gritted her teeth. “Remember annoyingly arrogant?”

“How about we talk about you instead? Would we say chain yanker? Game player? You run sweet, Tilda, and then you run mean.”

Mean? Her?
The back of her eyes went hot. “I don't know what you're talking about.”

“How many of my messages have you ignored, Tilda? Texts?”

“I don't see how you had time to send them, considering you have another girl—your type of girl—that requires your attention.” How hadn't she realized right away that he was a philanderer like his father?

“I don't have another girl. I wish I could think I had you.”

Her copy of
Pride and Prejudice
was so soft from being read a million times, it would probably land like a kiss if she threw it in his face. “Go away.”

His jaw tightened. “You misread the situation.”

“Oh, are you going to tell me that...that person is your
sister
?”

“She's my cousin.”

Tilda's eyes flared wide. “What?”

“Okay, I lied about that. Amber's the daughter of family friends. But she might as well be my cousin.”

“Baloney.”

He stalked closer to the bed. “I'm not interested in Amber, Tilda. I'm interested in
you
. Tonight, I would have taken you out if you would have responded to one of my calls, voice messages or texts. Since you didn't, I got roped into going out with her and my parents.”

It sounded true, she supposed. It could be true.

But regardless, she reminded herself, there could be nothing between them. It would never work for reasons that went beyond the Ambers of the world.
Way
beyond.

Maybe Ash saw all that on her face, because suddenly he was at her skinny bed, sitting on the edge of the mattress so their faces were close. “Tilda. Damn it.” He slipped the paperback from her grasp, glanced at it, then paused.

“Pride and Prejudice.”
He quirked a brow at her. “Sound familiar?”

“You think you're Darcy?”

“I've never looked down at you. But you've been prejudiced against me from the start.”

He didn't know how very right he was. And she could never tell him why.

“What do you want, Ash?” she asked.

Leaning closer, he framed her face with his hands. “You, of course.”

Her heart hurt. Her temples throbbed. She was so tired of fighting to get through every day, worrying about money and school and whether her car would start. Running from Ash took energy she did not have.

Especially when surrendering sounded so much nicer.

Couldn't a hardworking girl get a break once in a while?

Okay, so they wouldn't last, no matter how real it might feel to them, but she could have right now. Another night. Maybe another few.

She swallowed. “I mean, what do you want right now?”

“Cuddling with you was the best night I ever had.” His thumbs brushed her cheeks. “I'll settle for more of that.”

But she didn't want to
settle
, not tonight, not when golden-haired Ash Robbins was on her bed and she was allowing herself to have more “amusement.” More “recreation.” Now she let herself acknowledge the way the jolt of adrenaline from his break-in had morphed into an entirely different kind of excitement. She was breathing fast, almost panting, and under all the blankets she was getting very hot.

Tilda pushed her thighs together, trying to address the growing ache there. She was super aware of all things Ash, the subtle, so appealing scent of him, the point where his hip pressed against hers, the tracks his fingertips had made into her hair. He studied her face with his intense blue eyes, his attention solely on her, and it was...heady. Exciting.

A surge of want rose from her toes, up her legs, to make her breasts swell and her nipples tighten. Nothing had changed. He was still out of her league. He was still moving to London. She was still her mother's daughter and he was still the son of his father.

But she wouldn't think about that again. Not tonight.

Pulling away from the stacked pillows, she slid her arms around his neck. Ash took a sharp intake of breath, and it gave Tilda the confidence to bring her mouth to his.

She touched lightly. Brushed back and forth.

His body went harder, all his muscles tightening. He was letting her run the show, and that made her want him even more.

With a flick of her tongue, she bathed his bottom lip. He gasped again, and she took that as an invitation to push inside. Oh, God. He tasted so good, mint and heat, and she ran her tongue over his slick, perfect teeth.

He groaned. “What is this?” he said, tearing his mouth free to draw in a ragged breath.

“This is me, giving you pleasure,” she said, almost drunk on his taste. They could exchange that, couldn't they? Pleasure shouldn't be something to be wary of, right? “Pleasure,” she repeated against his mouth.

This time Ash took over the kiss. It was his tongue in her mouth. But she did her part by threading her fingers into his hair and holding on tight as he showed her what his lips could do.

Then they were on a tour of her: her ears, her jaw, her neck. He tossed the covers back to her waist and then he was following his fingers with his mouth as they unbuttoned the flannel shirt.

Her skin goose-bumped, but she wasn't cold. She went to pure flame when he exposed her breasts and bent his head over them. He cupped one with his hand and held it plumped for his mouth. Tilda shivered at the first touch of wetness against her nipple and she squirmed against the sheets.

Then he sucked it, hard, and her hips arched off the bed. “Ash,” she said, her short fingernails digging into his scalp.

He looked up, his eyes soft, his mouth still pulling hard.

Uh-oh
, Tilda thought, as heated sensation rolled through her, a wave of it that surged against her heart, turned it over. Then he kissed a path to her other nipple and she could only think,
Ooooh
.

That night in the hotel room, months ago, it had been a hot bump-and-grind, with groping hands and greedy, fast kisses. Now, though, now Ash seemed determined to take his time, his touch gentle and his mouth on a mission to map out all her sensitive places.

He was still dressed as he drew her pajama bottoms and panties over her ankles and feet. Then he widened her thighs and pushed up her knees to crawl between them.

Though lust curled deliciously through her body, Tilda looked at him with some alarm when he positioned himself at the hot, wet apex of her legs. “What are you doing?” She'd had exactly two sexual partners in her life, the boyfriend she'd had at nineteen, and then Ash, that one time.

This had never been on the menu with the first guy, and not the night of her twenty-first birthday, either.

She swallowed, torn between anticipation and mortification. “Ash?”

His gaze didn't leave the soft flesh he parted with knowing fingers. “This is me, giving you pleasure.”

Her body went rigid at the first delicate touch of his tongue. Then bliss darted through her, set her blood aflame, took away her need for air. He played there with a tenderness that destroyed every defense she could throw up. She might think it was merely a generous act, but he was groaning as he licked and thrust, making clear he was enjoying himself.

So Tilda let herself go and just let him drive her up and up and up, toward an ultimate delight that caused her muscles to spasm, her toes to curl, her notion of sensual enjoyment to expand.

She couldn't
wait
to reciprocate.

As she came down, Ash threw off his clothes. Then they were skin to skin, his pinning weight already setting a match to her sated senses. “You are so beautiful,” he whispered. “Everywhere.”

Grasping his hair, she took his mouth now, tasting herself on his tongue, drawing in the flavor that was the two of them together. Finding strength she didn't know she had, she flipped their positions, so she was on top, his erection against her belly, her sensitive nipples against his hard chest.

He smiled, and she saw welcome and happiness and...a future in his eyes. Something she'd never fully believed in—maybe even for herself.

Certainly never for the two of them. But, oh, she could almost feel her fingers around it now.

Smiling back, she felt a burning pressure gather in her eyes.

Ash blinked, one hand trailing to her bottom, the other brushing away the single tear she'd blinked free. “What's this?”

“This is me, giving you me,” she whispered, and banishing worry from her heart, Tilda proceeded to show him exactly what that meant.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

M
AC
WAS
AN
indulgent aunt. Since her little sister Poppy had given birth as a single mom to Mason, Mac had enjoyed lavishing the little guy with all her love and attention. He was a precocious kid, funny and smart, who would get weird ideas in his head that he'd refuse to give up.

Stubbornness was a Walker family trait.

Consider how she'd managed to keep her relationship with Zan strictly business since the morning after Shay and Jace's wedding. The morning he'd made clear he was once again preparing for a clean break with the mountains in no uncertain words:
I won't be coming back
.

That assertion shouldn't matter. Her whole sex buddies proposal was predicated on the fact that they were going to have a short-term fling, after all. But following the night in his arms, flesh to flesh, she'd woken up humming. Happy. A happiness that had dropped like a rock in the bottom of a barrel when he'd said those five words.

I won't be coming back.

So she'd vowed right then and there to insulate herself from another painful farewell by shutting down anything intimate between them.

No matter how he'd wheedled for a steak dinner.

No matter how much she wanted to roll around with him naked again.

It was how she'd save herself from getting too attached...again.

Yep, the Walkers were an obstinate lot, as evidenced by Mason not taking no for an answer the dozen times she'd said the word since she'd arrived at her sister's house to babysit for the evening.

Standing in the spacious Hamilton kitchen, he looked up at her now, his adorable face cherubic, his hands clasped beneath his chin. “Please, Auntie Mac.”

She pretended to glare at him. “Do you practice that look in the mirror?”

“Uh...” His eyes slid to the side.

“You do practice that look in the mirror!” She tried not to laugh.

“Duke's teaching me how to act.”

Mac shook her head. “Duke” was what her nephew called his stepfather-to-be, Ryan Hamilton, former child actor and action star. Actually, Ryan was the boy's father-to-be, because an adoption was following fast on the heels of the wedding. “I'm telling your mother. She needs to brace herself.”

Mason's brows shot together. “Don't tell Mom anything, okay? Duke told me we don't want to worry her right now. No stress, Duke says. It's not good for her.”

“I'm kidding, sweetie,” she said, glad Ryan was looking out for Poppy. She was the beating—and bleeding—heart of the family and with the wedding so close keeping her calm was best.

It was why Mac had made Zan promise to hold on to the fact of the true ownership of the cabins. She grimaced, knowing that wouldn't be a secret for much longer.

“Auntie Mac,” Mason said, tugging on her sleeve. “You have a sad face.”

“Yeah, I do.” She pulled him to her for a quick hug, finishing with a brisk hair ruffle.

He squirmed away, gave her entreating eyes again. “I know how to make you feel better.”

“I just bet you do.” She sighed. “But I'm just as sure you shouldn't be putting on your tuxedo before the wedding.”

“I want to show you what it looks like on.”

“It looks awesome,” she told the boy. “I don't have to see it to believe it.”

“But I
need
to wear it when I practice my toast.”

It was going to be the cutest thing ever, when Mason acted as best man at his mother and almost-father's wedding. Not only would he stand beside Ryan during the ceremony, he'd also memorized a short speech to give at the reception.

The boy was certain it wouldn't go well unless he practiced while wearing the mini Armani tuxedo that had been purchased for the event.

She sighed. “I really don't think it's necessary—”

“Haven't you heard of a dress rehearsal?”

See, this was when his five-going-on-twenty-five side defeated her. How did he even know what a dress rehearsal was? Ryan again, she supposed. Mason hung on every word of every story the man recounted.

Which was so damn touching she suddenly wanted the toast to be perfect, too.

“Are you clean?” she asked.

“Showered before you came.”

“Let me see your hands.”

He held them out.

Mac bit her lip. “What about Grimm? If he gets dog hair on that suit, we're sunk. Your mom will know.”

Mason pointed to his big dog, flopped on his bed in the corner of the room, dead to the world.

“Oh, all right,” she said, capitulating. “We need to make it snappy, though. You have bedtime in an hour.”

She convinced him to don only the slacks and jacket, knowing Poppy would notice the tiniest crease in the starched white shirt. After he was dressed to almost the nines, they went into the family room, where a fire was burning. It was a big but cozy room, and Mac propped herself in a corner of the comfy couch. “You look so completely handsome, I wish I'd asked you to be my date for the wedding.”

Mason grinned. He claimed to have a loose tooth or two, but for now they were all in there.

Mac gestured. “Okay. Go ahead and wow me.”

“As soon as my second 'pinion gets here.”

There he went again. So funny sometimes. “Do you mean a second
opinion
?”

“Yeah. I need a guy. Mommy let me call him before you came.”

“Uncle Brett's coming over?” She'd thought he had plans for tonight.

Mason shook his head. “Zan.”

She was still sputtering—and promising to find some adequate retribution for her sister, who'd left without any warning about this—when the doorbell rang. Mason ran off to answer its call. Both boy and man were in the family room before she could blink, and then her only thought was of the awkwardness of the situation. Cozy setting, no other adults around, Zan looking so tempting and so part of her world in scruffy boots, an old pair of jeans and a long-sleeved, green-brown thermal the exact color of his eyes. She forced herself to remember his words.
I won't be coming back.

“How come you're here?” she demanded, knowing of no better defense than a shrill offense.

Zan narrowed his eyes. “I didn't know you would be, actually. My man—” he gestured to Mason “—phoned and I had to help a bud out.”

She couldn't exactly complain about that and she didn't have a chance to before her little nephew reminded them he only had until his bedtime at eight-thirty. Shooting her an unreadable look, Zan took to the other corner of the couch.

They spent the next forty-five minutes watching Mason strut around the room, giving various highly amusing inflections to the words of his toast. Mac struggled to keep a straight face and didn't dare look at Zan, who occasionally made noises that she figured were choked-off laughter.

Finally, she checked the clock and told Mace the practice session was over. “Pajamas, kid,” she decreed.

The boy decreed right back. Story time with both Mac and Zan.

She never could say no to him.

Mason climbed into bed wearing striped flannel. The dog, Grimm, hauled himself from the kitchen and up the stairs, then flopped down at the foot of the mattress with a loud groan. Not unfamiliar with the routine, Mac waited patiently while her nephew sifted through the stack of books on the bedside table.

His choice: a story about a cat and a bull, told in alternating viewpoints. He insisted that Mac and Zan alternate reading as well, with appropriate voices. Zan snickered when Mason assigned her the part of the bull.

She said a soft “Meoow” when he was called upon to be LaToya the tabby.

In the end, they did a credible job, if she did have to say so herself.

Once Mason dropped off, they tiptoed out of the room to the tune of Grimm's snores and shared a celebratory grin. Mac elbowed Zan at the bottom of the stairs. “Good job, LaToya.”

“Back at you, Rolando.” He rolled the
R
, just as the tabby had, something that had tickled Mason's funny bone over and over again.

It was impossible in this moment not to feel charitable toward the man. She even smiled at him. “Can I get you one of Poppy and Ryan's beers?”

“Sure.”

Minutes later they were back on the family room couch, both sets of feet propped on a shared ottoman, cold bottles of microbrew in hand. Relaxed, Mac smiled at the blazing fire and was totally unprepared for the thoughts that popped into her head next.

That could have been our kid.

That's what it would be like if we were parents.

She stiffened, and Zan must have noticed. She felt his glance.

“Okay, Mac?”

It seemed unlikely he'd guess the train of her thoughts, but she didn't want to give him a chance at it. “Sure, fine. Just wondering if they should take Grimm in for a sleep apnea test.”

Zan glanced toward the stairs. “Yeah. Good God. I can hear him from here.” Then he shook his head. “Little Poppy Walker, having it all. Son, marriage, big noisy dog.”

All the things Mac had dreamed of for her life with Zan.

Maybe he really could read her thoughts, because then he said, “You want all that?” His gaze was focused on her, she could feel it. “Kids, pets and et cetera?”

Her mouth opened and, surprising herself, the truth poured out. “I thought I did. Remember? Three engagements.” And before that, too.

“Were they...recent? Or years ago?”

“Years ago. I told Josh I'd marry him about six months after you went down the hill.” Of course she didn't share why. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction of knowing she'd been desperate to find a replacement for him in her heart. It wasn't her best, most honorable move, but she'd been that young and that broken. In the following three years she'd tried making that same substitution two more times until finally she'd managed to harden the organ in her chest so that no man could find his way in.

Zan was silent a long moment. “Six months? So soon?”

“‘So soon'?” She bristled. “It's not as if you told me you were coming back. As a matter of fact, you explicitly told me you had no plans to return.” The same as he'd said the other morning.

“Take it easy, wildcat,” Zan replied, his tone mild. “I was just commenting.”

Holding tight to her beer, she scowled at the fire. “Whatever,” she muttered.

“Josh,” he said after a few minutes of silence.

“Yes.” She poured some beer down her throat. “And Adam and Jeff.”

“I heard they were nice guys.”

“Probably nicer than I deserved,” she said, muttering again.

“Mac.” Zan took her beer out of her hand and set it aside with his. Then he shifted on the couch so he was facing her instead of the flames. “What are you talking about?”

“Three times, Zan.” She glanced over at him. His face, washed by the firelight, showed no judgment. “Three engagements to be married. Who
does
that?”

“An optimist?”

She laughed, but it was a bitter sound. “I think an optimist would go through with at least one of those weddings.”

“What kind of events did you plan?”

Groaning, she let her head fall to the back of the cushions. “Can we not go there? It only reminds me that I hurt three good men.”

“How so?”

“I made promises I couldn't keep.”

“It would be worse to keep a promise that wouldn't make you happy.”

“I suppose.” Taking a breath, she moved to face him. “Is that why you left here, because I didn't make you happy?”

“You made me happy.” He looked away. “I just always said I was going to leave the mountains. I had to follow through on that.”

“But you left right
then
, when we were together.” She wanted her beer back. “Tight together.”

“I wanted to leave when it was all good,” he said.

“Huh?” She stared at him. “That makes no sense.”

“Went out on a high.” Turning his head, he met her gaze. “That way I was able to take beautiful memories with me.”

She tried to reason this out. “So if you'd waited until we were in a fight, it would have meant—”

“Sour memories.”

There was no making sense of this. “That's man-logic. And I don't mean that as a compliment, in case you're wondering. I need my beer.”

Zan handed it over and then took up his own for a swig. “If I'd left after we broke up—”

Something tore inside her chest. “We were going to break up?”

He stilled, and then his gaze shifted away again. “Everything ends, doesn't it?”

* * *

M
AC
STARED
INTO
Poppy and Ryan's refrigerator, supposedly on a second-beer retrieval mission, but not really seeing a thing in the gargantuan space. She could only hear Zan's matter-of-fact voice.
Everything ends, doesn't it?

Those words moved through her again, each syllable slow and precise, each one another rip. What he'd shared with her before should have made her mad—he'd actually planned to leave when they were on a relationship high!—but instead she just felt...turned inside out, as if her vulnerable, wounded insides were now showing.

Everything ends, doesn't it?

Her sisters would say she was the master of happy-ever-after cynicism—and they didn't hesitate to give her digs about it now that they'd found their men—but she didn't think she'd ever expressed her doubts about finding and keeping “the one” as baldly as that.

Everything ends, doesn't it?

She must have been ruminating on that for a while, because now Zan sauntered into the room. “You okay? Or have you been forced to mash your own hops?”

Yanking out two more beers, she shot him a look, trying to dredge up some anger at him. He was a jerk! He'd broken her young heart! On the way out of town he'd warned other guys off! Not that the warning had completely worked, obviously, but still!