Take Me All the Way (16 page)

“Thanks,” he said. “For, like I said, giving me a reason.” Then he stopped, turned to face her, and took both her hands in his. “I hope you're open to it
now
.”

“Open to what?” she asked—right before he kissed her.

Unlike earlier when they'd kept getting interrupted, she wasn't completely ready for it. She'd been totally in the moment with him, enjoying his company, not thinking ahead. And now—she felt awkward. Was she kissing him right? She didn't know. She barely remembered
how
to kiss—just as when it had happened in her garden.

Only then . . . she stopped worrying. She stopped thinking altogether. Because it just felt good. To kiss and be kissed. To have his hands on her—they gripped her waist firmly, warmly. Like when they were dancing, hers circled his neck—and she liked that it was bare now, no longer covered with his hair, because she could feel his skin.

The kiss was slower than when he'd kissed her in her garden—now he came off like a calculated lover, a man who kissed well and often, even if he'd told her that wasn't the case. When his tongue pushed into her mouth, she didn't hesitate—she followed the instinct to touch it with her own. A low groan rose from his throat in response and she felt it between her legs.

He stopped the kisses to speak low and raspy into her ear. “Maybe you're right—maybe you're not so contrary after all.”

Her own voice came out breathy, girlish. “See, I told you.”

He pulled back slightly, just enough for her to see his small, flirtatious smile. “I just had to get
past
the contrary.”

She'd drawn her hands down, pressing her palms against his chest, and she used one of them to playfully swat at him. “You had a pretty good dose of contrary in you, too, mister.”

He just shrugged, looking a little smug about it. “Part of my charm.”

She laughed, and gazing down into her eyes made Jeremy chuckle, too. He'd never seen Tamra like this, so gentle and sweet, and he'd begun to think he never would. Damn, he was glad he'd been wrong about that.

As he leaned back in for more kissing, she was less tentative than before—he could tell she'd relaxed into it now, could feel it in her touch, in the way her lips melded more sensually to his. Each time he'd started kissing her, it had been as if she was afraid to let herself go, afraid to let him see she wanted it, too. But now she wasn't trying to hide it anymore—she was kissing him more freely, more confidently, and he liked it. A lot.

He still couldn't get over the way she looked tonight. He'd known she had curves, but this was the only time he'd ever seen them shown off to full advantage. And the way she'd changed her hair made her appear somehow both . . . prettier and
wilder
at the same time. It was hair a man's hands could get lost
in. But right now he was too busy exploring her
curves
with his hands, so he'd save that for later.

It moved him—and hell, turned him on—to know she'd made those alterations with him in mind. The same way he had for her. And God, it felt amazing to connect with her like this. After having her put the brakes on, it felt like the sweetest of rewards that her tune had changed now.

Jeremy sunk deeper, got lost in their kisses. He'd grown hard behind his zipper and now followed the urge to lean into her, to let her feel what she'd done to him.

She gasped, breaking the kiss, as he pressed his hips more fully against hers. Their eyes met—hers wide and wanting. He wanted to kiss her into oblivion.

As he brought his mouth back down on her soft, pliable lips, her fingers clutched at the front of his shirt. And his hand slid unthinkingly, unplanned, upward from her hip to the side of her full breast.

Another short, heated gasp. More need expanding inside him.

But shit, why did I start this
here
? Out on a dock just a stone's throw from a big party.
He wanted to take her right here anyway, though—wanted to just push up her dress and thrust himself into her warmth.

Yet as tempting as it was to proceed where they were, he had a feeling Tamra wouldn't be into that kind of risk—and besides, he wanted to take his time with her, not rush this. And fortunately an easy solution hit him. He stopped kissing her just long enough to rasp in her ear, “Let's go to my room.” Because, like the party, the Happy Crab lay only a stone's throw away.

Her eyes changed then, and he couldn't read them—but . . . uh oh. He had a feeling that this change wasn't a good one. “I—I can't,” she said on labored breath.

Aw hell. “Why not?” he asked. “No one has to know. They're all busy—they won't even notice us.”

Now she shook her head, looked distressed. Her fingers still clawed into his shirt. “It's not that.”

“What then?” He pulled back, gazed down into her eyes. She'd wanted to see him and he'd shown her. Now he wanted her to see the rest of him. “Tamra, I want you.”

He watched her pull in her breath, saw the fear glistening more clearly now in her green eyes, the air around them lit dimly by lamps that lined the dock. “I'm sorry,” she said. And then, fast as that, she was racing away from him in the night, back toward the party, looking unsteady on the low heels she wore.

Well, shit. She was back to being contrary again.

He could have chased her but didn't.

If she wanted to run away, who was he to stop her?

Even if his cock ached at her departure. A low groan left him as he tried to push down his rising frustration.

He didn't know what was wrong with the woman. But he wasn't in the business of fixing people, that was for damn sure. He couldn't even fix himself—or it was still a work in progress anyway.

He stood in the pale lamplight running his hand back through freshly cut hair, surprised for a second to find so little of it—he'd forgotten for a moment that he'd cut it all off. Trying to be better. Trying to be his old self.

His mind flashed on the tiny little nugget of her past she'd given him earlier—that she'd been raised in
a commune. What had that been like? How badly was she screwed up inside and why?

But it didn't really matter. Familiar feelings flooded him.
Can't fix anybody, can't save anybody.

He'd come to the party tonight because Abner—of all unlikely people—had inspired him. But the truth was, he didn't like crowds any more tonight than he had a few days ago and he'd sat in his room for a good long time before making himself come out. And right now, he was just tired of trying.

Trudging toward the party, he decided he'd just head back to his room. If he was lucky, he'd make a clean getaway without having to talk to anyone.

His chest tightened as the music got louder, the lights brighter. Re-entering the party area was a slight assault on his senses, same as when he'd walked in earlier, but just like then, he didn't let it show. Most of the crowd was dancing, though some people sat at tables eating cake or stood talking near the makeshift bar. Abner sat by himself near the buffet tables, and Jeremy accidentally made eye contact with him. He gave a slight nod, hoping that would be enough to allow him to walk away unbothered.

He was about to pass through the breezeway that led to his room—when his eyes fell on a pale yellow sweater draped over the back of a white chair. The chair Tamra had sat in earlier, where her purse had been resting as well. She'd left her sweater behind.

Jeremy knew it would likely make its way back to her—her friends would know it was hers. But he picked it up anyway, then exited through the breezeway. It would be easier if he just returned it himself—that way he'd be sure.

As he left the party, though, he realized the only question was: Did he go back into his room and go to bed, holding on to the sweater until Monday? Or . . . did he return it now?

F
LETCHER
and Bethany had just left the dance floor and found drinks to quench their thirst. He held his up, grinning into her eyes, and said, “Here's to new friends.”

In response, she lowered her chin slightly and flashed him a coy look. “I hope you don't mean that.”

He didn't understand, tilted his head. “What?”

Her smile held confidence. And mystery. “I like you, Fletcher,” she said. “And I want to be more than just friends.” And with that, she lifted one well-manicured hand to his freshly shaven jaw, her touch as soft as an angel's, then lifted a kiss to his cheek.

“Be right back,” she told him then, quick as that walking boldly away toward the bathroom, and he realized he'd felt that kiss as keenly as if it had been on his mouth. It tingled all through him. He'd forgotten that—how good a woman's touch could feel, the sensations it could send echoing through his body.

He wasn't quite sure how this night had come into being. In ways, he felt like someone else—like she'd said earlier, some other version of himself from some other dimension. He looked different than he had just this morning. And he felt different, too. But at the same time, he was still himself. He just hadn't expected to suddenly have shaved off the beard and cut off the ponytail he'd worn his whole adult life. He hadn't expected to be dancing the night away with a
beautiful, alluring young woman he'd just met. He hadn't expected her to kiss his cheek, touch his face, tell him she wanted something more. And most of all, he hadn't expected to want it, too.

A glance down drew his eye to something sticking out of his jacket pocket. Reaching down, he drew it out—a yellow napkin with something written on it in ink.

It's a night for miracles!

He just stared at it, took in the words. The last time he'd found a note like this, it had ended life as he knew it. These words were so much better than those others had been. And he wasn't sure where the napkin had come from, so it felt almost as surreal as the rest of this evening. But it also felt true. A night for miracles indeed.

When he saw Bethany returning, walking toward him with that same bold, purposeful stride, he shoved the napkin back in his pocket. And decided to embrace miracles. He smiled boldly, hoping she'd see, understand, that he was ready. For her.

That was when someone tapped on his shoulder from behind—and he turned to find his wife standing there, four long years after he'd last seen her. “Hi, Fletch,” she said. “I'm home.”

“You are real, aren't you?” he said. “I have such real dreams very often. You might be one of them.”

Frances Hodgson Burnett,
The Secret Garden

F
LETCHER FELT
like he was seeing a ghost. He blinked, stared, tried to figure out if she was real.

She looked almost the same. Her hair was shorter, curlier than before. And her face perhaps showed a few signs of aging, the kind he'd never have noticed if he'd seen her every day. But her smile remained just as electrical, her eyes as bright.

“Kim,” he murmured, trying to wrap his head around this.

He'd spent all this time waiting, wanting, knowing she'd be back one day. But lately, just since meeting Bethany, he'd begun to think less about it, put his focus elsewhere—on what was in the here and now, in front of his eyes. If Kim had tapped him on the shoulder two weeks ago, he wouldn't have been nearly as stunned as he was right now.

“Look at you, Fletch,” she said, taking him in, same
as he was doing with her. “I barely recognized you. You shaved and cut your hair! You look great! It's so good to see you, my love.” She was shaking her head in a heartfelt way, the way of lovers long parted, the way he'd dreamed she would someday.

He just hadn't expected someday to be
tonight,
right now, when for the first time ever he'd been gathering the strength to finally move on.

Fletcher tried to think of words—but none came. He'd played this moment over in his head a thousand times—but it hadn't happened like this, in the middle of a party, in front of the people who'd become his friends, in front of a woman he'd been ready to kiss. Nothing about this felt the way he'd thought it would.

When finally he found his voice, he said, “Wh-where have you been?” From his peripheral vision he could see eyes upon him. Music still played, but the people who knew him best were watching, understanding that this long awaited place in time had finally come. He could barely hear anything over the pounding of his heart in his ears.

The question made Kim's smile fade. Funny thing was, he'd always planned to make it easy on her. To welcome her back with smiles and hugs and joy—and sort it all out after the fact. But that wasn't turning out like he'd expected either.

His wife swallowed visibly. “I'm so sorry, Fletch. No words can make up for it, I know.” She reached out, grabbed his hand. Her touch felt strange—both familiar and foreign. “Let's go somewhere and talk. Is there a place we can be alone?”

“I . . . I have a house. I bought a house.”

She looked surprised, understandably. They'd never
wanted to own property, be tied down—they were adventurers together. “A house?”

He just nodded. “It was a long time, Kim. Had to live somewhere.”

She looked appropriately guilty. Which he hadn't intended exactly—and yet he wasn't sorry to point out the obvious: Her actions had been monumentally life changing, and monumentally hurtful.

“Can . . . can we go there? Talk privately?” Clearly, she'd tuned in to the fact that even while some people around them still danced, they had an audience.

Fletcher felt . . . assaulted. By what he'd thought he wanted.
No, I do want it. Of course I do. I love her. I've always loved her.

I just can't believe . . . she's really back.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “Of course.” And then he remembered Bethany behind him. Lovely, vivacious Bethany. He turned to her. “I'm sorry,” he said.

She appeared nearly as dumbstruck as he felt. But she said, “It's okay. I understand. Do what you need to do.”

He just looked at her, torn inside. Somewhere in the last few minutes, he'd mentally committed to this, to letting something amazing happen with her—and he was sorry he wouldn't see where it led.

But God, Kim was back. Really back.

So of course he needed to take her home, to her
new
home, to
their
home, the home he'd bought to wait for her, and share with her.

He'd just never expected to feel so . . . lost.

But she's home, like you've always wanted. You'll go with her now, you'll hear what she has to say, you'll forgive her.

No, you've
already
forgiven her. Or at least that's what you've always told yourself.

You'll go with her and you'll start over and somehow all this will make sense.
He'd always assumed it would. He'd always thought the very moment she walked back into his life that he'd understand and there would be nothing but joy.

Why didn't it feel that way?

T
AMRA
sat in one of the Adirondack chairs that circled the fire pit. It had started to get chilly now that the hour had grown late, so she'd started a small blaze. It had kept her hands and mind busy after getting home, and now it kept her warm—good because she thought she might stay out here awhile. She needed more peace than usual tonight, the kind of peace her private garden gave her.

Part of her wanted to go inside and change—get rid of the dress that now suddenly made her feel like . . . like she'd been masquerading as someone else. Turned out she was still just her plain old self, afraid of her own feelings, afraid to be with a man. Perhaps it had just been too long. And she still carried too many scars. It was the only explanation she had for running away from him.

She hadn't changed, though, because she hadn't wanted to leave the garden for even that long. She wasn't sure anything could really heal her soul at this point, but the garden at least soothed it.

She wished the night hadn't ended this way. She'd wanted to claim her miracle, same as she wanted Fletcher to claim his. She'd thought she'd abandoned her fear and trepidation. Having Jeremy show up like that, transformed, for her, had truly
felt
like a miracle,
one she should honor. He'd seemed so much more . . . like someone she could really be with, in that way. He'd given her a reason to trust, to believe . . . at least a little.

But in the end, it hadn't been enough. A heavy sigh escaped her, seeming to weight the air. But then the light, pretty sound of a breeze tinkling through windchimes caught her ear, and she leaned her head back and took in the stars shining down through the tree branches above, and she was back in her safe place where nothing could hurt her.

The sound of the gate opening caused her to flinch and swing around to look.

Her heart began to pump painfully hard when she saw Jeremy walk in.

Oh God. It hadn't occurred to her that he'd follow her.

And he looked so good. She was still getting used to that—how handsome he suddenly was. Another reason for her heartbeat to hammer out of control.

He walked up next to her by the fire and held out her sweater. Oh—she'd totally forgotten it in her hurry to leave.

“Not exactly a glass slipper,” he said, “but I think when a woman rushes out of a heated moment and leaves something behind, the guy's supposed to take it to her and see if it fits, right? And then good stuff happens.”

She just looked at him, adjusting to the moment. And said, “I'm no Cinderella.”

He gave his head a speculative tilt. “I don't know. You were all dressed up at a party and went running. If the shoe fits . . . or in this case the sweater.” And then he drew his gaze from hers and began looking around, as if searching for something.

“What are you looking for?”

“A pumpkin. Maybe some mice. That sort of thing.” He flashed a small grin that nearly buried her.

“Afraid they're not here,” she said. “You've got the wrong girl.”

He raised his eyebrows as he held up the sweater. “No, this is definitely yours, Mary.”

She shook her head, uncertain what to say, but a little honesty spilled out. “I meant the wrong girl for . . . other things.” She met his gaze only briefly before jerking it away, staring into the fire.

“I don't believe that, either,” he told her. “You want other things as much as I do. The only question is why you won't let yourself have them.” He sat down on the arm of the chair closest to her. “Is it because we don't know each other well? Because we haven't dated? I could fix that.”

She peered up at him. It was nice to see he understood that even in this day and age some women wanted to get to know a guy before hopping into bed with him. It wasn't exactly hearts and flowers romance, but he wasn't a bad guy. He just had some issues—like her. And two people with issues . . . well, that sounded like a recipe for disaster.

She replied as openly as she could. “That might be part of it. But it's more than that.”

“Tell me,” he said, no longer smiling. “Make me understand.”

“No,” she said with another shake of her head. “I can't. It's . . . personal.”

“My tongue was in your mouth a little while ago. That's personal, too. We're into personal now. Tell me.”

Tamra drew in her breath—she didn't like being put
on the spot. She'd run away from him to escape that—and all of this, after all. So she simply shook her head one more time, more emphatically now.

“You really are pretty contrary,” he insisted.

“I'm not,” she argued.

His brows rose again. “What would
you
call it?”

She could hear her heartbeat in her ears. “Nervousness, I guess,” she confessed. “I'd call it nervousness.” A blush of humiliation crept over her.

She'd expected him to perhaps laugh at her childishness. But he simply told her, “Nothing to be nervous about here, Mary, I promise. I'm just a person, just like you.”

“The thing is,” she said, a little short of breath—because of what she was about to say, “it's been a long time since I've . . . had sex. And maybe I'm afraid . . . I won't know what to do.”

His eyes sparkled with understanding—because she'd let him in, into her fears, just a little. “Truth is, Mary, it's been a long time for me, too. Longer than I'd like to admit. And maybe you're not the only one a little . . . on edge about it.”

“You don't
seem
on edge,” she countered quickly.

“That's because . . . I want it more than I fear it. That's all.” He pushed back to his feet. “I wish you felt that way, too.” And with that, he let her sweater drop over the arm of the chair he'd just vacated and turned to walk back toward the gate, which had fallen shut behind him.

She felt like a loser. She needed to make him better understand.

“I'm really
not
like Cinderella,” she said behind him, standing up.

He stopped, looked back.

“I'm not . . . pretty.”

“I'd beg to differ,” he said, taking a short step back toward her. And her heart warmed. Until tonight, no one had made her feel pretty in a very long time. And even just since coming home, tonight's compliments had begun to wear off. Maybe . . . maybe she hadn't
really
believed them. But when Jeremy said it, it felt a little more real, for reasons she couldn't easily explain.

Yet still she argued. She got even more real with him. “I'm not a size six. Or even eight.”

At this, he looked perplexed. “Who gives a shit what size you wear?”

“I'm not like Christy or Cami or Bethany. I'm not skinny, or even thin. I'm not a Barbie doll.”

“If you haven't noticed, Mary, I like your body just fine.” He took another step in her direction. “Maybe I like having a little more to hold on to. And I
like
holding on to it—when I've had the chance to do that anyway.”

Huh. He liked her body. Her body, which . . . wasn't horrible, but she couldn't help comparing herself to her thinner, younger, more stylish friends. It took a second to absorb what he'd just said—and that he really meant it.

But maybe it boiled down to one more thing. One more secret envy. “There's another way I'm not like them, too. They go after what they want in life. They're so confident and bold—they never let fear stand in their way. But . . . I do.”

“Then that's the one and only thing I want to change about you, Mary.”

She stood there, considered that.

And he went on. “A month ago, I was afraid to walk out the fucking door. I was afraid to leave the fucking
yard. And then I did. And guess what? It's okay. Nothing terrible happened.” He shifted his weight from one foot to the other then, looked a little troubled, like he'd realized how much he'd just admitted to her. But he went on. “I'm the last guy to say I've dealt with my shit well. But I'm doing better. Because you just . . . have to. Otherwise you wake up one day old and alone and wonder if things could have been different. Sometimes you gotta be bigger than your fears.”

Tamra stood before him, frozen in place. By all his honesty. And by the challenge he'd issued. God knew she hadn't planned to tell him any of this—and it remained embarrassing, even if he'd admitted big weaknesses of his own. She'd thought the night was over. She'd thought she'd escaped all the challenges. She'd thought she was safe here.

But then he'd come into her garden. He'd entered her safe place and made it not safe anymore. It struck her that he was the only person to ever do that, the only person to ever let himself into her private place without being invited.

When she didn't reply to all he'd just said, he finally gave up, turned to go again.

But there were moments in life when a person was tested. And Tamra knew this was just such a moment—she could feel it in her bones. She'd run from him twice. And now he'd entered her sacred space—he'd made himself . . . a part of it suddenly, in a way. She'd promised Fletcher she'd open herself to Jeremy. And more than that, she'd promised
herself
.

“Jeremy, wait.”