Take Me All the Way (19 page)

“My parents started going to church—but kind of a left-of-center church. My dad was really into it, and then Mom got into it, too. And at first it seemed . . . nice. That first Christmas after they started going, they asked my brother and I to give up a few of the gifts we would have normally received to donate to a needy family. And that was good, you know? It taught me not to be selfish, and made me aware that there were people who weren't as comfortable as us.

“Only then it got more radical. They spent more and more time with their church friends. And the next thing I knew, they were selling our house, packing up our things, and driving us in a caravan with five other families to a commune in Arizona.”

She paused for a second, remembering the hardest parts. “I had to say goodbye to everything I knew—and then, after that, we suddenly weren't a family anymore. My parents became Don and Debbie, just two more adults in a place where I was suddenly told they were
all
my parents. I no longer lived with them or my brother—I was put in a bunkhouse with seven other girls near my age and a woman who supervised us. The whole commune ate in a big dining hall. We cooked together, we ate together, we planted a garden together, we attended daily worship ceremonies together. All as one, everything shared, the equity from our house and other assets going into the communal bank account.

“And so . . . if I'm a little weird in ways, that's why.
I was
raised
weird.” She tried to give a little laugh, but thought it came out sounding as cynical as it felt.

“I can't imagine what that was like,” he said. “To suddenly have your family not be . . . your family anymore.”

“Yeah,” she said on a sigh. “It was pretty awful. To suddenly have the people you love and depend on, the people who are supposed to love you back, just seem to . . . stop. They talked a good game about there being even more love for all of us there, but I never felt that.”

“Seems like . . . a decision you shouldn't inflict on your kids,” he said.

And she felt grateful that he understood. As much as anyone could understand without having lived it. “Exactly. And I've always resented them for that. It was a very strange existence. People there talked about love and caring all the time—they talked about how we all loved one another equally. And yet, when your family gives up their ties to you, it doesn't feel much like love. And even relationships formed with other people came without . . .” She stopped, trying to find the right words.

“Without?” he prodded.

“Reverence. Or accountability.” And that made her tell him the rest. A short version anyway. “When I got older—sixteen, seventeen—more than one man there acted . . . well, as if he loved me. But all the talk about how much we all loved each other just painted a pretty face on sex—you know, they claimed it was all just them wanting to express their love and wanting me to express it back, but . . .” She stopped because it was difficult to share this. Even though she'd been young at the time, it still embarrassed her how easily she'd been taken advantage of.

“But they were only using me. And I guess I was pretty hungry for love of any kind by then. Real love, I mean. What my parents had taken from me. I had no one in my life that I could claim a meaningful relationship with. And each time a guy came along telling me I was pretty, and special, I bought into it, thinking they were going to love me in a real way.

“They never did,” she added, even though she knew that was pretty obvious by this point. “And I just kept getting hurt over and over. And the odd thing was . . . most of the other people there had been so brainwashed that they didn't feel the emptiness of it like I did. Don and Debbie never regretted the move. They were still there when I left, and I haven't talked to them since, other than an occasional postcard. My brother learned to be happy there, too—but he found someone there to love who loved him back, and I suppose that could make a big difference.”

“What made you leave?” Jeremy asked.

“The last man who let me down. He told me how much he loved me—at the same time he was telling three other girls the same thing and hopping from bed to bed and, as far as I could tell, believing this was entirely okay and that I was crazy for misunderstanding. I was twenty-one—he was thirty.” She shook her head. “I was so vulnerable. And that's why . . . why I don't like to be vulnerable now. I like to be in control of my life and my feelings.”

“Where did you go when you left?” he asked.

“I was given a little money—to be exact I was given one one-hundred-and-forty-seventh of what was in the communal bank account because there were a hundred and forty-seven people there at the time. It was
enough to buy a used a car and rent a crappy apartment outside Tempe for a few months. I worked as a waitress at a truck stop and didn't like the clientele much. And so I saved just enough to keep myself afloat as I moved from place to place, selling as much of my art as I could, but it's a hard thing to get started in—clay costs money, glaze costs money, firing costs money.

“The whole time, though, I just had this idea that if I could get to Florida, I'd be happy. Crazy, I know,” she said, shaking her head lightly against his chest as a slightly self-deprecating smile took her, “but I always idealized Florida. We'd taken one family vacation there when I was eight. I met Mickey Mouse and walked through Cinderella's castle and got to feel sand on my toes—and it all felt magical. Like a dreamland.

“And the really amazing thing is . . . I eventually found
this
place. Coral Cove. Six years after I left Arizona. And it doesn't sparkle like Cinderella's castle, but in its own way, for me, it's just as magical. Because it feels like home. Because my friends feel like family. Because it's safe, and a little old-fashioned, and no one in this town would ever stop loving their kid for no good reason.

“I've spent the time since then sort of . . . rebuilding my understanding of life, and reinventing my own. And mostly, I've done pretty well, I think.”

“I'd say you've done amazing,” Jeremy told her, and he meant it. Because damn, he couldn't have imagined everything hiding inside her. But now that he knew . . . well, it took everything murky about her and made it crystal clear. She wasn't so contrary, after all—she was just . . . surviving, the only way she knew how. Kind
of like he'd been doing—except he thought Tamra had done a much more respectable job of it.

He was surprised when she lifted her gaze briefly to his, but then pulled her eyes back down, looking uncharacteristically sheepish as she said, “I wouldn't go so far as amazing.”

“I would. Most people don't have what it takes to go after the life they want when it's that far out of reach.”

She shrugged. “I suppose, but . . . it's not as if I don't have my issues.”

He raised his eyebrows and teased her, saying, “Issues? What issues?”

“Like I said, sex and relationships were cheap where I grew up. Turned me off of it for a while.”

“But I turned you back on?” he asked, casting a flirtatious grin. Damn, she drew that out of him so easy.

“Don't be smug,” she kidded.

He just laughed. Something about her made him want to flirt and play. And given how long it had been since he'd felt that way, he kept wanting to indulge it. “Just wondering why me,” he told her.

“Good question,” she said with a smile—and he laughed out loud.

Though then it hit him. She'd just told him she hadn't had sex since she was twenty-one. And damn, that was . . . big. But rather than point that out, he decided to just be thankful he was the man who'd broken her long drought.

“There aren't a lot of single guys in Coral Cove,” she pointed out. “And so I guess I'm just lucky you didn't get put off by my . . . being contrary.”

“Who said I didn't get put off by it?” He flashed another grin, an additional wink.

And she smiled back at him. “Well, you've been willing to put up with it. More or less.”

At this, Jeremy shrugged. “Musta thought you were worth it.”

“You can be pretty contrary yourself, you know.”

The accusation drew another chuckle from him. “Fair enough. Maybe we're birds of a feather.”

Another contented expression reshaped her face, and he could tell she liked that idea. “Maybe
that's
why you.”

Still, it made him laugh a little more. “Because we're both so hard to put up with that nobody else will?”

She laughed, too, and he squeezed her to him a little tighter, using one hand to grab playfully onto the feminine fingers resting against his chest.

She was right—they were rougher than most women's. And yet he liked something about that—the realness, the lack of affectation. Because that was how
he
was. Not how he'd always been—but how he was now.

“So what makes
you
so contrary, Mr. Bird of a Feather?” she asked.

He answered bluntly. “War. Post-traumatic stress syndrome, to be more exact.”

“What kind of stuff . . . happened to you over there?”

He just looked at her. He hadn't expected her to ask so directly. Most people didn't. Most people knew that a guy with PTSD didn't want to talk about his PTSD.

And he suspected she could read that in his expression right now, but instead of backing away from the topic, she said, “I told you mine. Tell me yours.”

Shit. She was right.

He still wanted to cop out, though. Because her stuff was a long time ago. And yeah, it was worse than he'd
expected. But his stuff . . . his stuff couldn't be said. He'd only ever said it once, to Lucky. A drunken confession. But he wasn't drunk now. And felt suddenly thankful that he'd only had one of those little green mojitos they'd been handing out at the party—since he wasn't ready to tell her or anyone else his darkest secret.

Fortunately, however, there was plenty else he could fill in the blank with. Stuff that had scarred him, just not as bad as the part he didn't talk about. So he constructed another honest answer—just made it one he could handle. “I lost friends. Saw a lot of other death, too. Not sure what was worse—civilian casualties or seeing my buddies die. Fucking hated how out of control it all felt.” His chest contracted—everything inside him had tensed, in fact. He wondered if she could feel it, too.

“Did you have to kill people?”

His eyes flew to hers. Damn, talk about direct. And she had no idea what a big question she was asking. “Yes,” he said. Just that, nothing more.

“I'm sorry,” she whispered.

“Thank you,” he answered tightly. “Can we change the subject?”

She bit her lip, looking thoughtful, pretty. He liked how messy her hair appeared in the moonlight. “Maybe I should just . . . give you something better to think about.”

“Like what?” he asked, eyes narrowing on her.

“Like this,” she said.

And then she eased her hand down between his legs, directly into his still-open shorts.

“Let her run wild in the garden.”

Frances Hodgson Burnett,
The Secret Garden

J
EREMY LAY
beneath her, a willing captive, as she straddled him in the hammock, hovering above him like some sexy angel. And then she lowered herself onto him, sheathing his hardness in her moist warmth. They both issued low moans at the pleasure of reconnecting.

He explored her body as she moved on him in that timeless rhythm, letting his hands glide over her soft thighs and round hips, letting them push upward to mold and caress her ample breasts. He stroked his thumbs over the taut nipples that jutted through her dress and bra. Damn, he hadn't even seen them yet—but he supposed there was plenty of time.

When she leaned her head back in passion, he took in the long swath of her neck, the curtain of messy auburn tresses that fell down her back and over her shoulders. He liked when her fingernails dug lightly into his chest.

And then he got to see her come again. And it was
a beautiful thing. Beautiful in any woman—but more so in her. Because it was the other side of her, the side she'd clearly spent years running from and denying. The side he and only he had brought out of her.

Watching her face flush with the climax, listening to her cries of sweet release waft downward, excited the hell out of him. So much that—aw God, yes—he was gonna come, too. She'd just barely finished, relaxing her body, bending to rest against his chest—when he said, “Aw—me too, honey, me too,” and thrust himself upward in three rough drives that sent him blasting almost violently into her cocooning warmth.

Like last time, they didn't talk at first afterward, content to lie in each other's arms just soaking up the night.

Though after a few minutes, it crossed his mind that maybe she was being
too
quiet, and wondered if it was a hint. “Um, do you want me to leave, Mary? Not stay the night?”

She raised her head from his chest, a hint of alarm coloring her eyes. “No. Why?” Then she blinked, looking a little nervous. “Unless you want to.”

Okay, he'd read her wrong. Good. But with someone who could be as prickly as her, he'd figured he'd better ask. Even if she'd stopped being prickly. Never knew when she'd start up again, after all. “I don't, and just checking,” he told her with a wink.

A minute later, as he gazed up at the expanse of stars stretching out overhead, he said, “I like your hammock. You use it much?”

“Mmm hmm,” she replied. “But . . . I've never used it this
well
before.”

Her playful, contented smile was the last sight he
remembered before falling into one of the most peaceful sleeps he'd experienced in the last two years.

W
HEN
Tamra woke the next day, Jeremy still slept soundly beneath her. She lay watching him in the early morning sun, filled with awe.
Did last night really happen? Did I finally let go of all those old hang-ups? Am I really lying here with him right now? And is he really that hot?
She was still adjusting to how he looked now, wondering why he'd hidden that handsome face.

She bit her lip, stunned to recall how naturally she'd initiated that second round of sex, how easy it had suddenly felt to touch him, and to
be
touched by him.

He'd somehow given her back the confidence she'd lost so long ago. She felt . . . free, alive, and like anything was possible. It was like breaking out of a jail she'd built around herself without ever realizing it.

She smiled down on his sleeping form for a moment—and then eased out of the hammock without waking him. Heading inside, she put on a pot of coffee, then traded her dress for a pair of cotton drawstring shorts and a T-shirt.

After pouring coffee into a couple of big mugs, she carried them out to find him sitting in one of her Adirondack chairs.

“I don't know how you take yours,” she said, handing him one of the large cups.

He accepted it and said, “I'm easy,” with one of his cute winks. Winks that, a few weeks ago, she'd have called lecherous. But she'd learned to appreciate Jeremy's flirtatious streak.

She took a seat in the chair next to his, again think
ing about how he'd entered her garden, her private sanctuary, but how it was a richer place now for his presence. And how it would now hold new memories of a very different kind, how the space would take on a whole new positive sort of energy for her. It had already been a place she loved and cherished, but she suddenly loved it more for having shared it.

After they finished their coffee, he set his empty mug on the stone wall of the fire pit and said, “I should probably get going, Mary.”

“Your cat is probably wondering where you are,” she suggested with a grin.

His reproachful look came with an indulgent grin. “He's not my cat. I'm a—”

“A dog guy, I know.” She placed her cup beside his. “I heard you named him.”

He shrugged it off. “He hangs around all the time—had to call him
something
.”

And she replied with a playful roll of her eyes. “Whatever you say, dog guy.”

As he stood up, she did, too, pleased when he pulled her into an embrace and gave her a long kiss goodbye that left her literally weak in the knees. Not to mention tingling between her legs again.

And as they walked toward the gate, hand in hand, she couldn't help thinking that for a night she'd very nearly screwed up, it couldn't have turned out any more perfect.

Stopping at the garden's entrance, she thoughtfully bit her lower lip and peered up into those striking blue eyes of his to say, “I don't know if there will be more of this, but . . . it was the nicest thing to happen to me in a long time.”

In response, Jeremy's gaze widened. “Why wouldn't there be more?”

She liked that answer.

Then he tilted his head. “I mean, unless . . . do you
want
more?”

“Yes.” It was so much easier to just be bold with him now, just say what she meant.

“Me, too,” he said with a confirming nod.

“Okay, then.” She smiled up at him. “There will be more.”

“So much more you might not be able to walk straight,” he informed her.

At which she sucked in her breath, both in shock and anticipation.

One more wink from him as he said, “Bye for now, Mary.” And then he was gone.

A
LMOST
as soon as Jeremy was gone, she found her phone and texted Fletcher. A
RE YOU AWAKE?
W
E NEED A CATCH-UP SESSION.
Normally, she might not go shouting such private news from the rooftops, but given her deal with him, it made sense. And she felt too good to keep it bottled up.

His reply a moment later: Y
OU HAVE NO IDEA
. C
OME ON OVER
. I
'M ON THE PORCH
. W
E'LL HAVE WAFFLES
.

Tamra wasted no time crossing the street, eager to hear what had transpired for her friend last night with Bethany, and just as anxious to share her own happy news. When she bounded up onto the covered porch that faced the ocean, she found Fletcher sitting at the wicker table already eating a waffle—and a plate with a second waffle set for her.

“Yum,” she said.

“I woke up early—needed to do something, so I made waffles.”

Two things struck her as she pulled out a wicker chair and took a seat. First, she still wasn't used to Fletcher's new look. And second, his clean-shaven face didn't appear nearly as happy as she might've hoped. “Why do you look bummed?” she asked.

But he shook his head. “You go first. My news is bigger than yours, and more complicated, so we'll save it.”

She flinched, sitting up a little straighter. “That's a bold statement considering that you don't even
know
my news. It might be astronomical. In fact, I'd say it
is
astronomical.”

“It can't beat mine, promise. Now spill.” She'd seldom seen her friend look so tense.

And that sort of took some of the wind out of her merry sails, but she still tried to sound as joyful as she felt inside when she said, “I had sex with Jeremy last night. Twice. And it was amazing! I feel like I'm on top of the world. He just left.” She paused, then gave a confident nod. “Astronomical, right?”

Next to her, Fletcher smiled. “You're right—astronomical.” He set his fork on his plate to reach out and squeeze her hand. And he seemed more like his usual, happy Fletcher self when he said, “You look really happy. I'm so glad for you, Tam. I knew good things would come to you if you'd just drop your guard enough to let them in.”

She nodded, because he'd been right about that. “So, do you still think your news is bigger?” she challenged.

And he picked his fork back up, cut off a bite of
syrup-covered waffle, and said, “Kim came home.” Then shoved the chunk of waffle into his mouth.

All the blood drained from Tamra's face. “Okay, you got me. Your news is bigger.”

“Yep,” he said, still seeming a little too preoccupied by his breakfast.

She couldn't believe it. All this time he'd been right—his blind faith had actually somehow brought his wife back to him. Wow.

Only . . . why wasn't he out of his mind with joy? And that was when it hit her to ask, “Um, how come you're eating waffles with me and not her?”

“She's still asleep. We were up late talking.”

“And, and, and . . .” Her mind raced—there was so much to ask that she could barely summon questions. But then she did. “Did she come find you at the party? How did she know where you were exactly? Where has she been? And . . . why don't you look happy about all this?” She
hated
that he didn't look happy. Because if you get the one thing in the world you want most and it doesn't make you happy . . . could anything?

He nodded. “Yeah, she came to the party. Later she told me she'd planned to start at the Happy Crab because that's where we were staying when she left. She didn't know if I'd still be here, but she had nowhere else to start, as I always knew would be the case.

“As for where she's been, a lot of places.” He stopped, sighed. “Long story short, she was . . . unfulfilled. So she connected with other guys. Which sucks. But then she decided she wants me more than any of them. And I'm sure I'll start feeling the good part of that . . . once I process the rest.”

Tamra's heart sank for him. “Oh Fletcher,” she said softly. “That's the one thing we never thought about, isn't it? That when she came back, the reasons she went away might hurt.”

He shrugged. “Maybe I knew they would. But I thought I'd be so happy it wouldn't matter. I guess something about having Bethany in the equation changed that. Maybe because, for the first time, I had started looking in another direction for that kind of happiness. And in one way, it scared me to death—but in another, I kinda liked what I saw.”

Tamra drew in her breath, thinking it through. “Were you with Bethany when Kim showed up?”

He nodded, wiped a napkin across his mouth. “It was awkward and I felt bad about it.”

“The timing's not your fault.”

He nodded once more.

“I'm just sad that . . .
you
seem so sad. This isn't how it was supposed to be.”

“I know,” he said quietly.

Tamra tilted her head. “I mean, I was never really sure I believed she'd come back. But when I envisioned it, I always imagined you being . . . overjoyed.”

“I saw it that way, too.” His eyebrows knit as he dropped his gaze to his half-eaten waffle, then raised it back to her. And his expression again shifted to that of the more content, peaceful Fletcher, the man who had it all completely under control. “And it'll be that way. Soon.”

Just then, the screen door behind them opened and a thin woman with shoulder-length brown hair stepped through it, wearing a too-large bathrobe that probably belonged to Fletcher. She smiled at him. “Good morn
ing, Fletch.” Then she shook her head, as if stunned by the sight of him. “It's so good to wake up to that face. More of that face that I've never even seen before,” she added on a light laugh, and Tamra assumed that meant his wife hadn't ever seen him without a beard either.

“Morning, Kim,” he replied, meeting her gaze, and Tamra could see him taking her in, too, still adjusting to the newness of it all.

Then she turned to Tamra. “I'm Kim. You must be Tamra. Fletcher told me so much about you last night. It's a real pleasure to meet you.” She held out her hand and Tamra took it, gently shook it. “I hope we can be friends.”

And Tamra said, “I hope so, too.” Though what she really meant was,
I hope you'll spend every second of every day of the rest of your life treating this man like the prince among men that he is—and maybe then I can like you enough and forgive you enough that we can get along.

“Should . . . I join you for breakfast?” Kim asked. “Or are you catching up and would rather talk privately? I can go take a shower or something.” She pointed over her shoulder to the door she'd just exited.

But Fletcher said, “No, of course not—grab a plate. And there are more waffles in the kitchen.”

Tamra had to admit Kim seemed polite. But she still wished Fletcher looked happier.

And she also thought the two of them probably needed alone time more than company right now. So, though she'd only eaten a few bites, she said, “Actually, I should run. I promised to help clean up after the party this morning.” She pushed back her chair. “You two enjoy breakfast together, and . . . welcome home, Kim.”

“Thank you,” Kim said with a warm smile.

Yet even as she'd spoken those last words, it had struck Tamra that this wasn't Kim's home. Not yet anyway. It was Fletcher's home. And it was her home. And it was Reece's and lots of other people's home. And it was a great place to
make
a home. But Kim hadn't done that yet.