Chapter Six

As promised, Blake walked Tiffany to her car. He’d kissed her on the cheek and thought maybe he’d let her down. She’d had that wanting gaze in her eyes as if she’d wanted—needed more.

She’d said she was no prude, but that didn’t show respect to her if he took her up on her reputation. Even if it was a self-inflicted reputation, he thought. There was more to her. So much more to her. He could see this woman as the one he wanted to wake up to each morning for the rest of his life. That meant it didn’t start in the bed. It started with the slightest bit of restraint.

It was nearly four o’clock in the morning, but he certainly wasn’t tired. If anything, he was pent-up now. His morals and mother’s voice had danced in his head all night as he’d been with Tiffany.

The hotel gym was 24/7. That was a damn good thing. It was going to have to do to get his blood pressure evened out.

As he took the elevator down to the lower level, he wondered what he’d been thinking, inviting her to his room.

Okay, he knew what he’d been thinking, but it wasn’t how he did things. He was old fashioned. He’d been in a few relationships and he liked being loved. He liked when there was genuine interest in each other and not just in how they looked or how they performed in the dark.

Walking into the gym, he looked in the mirror. He thought he looked pretty good. His tats accentuated his biceps, which he worked hard on. Lifting up his shirt, there was that six-pack he’d kept since he was a wrestler in high school. That wasn’t easy either.

Tugging at his ponytail, he wondered what his mother would think if he actually cut it off. Not yet. He wasn’t ready for that. There was still some image to uphold—and he liked it.

His body had gotten him a lot of attention. He was fairly sure it had gotten Tiffany’s too, so why hadn’t she pushed to stay the night? Why didn’t she make a move on him? Hadn’t she said she wasn’t a saint?

Looking over the rack of barbells, he chose a set that would challenge him and began bicep curls. Usually, he’d take his time and admire how they flexed his muscles. This time, though, he could only think about the legs that rose from those expensive shoes and disappeared under the designer skirt. That red hair that flowed like a waterfall over her shoulders and smelled of fragrant blossoms still lingered in his senses. He closed his eyes and he could feel the heat from those green eyes and the spark from her touch.

No, he didn’t take women home for one night, but he wondered, with those assets, why he had stopped himself. It was apparent, by the loss of blood to his head and the change in appearance in the mirror, that she spiked his masculinity. What would it have hurt to have just spent the night with her? One lovely, restless night?

He racked the weights.

His heart had begun to race.

It would have taken away everything he deemed important. So why would he have considered it? Because it meant more. This was his lightning strike, his ah-ha moment. His mother always told him it would come and this must have been it.

Their time together had been minimal.

They knew so little about each other. But they were in each other’s path for a reason.

His fingers began to itch for his guitar. She is the one, repeated in his head. Her heart is wild. Tapping out a beat on his hand he hurried back to the elevator. Something about her—she’s mine. Forever mine.

By the time he’d made it to his room, dug out his key card, and unpacked his guitar, he’d nearly written the entire song in his head.

Damn—she was his muse.

~*~

Tiffany wrapped up the cord on the vacuum and wiped away the tear that had run down her cheek. Blake hadn’t shown up. Some man of his word.

The showcases glistened and the Christmas décor enhanced the look of the little store, which tomorrow would be bustling with energetic men looking for that last minute gift they’d neglected to prepare for.

How in the hell was she going to put on her happy face for that?

Usually talking about her craft would make her giddy with pride. There were few that didn’t walk into her store and walk out with something. She was skilled at what she did and the damn name on the door should prove that, she thought as she sucked in a breath and wiped her tears.

It would have been easier for her to accept that Blake just wasn’t into her and that he blew her off—if she’d slept with him. She’d had enough nights where she’d blown the man off and vice versa. It didn’t hurt as badly. If she’d given everything to him and he lived up to her image of—oh, she didn’t really know what image at all anymore. He looked like the bad boy. From the moment he joined her in Spencer’s kitchen and eased in right next to her with his beer to sitting with her so close on the couch in the barn, he’d looked the bad boy. That sexy wink of his and the hair and the tattoos…

It made her ache inside.

The tattoo of his mother’s name on his arm made her tear up again. He was a mama’s boy and proud of it. No man had ever been like that. No man but Spencer.

She held her hand to her chest. How could she possibly even think Blake was anything like Spencer? And really, that wasn’t a good thing was it? She loved Spencer, she really did, but not in the way you loved someone forever—as in marriage.

Besides, why did she even care? She carried the cleaning supplies to the back room and put them where they belonged. The idiot didn’t even make a move on her last night and he didn’t show up today when he’d given her his word. Obviously she meant nothing.

That was good.

Tomorrow was Christmas Eve and she’d be busy all night. Her mother had already invited her over for dinner, but as it had been for the past two years, Tiffany hardly made it home before Santa flew over. She didn’t see tomorrow being any different.

She picked up her purse and flung it over her shoulder. It didn’t really matter where she ate dinner anyway, she thought. She certainly wasn’t in the mood to celebrate.

She locked up her store and stood at the front window display and looked in. This was her marriage—her store. It was shiny and beautiful and all she ever needed in her life. No man could ever compare to her sparkly store and her room full of shoes.

She sniffed back more tears.

Those things would just have to do.