Chapter 12
A patio table and a citronella candle flickering between them, Drake scanned the dark yard in an attempt not to stare at Zoe. A humid breeze relieved the sticky heat and the trickle from the nearby riverbed mingled with the chirp of crickets. Birch and sequoia leaves crackled, their branches creating shadows within the shadows.
She’d been at his house for an hour, and already his nerves were frayed. It had started with her may I come in request. As if she hadn’t already burrowed under his skin. How much farther could she go? Then the chaos continued straight through redecorating discussions and into dinner. Outside. On his patio. Under the stars. Hell, there were even fireflies winking in the distance.
Her outfit hadn’t helped. Jeans that had more holes than denim and a skin-tight white T-shirt which left nothing to the imagination. And yeah, he was starting to imagine all sorts of things. It wasn’t simply her clothes or the way she wore them that had his pulse thrumming.
He’d seen her in something similar, though it had been too long. Her painting gear, as she’d named it. Memories of her wielding a brush over canvas floated around in his head and stuck. Christ, she had such talent. He hadn’t seen her work in years, other than manning her caricature booth at town events. Which was not her expertise, nor were the cartoon murals she’d done on the clinic walls.
Zoe’s niche was naturist scenes, but with a twist. A play on surrealism, she claimed. She’d paint a field of grass and then throw in something crazy—such as an ant tea party. Or a brick wall teeming with vines and a ghost sitting on top. His favorite to date had been a summer pond with tiny people crouched on the lily pads instead of frogs.
“You can still cook well, Drake. This is really good.”
His gaze shifted to hers, and he smiled. She’d eaten all the meatloaf, scalloped potatoes, and green beans. “Thanks. It’s been awhile. Kind of stupid cooking for just one. You know, Mom taught all three of us how to use the kitchen.”
Zoe nodded, dropping her chin in her palm. The candlelight changed her hazel eyes to more of a mossy green. A hum from her throat had his gaze dipping to the long, smooth column of her neck. “She wanted well-rounded boys. Nothing wrong with that. Though the cooking part didn’t really stick with Cade.”
Laughing, he rubbed his jaw. “No, I don’t suppose it did.”
Her chest expanded with a deep breath, and down came her walls. He watched as, little by little, her expression opened to reveal the affection he’d always known was underneath. The heart of her she proved with actions, but rarely spoke aloud. He didn’t know what caused it, but he’d kill to keep her this way.
Nudging his plate aside, he sat back. “What’s with the faintly amused smile?”
“Nothing.” She shrugged, her gaze studying him, smile never slipping. “Haven’t heard you laugh much lately. I missed the sound.”
“Right back at you.” Twofold.
“Well,” she drawled, rising to her feet. “Now that you put me in a food coma, let’s start painting.”
She reached for their dishes and he stopped her with a hand on her forearm. Stacking the plates, he bumped his chin toward the sliding door. Following her inside, he set the dishes in the sink, put away the leftovers, and joined her in the living room.
Hands on her hips, she glanced around. “Do you have new pictures in mind?”
He’d taken down the photos on the mantle as well as the art Heather had chosen for the walls. That was about as far as he got. “Not really. Figured I’d go through photo albums.” Heather had a few of Zoe’s older pieces up in the hallway, but they were too small for this room. “Do you still have that lily pad painting?”
She blinked at him.
“What?”
Abruptly, she bent and retrieved a roll of blue border tape from the bag by the paint cans. “I’m just surprised you remember it. That was, like, eight years ago.”
What was with her sudden backbone? “It’s my favorite.”
Adjusting her ponytail, she stared at him. “I have it in storage. It’s yours if you want it. Probably would look better in the guestroom upstairs, though. The color scheme matches.”
Slowly, he nodded, not understanding her defensive posture or the way she looked like he’d hauled off and slugged her. “Does it bother you to give it away?”
“Nope.”
“Then it upsets you I want to hang it?”
“Nope.”
He frowned, needing an inch from her and getting zilch. “Remember when I said I never know what to say to you? This is one of those times. Give me some direction because I obviously did something wrong.” She wasn’t exactly pissed off, per se, but her rigid shoulders and utter avoidance of meeting his gaze at least gave him an inkling to her mood.
Unwrapping cellophane from the tape roll, she walked to the garbage and tossed out the clear wrap. Head bowed, she returned, brows worried in thought. “You’ve never shown interest in my paintings before. You don’t have to offer to display one for the sake of being nice. I was only asking about the walls because—”
“Zoe.”
“No, I’m serious. You—”
“Zoe. I mean this as kindly as possible, but shut up.” He walked toward her until they stood toe to toe, then dipped his face to look in her eyes. “My mother has two of your pieces hanging in her living room. Cade has three, Flynn and Gabby one each, at least. I have a couple upstairs in the hall.”
“Yes, but Heather wanted them.” Her tentative tone had his eyes narrowing.
“As did I, Zoe. You used to show Heather all your work the second the canvas dried. Your talent blows me away. The detail, the imagination. So why the hell wouldn’t I want to display them, too?”
Eyes round, she stared at him. Not one muscle shifted, nor did she seem to be breathing.
And hell. Her eyes got a little misty. Not enough to well or for tears to form, but he’d obviously touched a sore spot. Hand to God, how had she not known her art left him speechless? Maybe he hadn’t been supportive enough, or perhaps he’d just not known what to say, but damn if he wouldn’t make himself clear.
She swallowed with what looked like effort and turned away.
He stuck his fingers in the back pockets of her jeans and hauled her against him. She let out a barely perceptible gasp and white-knuckled the tape, pressing the roll to her chest. He’d never had her at his mercy, never thought it was possible. Yet she sank against him as if unable or unwilling to shift away. Desire coiled low in his gut, but he had a point to make first.
Resting his chin on her shoulder, he brushed his nose against the soft skin under her ear. He breathed in her lavender scent and closed his eyes. “I’m not requesting your art because I feel obligated or because we’re friends or out of a sense of being polite. I want to look around my house and see pieces of you here right along with my family, with Heather. You’ve been a part of my life since birth, Zoe. You’re important to me.”
“Damn you, Drake.” The broken, whispered curse showed just how affected she was by him, even if her body weren’t sending him signals.
Hell if he had any idea where to go from here, but at least he knew now they were in the same book and not just two volumes sharing shelf space. “I often find myself damning you, as well.”
Her breathy laugh puffed like smoke. “I’d like to point out that you’re touching my ass again.”
Unable to help it, he chuckled and rested his chin on top of her head. “I willingly admit to it this time.” Centimeter by centimeter, he slowly withdrew his fingers from her back pockets, enjoying the slight curve of her and how her breath caught with the intimate touch. “If we want to get this room done tonight, we should get started.”
He’d much rather explore the sizzling chemistry, but a breather was in order and his furniture was coming tomorrow. Time to think wasn’t a half bad plan either. It felt like they’d gone from zero to holy shit in under a week.
Three hours later, they had two coats of burgundy paint on the walls and most of the mess cleaned up. He’d caught her glancing at him several times and snuck his own peeks when she’d been occupied. Pretty hard not to with the way she moved in those jeans. Fluid grace and tempting as sin. Like right now as she washed her hands at his kitchen sink, her back to him and hips swaying. Cute and seductive in the same breath.
He’d set his iPod to random with Ed Sheeran’s Photograph song currently playing. The lyrics about love healing and hurting and being the only thing the singer knew were hauntingly similar to Drake’s own mindset. And reminded him not to let Gabby load her sappy songs anymore.
Whistling for the dogs, he let them outside. When he came back in, Zoe was on the second to top rung of the stepladder, peeling border tape off the ceiling beam joists. Her arms were stretched over her head, her white tee riding up to expose a patch of midriff.
He walked through the kitchen toward the living room. “You should’ve waited for me. You’re a little short for that task.”
“I prefer vertically challenged, and I think I’ve got all of it.”
He grabbed the base of the ladder just in case as she twisted to pull off the last strip. Her shirt rose higher, and his gaze landed on her taut stomach above the low-rise of her jeans. Circled around her belly button was a tattoo ring of tiny purplish-blue flowers. As the breath trapped in his lungs, he lifted his hand and pressed it over the ink.
She teetered and plopped her rearend on the top of the ladder. The tape fell from her fingers to the floor like ribbon.
He should’ve asked if it was okay, should’ve not startled her while in a precarious position. But his heart pounded and his airway was blocked. Without thinking, he grabbed her hips and shifted her down two rungs until she stood in front of him, her belly at eye level. Gently, he lifted her shirt and traced the flowers with his fingertips. Her stomach quivered and concaved at his touch.
He cleared his throat. “When did you get this tattoo?”
She looked down at him, her expression swiveling between turned on and nervous rabbit. “A few years ago.” She paused. “They’re—”
“Forget-me-nots. They were Heather’s favorite flower.”
“Yes.” She bit her lip, trembling under his fingertips as he stroked. Her chest rose and fell in rapid succession. “Drake?”
Christ, the way she said his name. Breathy, needy, and with traces of apprehension he was certain he’d never heard in her tone before. Well, not until recently, anyhow. He had a sudden urge to genuflect every time she uttered it.
Tearing his gaze from hers, he refocused on the ink. This was one of her many tattoos, and each one seemed to have its own motive. He just couldn’t pin down what or why or if there was a pattern. Cause and effect played around in his consciousness, but no definitive answers were forthcoming, only suspicion. It was time he asked.
He lifted his gaze to hers while splaying his fingers over her soft skin. A charge zinged from the contact and radiated up his arm. “Why did you get this tattoo in particular?”
She stared at him like she was trying to decide if she should respond or as if she were choosing her words with extreme care. “It was a way to keep her with me. A reminder to forget her not.”
Slayed him. Every time, she slayed him. He closed his eyes for a beat to collect himself before sliding his hands around her waist and easing her down another rung until they were eye-to-eye. Drake visited Heather’s grave once a week, and every Sunday for the past four years, a fresh-cut bouquet of forget-me-nots were set in the in-ground vase by her headstone. Didn’t matter the season, they were always there like clockwork. He’d figured it had been Zoe all along, but the confirmation had his sinuses prickling.
Zoe, with her heart too big for her chest and eyes too big for her face, had used her body as a canvas to tell stories. Map memories.
He stroked her ribs with his thumbs, then lifted her hand and kissed her inner wrist. “I understand what the paintbrush tattoo implies.” Her art, of course, but he didn’t get the symbol on her other wrist. Lifting it, he kissed that spot, too. “What does the shooting star mean?”
Again with the should-I-answer expression. “It’s a meteor, actually. The star was more aesthetically pleasing to look at.”
Meteor? A memory fizzled as his gaze wandered.
Once, somewhere around senior year of college, he and Heather were supposed to double-date with Zoe. Except her partner had blown her off and Heather had gotten the flu. Drake and Zoe had wound up at Redwood Ridge Park with a cheap bottle of wine and watched the meteor shower. They’d gotten drunk and he’d laughed his ass off listening to her make fun of the other gazers during the once in a lifetime cosmic event.
Wait. She’d tattooed a memory of him? Or was she referring to something else, making him the most self-centered jackass this side of the Klamath?
She bit her lip. “That was a pretty great night. My date abandoned me, but it wasn’t a total wash. We had fun.” She bowed her head. “You asked me to go ring shopping with you as we were heading home.”
That’s right. He had. They’d gone the next day and, thanks to Zoe, he’d found the perfect engagement ring for Heather.
Filling his lungs with much needed oxygen, he wrapped his fingers around the back of her neck. He teased her nape where the sun and black circle were inked, earning a shiver. “And what does the sun tattoo mean?”
Closing her eyes, she shook her head. A second passed and she opened them, her gaze heavenward. “When I was a girl, my mom and I watched the solar eclipse. I was maybe eight years old, and when it was over, she said, I love you so much, my love blocked out the sun.” She laughed, distant and sad. “I was young enough to believe she was telling the truth, that she’d caused the eclipse. Still, it was Mama’s creative way of showing she loved me.”
Strike him now. Zoe hadn’t just collected pieces of her past. She’d inked her favorite good memories, and he was one of them. Yet, there weren’t that many, considering. Four, to be exact. Unless… “Do you have any other tattoos?”
Her wistful smile fell and she glanced over his shoulder in utter avoidance. “Just one. It’s…um. Not easily viewed.” She tapped the front area near her pelvic bone by her hip.
Wanting to peel her clothes off to see for himself, he cupped her jaw instead. “What is it a picture of?” He found himself needing to know so badly his head ached. Not only out of curiosity, but to get an inside glimpse of her. Thirty-one years old, and she had only five great memories worth making permanent?
“That’s on a need to know basis.”
He almost laughed. Or cried. “Fine. I’ll find a way to get you to tell me.” Or show him. Have mercy, yes. He paused, staring at her, wondering who’d taken over his body and turned him into a flirt.
Her eyebrows rose in challenge. “Oh, really? Methinkst the paint fumes have gone to your head.”
Something had, but it wasn’t fumes. He thought about keeping his trap shut on the matter, but he wanted her to know. “You’ve gotten in my head.” And his chest. And under his skin. And…well, everywhere, to be honest. Crazy thing, he wasn’t minding so much.
There went the pulse in her neck. “Like an aneurism?”
Exactly. Impossible to remove and ready to blow at any given time.
He stepped onto the bottom rung, pinning her to the ladder and thrusting them so close the holy ghost couldn’t wedge space in between. Gripping the tread above her head, he brought his lips within hovering distance.
She fisted the front of his shirt and let out an uneven breath. Lids heavy, pupils dilated to oh-my-God, she glanced at his mouth. “You don’t play fair.”
“I’m not playing at all.”
Gingerly, he kissed a corner of her mouth like he’d done their first time, then moved to the other corner and did the same. He grazed his lips across hers, feeling her out, savoring, but she had other ideas.
With a fistful of his hair, she tilted her head and licked the seam of his mouth, begging him to open in compliance. As if he had a choice. And the second his lips parted, things went from hot to scorching to singed with one stroke of her tongue. She moaned, or he groaned. Too difficult to tell, really, because both their chests rumbled and the pounding rush of blood roaring in his ears made any sound obsolete.
He’d all but forgotten the intimacy of kissing. How it could make or break a budding romance. Tell a story. Demonstrate what one person felt for another when words weren’t manageable. And Zoe wasn’t just combustible energy and passion. She was tender heartbreak. Repairer of rifts. A satiating balm. The erratic beat of a wounded heart. The very caretaker for his soul. All in one tight little bundle of restrained misery masked as content.
His little Zoe was starving for so many things, and he desired nothing more than to give them. Needing to touch her, he unfurled his fingers from the ladder and slid his hand under the back of her shirt, his mouth never leaving hers. He caressed the curve of her spine and kissed his way over her jaw to her neck. Lavender and warm woman assaulted his sensory into overload.
Cupping her perfect jean-clad rearend, he hauled her closer. She wrapped one leg around his, placing the throbbing erection behind his sweats in alignment with her heat. Slamming his eyes shut, he opened his mouth wide against the tendon in her neck. Her head fell back, offering him better access, and he fought for middle ground.
They had to slow down. Somehow.
He must’ve paused because she lifted her head and looked at him, her lids at half-mast. Her mouth was swollen from their kiss, and something close to pride shoved around in his chest.
“Tell me about the tattoo.” Hell. He was supposed to be taking a common sense break, but his mouth hadn’t gotten the memo.
“No.” A wicked, wicked grin started in her eyes, formed on her lips, and he waved a white flag.
“I give.” He sighed and kissed her forehead. Stepping off the ladder, he took her hand and helped her down.