At First Touch (The Malone Brothers) (12 page)

“Last one,” Eric said.

“Pumpkin,” Reagan offered.

“That...is right. I’m impressed.”

“My tongue is frozen,” Reagan said. “And I loved them all. Thank you. Again.”

“You’re welcome,” Eric replied. “Can you walk out of here, or do I need to find a cart with wheels?”

“Ha-ha, very funny,” she commented. “I can walk.”

He chuckled. “Let’s bounce, gorgeous. Looks like the rain has let up some.”

Outside, the air felt heavier, tasted that special way it always did after a summer rain. Eric tucked her hand in his arm, and they stepped out, and stray drops landed on her skin. Before long, they were in the truck and heading home. Eric played “Hotel California” on the stereo, and they both sang every word.

When it was over, Reagan smiled. “I remember sitting on the floor outside of Nathan’s bedroom and listening to that song,” she said. “Even back then it was an oldie, but we still thought it was supercool. Remember?”

He chuckled. “Oh, yeah,” he commented. “We thought we were doing something totally illegal, listening to that older song.”

Finally, the truck slowed, and Eric turned right and Reagan knew they’d reached her drive. The gravel crunched beneath the tires, and soon he rolled to a stop. He cut the engine.

Before Eric had a chance to say a word, Reagan unbuckled herself and half turned, as though facing him. “This was the best day I’ve had in a very long time, Eric,” she said, and she clasped her hands in her lap. “I had a great time.”

“Mission accomplished,” he said. “I had a great time, too. Thank you, Reagan Rose.”

She cocked her head. “For what?”

“Well, for letting me put unknown things in your mouth, for one,” he said, his voice full of laughter. “And for giving me the chance to ogle you all day long without you knowing it.”

Reagan laughed and reached for the door, letting herself out. “Ha! I knew it all along, Malone. You’re slick, but not as slick as you think.”

Suddenly, he was there, beside her. “Seriously?”

She laughed. “Not at all. I can’t see. Remember?”

Now he chuckled and led her to the porch. “Not with your eyes, maybe. But you’re a very perceptive woman. And you can now see with your fingers and toes.”

At the top of the steps, Eric stopped, and Reagan turned toward him. “Yeah, and don’t you forget it.” She smiled up at him, hoping she was smiling in the right direction as it had grown darker with the storm and the late afternoon. Again, she noticed that snap between them, the way the air had a spark to it, and once more she had the urge to kiss him. She thought he might kiss her.

But instead he grasped her hand and lowered it from his arm.

“Oh, I won’t forget it, Reagan Rose,” he said quietly. “Probably for the rest of my life.” He cleared his throat. Shifted where he stood, so close. “Night.”

“Good night,” she replied, and listened as Eric’s footfalls hit the veranda steps, then crunched the gravel as he made his way to the truck.

Disappointment nagged at her. Since when did she want a guy to kiss her so badly?

Reaching for the lock, she pushed her key in and turned it.

Her hand closed over the knob.

She heard the sound of gravel crunch followed by heavy footfalls that seemed to bound up the steps in less time than they should have.

Then warm hands grasped Reagan’s face, and Eric’s body was close to hers, and he held her head steady. “I’m going to kiss you now, Reagan Rose,” he said, his voice heavy.

And then warm lips settled over hers, and one hand moved to the back of her head and cradled it, his other slipping along her jaw and situating her just so that their mouths melded perfectly. It was a still, steady kiss, not deep, not frenzied, but perfect. Eric’s mouth shifted across her lips, and he tasted them before pulling away.

The moment he did, she wanted those lips right now.

He still held her close, one hand cradling the back of her head, the other her jaw, and she could feel his chest rising and falling with each breath.

“I was wrong,” he said softly.

“About what?” she replied just as soft.

“There’s no way in hell I’ll be able to sleep tonight,” he confessed. “Night, Reagan Rose.”

“Night,” she said quietly, and once again listened to Eric Malone as he jogged down the steps and to his truck. This time the engine started, and the gravel crunched as he left the drive.

Reagan leaned against the screen door and a smile touched her lips, and she caressed them with her fingertips.

She’d just allowed Eric Malone to kiss her.

And it had been a kiss she’d never forget.

CHAPTER TWELVE

A
FTER
A
LONG
,
hot shower, Reagan was curled up on the sofa in the living room when Emily came in.

“It’s just me,” she announced. “Reagan?”

“In here,” Reagan called out.

“There you are,” Em said, and kicked her sandals off and climbed onto the sofa with Reagan. “So,” Em said. “Tell me what’s got that face of yours glowing.”

Reagan rolled her eyes. She wasn’t ready to tell Emily or anyone else that she’d buckled beneath the charms of a Malone and allowed Eric to kiss her. “We just had a fabulous day is all. How about you?”

“Tell me yours first,” Emily said excitedly. “Don’t leave anything out.”

Reagan shook her head, and told Emily every detail—minus the kiss—and Emily squealed with delight. “How fun! I told you, he’s a sweetheart.” She draped her arm over Reagan’s shoulders. “So, what are you doing in here now?”

“Contemplating.”

“What, exactly?” Em asked.

“Well,” Reagan began. “In the past, before I’d paint I would sketch out my idea. I have an idea, but I don’t think I could sketch it now.”

“Well, you should probably revise your old ways of painting and just jump right into it, don’t you think?”

Reagan thought about it. “You’re probably absolutely right.” The more she thought about it, the more she liked it. Reagan nodded. “Yes. That’s what I’ll do.”

“Yay!” Emily exclaimed, and hugged her. She pulled back. “Can you tell me what your subject is?”

A smile touched Reagan’s lips. “Bad luck,” she explained. “You can be the first one to see it, though, when I finish.” She sighed. “It’s...been a long time since I picked up a brush. Now it will be so different.”

“Don’t even look at it that way,” Emily said. “Don’t count on an image sketched on paper.” She tapped Reagan’s temple lightly. “Recall it from here. Pretend the sketch is sitting right behind your eyes, see? And voilà! It’ll be there!”

Reagan felt her own smile stretch wide. “You are the best sister in the world, you know that?”

Emily laid her head on Reagan’s shoulder. “Why, yes, I do actually. Pretty darn smart, too, if I might add.”

“Yes, you may,” Reagan agreed, and they both giggled.

“When are you going to get started?” Emily asked.

“Tomorrow,” Reagan answered. “I’m really feeling it, you know?”

“Well, let’s get you set up, right now!” Emily suggested. “It’s not too late, and since I’m off to the café über early in the morning, you can just jump into your work. What do you say?”

Reagan grinned, thinking her vintage quirky sister was just adorable. “Let’s do it.”

Laughing, they linked arms and went to Reagan’s bedroom, where she had all of her painting supplies stored in a large airtight container. Her easel was folded and inside the closet. By the time an hour passed, they had transformed the back veranda—half of which was screened in—into a makeshift art room. They used the old metal kitchen table—probably from the fifties, that their aunt had used—as a place to set up the paints, brushes and solutions. The easel was set up and facing the marsh. Everything was in its place—and then Reagan hit a speed bump. A major one.

“How in the world am I going to tell what colors I’m using?” She sighed and sank down into the old metal glider they’d played on as kids.

“Let’s think,” Emily said, and sat beside her. They were both silent as they pondered, and the crickets and marsh life chirped and caroused over the river—deafeningly so. Then Emily jumped up.

“I got it!” she said. “Be right back.”

“Oh-kay,” Reagan said, surprised.

A moment later Emily returned. “I’ve got a knife.”

Reagan blinked, waited. “And?”

“So, I’ll just scratch the beginning letters of the colors onto the tube. Without breaking the tube, of course. Kinda like braille? Do you think you can feel it with your fingertips if I make it big enough?”

It might just work. “Let’s try it.”

Emily’s dark figure shifted as she got busy with her scratching, then handed the tube of oil paint to Reagan. With her forefinger, she felt the mark. “B. Black?”

“Yes! And don’t worry—I see you have a gazillion different colors of blue. I can put C and B for cornflower blue, and so forth and so on. Until we can figure out a better method. What do you think?”

Reagan grinned and reached for her sister, squeezing her hands. “You’re the best. Thanks.”

“I guess this means Eric must be working the next few days?” Emily asked.

“Yeah,” Reagan said. “Shift work, so he’ll be at the station.”

“Well then,” Emily said. “Looks like you’ll have some time to yourself and this big ole empty canvas.” She kissed Reagan on the forehead. “Let’s go to bed. I’m pooped.”

Reagan could hardly sleep that night. Her mind whirled, filled with thoughts of her day with Eric, the tension she could now tell wasn’t just one-sided and her newly reclaimed excitement of working on a painting.

By the time she opened her eyes the next morning, the strong scent of coffee wafted through the house, and Reagan rose to get ready. As fast as she could safely do, she made herself a cup of coffee and headed to the back veranda, let herself into the screened room, and found her seat before the easel. She let her fingers trail over the paint tubes, feeling the marks scratched in the sides denoting the colors. She let her gaze search toward the marsh, knowing by how hazy and dark the shadows were that it was still super early, before daylight.

She was stalling.

She knew it.

Fear pulled at her. Why was she scared? It was paints. A canvas. She’d just toss it if it turned out horrible, right?

How would she know if it turned out horrible?

Reagan sipped more on her coffee, pictured the image in her head and stared out in the direction of the marsh. Sipped. Pictured. Stared.

Finally, with a deep breath, she drained her mug and set it down.

Pinched out her first color.

Reached for her brushes, felt the bristles and chose one.

Took another deep breath in. Let it pass slowly out of pursed lips.

And set to work.

Her fingers trailed over the texture of the canvas, feeling the tiny ridges embedded. She traced the four corners, ran a line with her forefinger from side to side, vertical, horizontal, trying to get a feel of where to begin. Before, with her sight, she’d just dive in and work around whatever mark her paint brush made. Now? She had to revise her previous method. She got to know the bare canvas by touch first. Then, with her breath held, she made the first stroke with her brush.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

E
RIC
WONDERED
WHERE
Reagan was as he knocked on her door for the third time and waited.

He knew she was home; he’d texted her earlier to see if she wanted to go for some seafood by the pier, and she’d excitedly agreed.
Excitedly.
Yep, he was positive it’d been that.

He hadn’t been able to get her off his mind. Not even for a second.

And he’d taken plenty of ribbing from the guys at work, too. Jealous, every single one of them.

Finally, with nothing else left to do, Eric cleared his throat and drew a deep breath.

And began the lyrics to Debby Boone’s “You Light Up My Life.” Old, true, but Jep used to play it over and over again on vinyl, and he’d grown to love the aged song.

He’d just made it into the chorus when the screen door creaked open, and Reagan stepped out, and he could see the smile widen across her face.

“You are absolutely ridiculous.” She laughed. “Sorry, I was in the—”

Eric bounded up the steps and silenced her words with his mouth. Her lips were soft, pliable and moved with his, and when he backed her up against the doorjamb, her hands reached for his chest, then slowly moved to his jaw where she deepened the kiss, and Eric groaned against her mouth. Finally, he pulled back.

“Hey, you,” he said, their noses nearly touching. “You smell like dandelions and sweet wine.”

Reagan grinned, and it was such a transformation from the hopeless injured airman who’d shown up weeks ago, he couldn’t get enough of it. “Dandelions don’t smell, silly.”

“Well, they make wine, so there must be something there,” he countered. Then he stepped back, grasped her hand and gave her a slow spin. “You are a sight for sore eyes,” he said, then tucked her hand into his elbow. “I’ve hardly slept a wink, thinking about you.”

Reagan’s cheeks blushed, and it was so darn cute he almost commented.

“Is that so?” she replied, pulling on her lip with her teeth. “Isn’t that dangerous for a rescue swimmer? No sleep?”

“Completely fathomable...were it a different swimmer,” Eric boasted. “Besides. You’re worth losing sleep over. Ready?”

“Yep,” she said, and they climbed into Eric’s truck and headed for the pier.

“How’s the painting coming along?” he asked, and glanced at her.

She shrugged. “I have no idea,” she said. “It’s strange not being able to see what I’m doing in a clear manner. I start with my subject and go from there. And pray. It...feels right, though. If that makes any sense?”

“It does,” Eric answered. More than she knew.

Friday night, and a live band played requests at the pier, and after they parked they made their way to the Sugar Bums—best seafood on Cassabaw, next to Jep’s—and grabbed an outdoor table facing the ocean. The wind tossed Reagan’s hair around, until she finally reached into her purse and tied her hair up into a ponytail.

She grinned. “I feel you staring at me.”

“I can’t help it,” he admitted. “Hey, I have a surprise for you later.”

Her smile pulled wider. “I’ve come to know that you’re quite full of them.”

“I am,” he agreed. “You’ll love this one. Promise.”

They shared a low-country boil of shrimp, potatoes, sausage and corn on the cob, and talked and laughed as though they hadn’t missed growing up together at all. Eric felt like he’d known, really known, Reagan for his whole life. She was at ease with him, took his ribbing lightheartedly and could dish it back pretty fast, too. She’d grown fearless, and her confidence shone through by the way she didn’t sit quietly and allow him to do all the talking with anyone, really. She asked questions. She was polite. She made jokes. She was silly. And she was incredibly sexy doing it all. How lucky was he, to have been the one to catch her off guard? They clicked, and at times could even finish the other’s sentence. They liked most of the same music.

But was this all real? He’d thought Celeste was real. Deep down, fear clawed at him, and he tried his best to push it aside. Reagan wasn’t Celeste. He had to stop comparing the two, but it was difficult. He didn’t want to lose his heart to the wrong person again.

Jep had once accused him of being a life-time rescuer. Not just a rescue swimmer for the Coast Guard, but rescuing any and all beings. Was that what he thrived on? The rescue? What if, after the rescue, Reagan grew wings and flew right the hell away from him? He thought about it, and even in his mind he couldn’t see it. Couldn’t see her doing anything like that. She was more mature than Celeste had been. She was sincere. She’d experienced things in life that would surely make Reagan take nothing for granted.

And the fact that even with her handicap she was painting again spoke volumes of her character. Talk about fearless. He wondered what her subject was. And how it would compare to her sighted works. How different would they be? He couldn’t wait to see.

The band, known for their retro choices, started playing Aerosmith’s “Love in an Elevator,” and Eric pulled Reagan along the pier and spun her around. She smiled and laughed and they sang along to the words.

“Oh, my God, I love this song!” she squealed, and followed his every lead.

When he dropped her hand and they freestyle danced, she didn’t miss a beat. Reagan swung her hips, fully trusting that Eric wouldn’t go too far and leave her. He wouldn’t. Soon the song wound down, and he grabbed her hand and led her to the pier’s railing. Both were winded, and they gulped in the late-August air.

But when the band’s music shifted to another request—this one a mournful blues song—Eric couldn’t help but grasp Reagan’s hand, pull her away from the rail, and tuck her head against his chest and hold her tight for a slow dance.

“The dog days of summer,” Reagan said quietly.

“What about them?” he asked.

“I remember my dad talking about them,” she answered. “I always thought it was, I don’t know...something magical. Mystical. Unexplained.”

“Perfect?” he said, close to her ear.

“Yeah,” she replied, and lifted her face for a kiss, and he grazed her lips with his. She felt right. She fit right. And he never saw any of it coming.

“All right,” he said, kissing her nose and guiding her down the pier.

“Where to now?” she asked, leaning into him.

“You’ll see,” he said.

Within minutes they’d walked to the end of the pier, then back down the boardwalk to the small carnival that had been coming to Cassabaw for years. The tinny music played, and Eric stopped.

“Tell me what you hear, what you smell,” he asked, and watched the expression on her face change from a mere smile to one of concentration. Her nostrils flared a little as she sniffed the air, and the smile then grew.

“Carnival? I can smell the cotton candy,” she said proudly.

“Exactamundo,” he confirmed.

“Who are you, the Fonz?” Reagan laughed. “I think I remember watching re-runs of the re-runs at your house when we were kids.”

“Yes, we did, and yes, I am.” He laughed with her, and together they walked to the small carnival. “This is the last week it’s here, you know,” he told her. “They’ll pack it up for the winter and be back in May.”

“Kinda sad,” she said. “I’m glad we came, then.”

“Me, too,” Eric said, and led them to the Ferris wheel. The line wasn’t too long, and while they waited he turned Reagan around, pulled her against him and wrapped his arms around her, resting his chin on the top of her head.

And she seemed to fit just right there, too.

Soon they were in their bucket, the bar pulled down, and Reagan was tucked in close to him. They rose slowly, and when they reached the top, the wheel paused, and their bucket swung just a little, and Eric described what he saw.

“Rea, the night is amazing,” he started. “We’re teetering up here at the top of the wheel. The sky is blue-black with five thousand stars blinking. The moon looks like a slice of ghost pie, hanging over the water. I can see small whitecaps breaking as the waves roll onto the sand. Over at the pier, the band is playing, and several people are dancing.”

She sighed and snuggled closer. “I see it, Eric,” she said softly. “In my head, I see it just as you describe, as if it’s already sketched.”

Eric kissed her forehead. “Good,” he said against her skin. “Now for the surprise.”

Reagan pulled back. “I thought this was the surprise.”

Eric laughed. “No, silly woman. This is.” He cleared his throat and began the opening lyrics to Redbone’s “Come and Get Your Love,” and Reagan burst out laughing, then joined him when the chorus came up. Their voices rang out over the night, and Eric thought he heard a few more Ferris wheel riders singing along, too. When they finished, a round of applause greeted them, and they laughed and took a bow.

Later, he pulled up to Reagan’s house, and at the door, Reagan lifted her hand and traced Eric’s jaw with her fingertips. “I have a surprise for you,” she said, then wiggled her brows.

He grinned, and her fingers moved over his lips, and the small movement nearly buckled his damn knees. “Is that so,” he said, and thanked God he hadn’t squeaked.

“Yeah, but it doesn’t involve naked, so remove that from your brain.”

“Damn.”

Reagan giggled and slipped her hand into his. “Okay, follow me.”

Eric did, and with Reagan leading they made their way through the house, out to the screened-in back veranda, where she turned to him. “Sit, just over there, and keep your eyes closed.

“Roger that.” They were in her gallery, and she was about to show him her painting.

“Open your eyes.”

Eric did, and focused on the painting Reagan had revealed from beneath the white sheet covering the canvas. He blinked. He slowly rose. He drew closer.

“My God, Reagan,” he said quietly. “It’s...me. That day at the maritime rescue, when we were outside eating.” He drew closer, inspecting her work, and it blew his mind. The shadow figure was sitting, legs pulled up and wide, forearms resting on his knees, looking out over the marsh and river. The live oaks around them dripped with moss. The painting had perfectly blended shades of gray, green, blue and sunshine. He could barely believe it.

“It’s perfect,” he said. “I can’t stop staring at it.”

“It’s for you,” she said, and he could clearly hear the relief and pride in her voice. “Without you, and your constant prodding to make me get out of my funk and live life? I wouldn’t have ever thought to attempt painting again.” She smiled. “I feel it, in here,” she said, placing her hand over her heart. “And I can see things perfectly in here.” She tapped her temple. She shrugged. “All thanks to you, Eric Malone.”

He reached for her, pulled her against him and cupped her face with his hands. “I wish you could see me looking at you right now,” he said quietly.

“What do you see?” she asked. “Close your eyes and tell me what you see.”

Eric lowered his lashes and let his hands raise to her brows, where he traced each one with a thumb. “Perfect brows—two, thank God,” he said, mimicking her words back to her. With his forefinger he traced her ear, her lobe. “Little pixie ears, although not pointed.”

“Hmm,” she said. “Go on.”

Eric let his fingers gently graze her eyes, one by one, brushing her lashes. “Big eyes, long thick lashes.” He moved to her lips, let his thumb softly scrape them, tugging one slightly open, and he lowered his head, brushed his lips over hers and kissed her deeply. “I could kiss these all day,” he muttered against her, then opened his eyes. Hers were closed, her lips wet from their kiss, and she leaned into him, sliding her hand down his arm and grasping his hand. Tugging on him. Leading him from the gallery. He followed.

Through the darkened river house, Eric walked behind Reagan as she let her hand drag against the walls, feeling her way through the shadows. At a doorway down the hall, she stopped, dead still, and her head lowered as if looking at the floor. She breathed, a little heavier now.

“Eric,” she said quietly, her fingers tightening around his.

He didn’t give her another second to question things. Or him. Or what he might want or not want. He’d wanted this for a while, but also wanted to give Reagan her space. Not rush things. Jesus, it hadn’t been easy, but he wanted things right with Reagan. This was right.

“Shh,” he said, turning her, kissing her lightly. “Or I’ll start singing again.”

A slow smile pulled at her mouth. “We wouldn’t want that, would we?” she whispered.

Then led him into her room and closed the door.