Lori Wilde - There Goes The Bride (21 page)

She was pleasantly surprised to find that Nick had tiled the kitchen and done a superb job at it too. The man was skilled with his hands, she’d give him that. She bragged on him, but not too enthusiastically. She didn’t want to give him any ideas. Didn’t want any repeat of yesterday’s familiarity. Happy to have another thing ticked off her to-do list and encouraged by the progress they were making, Delaney decided to accelerate her plans. Painting was next on the agenda, and she ambitiously aimed to get two bedrooms done that day.

An hour and a half later, they were deeply into painting the bedroom Lucia had used as a library. They’d already completed the first coat on three walls and were working on the final one.

She and Nick stood next to each other, not speaking, just painting. Surprisingly, in their work, the silence felt uncomplicated and easy.

Then Delaney went and spoiled the peace by noticing they were painting in tandem—starting high and then pulling downward in slow, easy strokes. Her stomach dipped at the realization they were operating in total sync.

The rhythm was hypnotic. Sexual. Almost like foreplay.

Dip, brush, sweep, dip, brush, sweep.

Disconcerted, Delaney broke the pattern. She stopped painting and lifted the tip of her brush from the wall. She waited—for what she could not say—hand hovering, paint dripping. Splat. Splat. Splat. Onto the plastic drop cloth.

Nick stopped painting too and looked over at her, his bold stare caressing her intimately.

The sharp crackling of erotic current running between them raised the hairs on Delaney’s arms. She shifted her gaze to the wall, pretending to assess the paint job.

“It looks good,” he murmured, but he was not studying the wall. She could feel the heat of his gaze on her face. He was looking at her. “Real good.”

His words echoed in the empty room.

Real good.

Closing her eyes, she willed herself not to shiver, then quickly opened them again. “Uh-huh.”

He reached out and took the paintbrush from her, his fingertips barely grazing her skin, and then balanced her brush, along with his, over the top of the paint can.

“You thirsty?” he asked.

She nodded and noticed perspiration had plastered his cotton muscle shirt against his toned chest. She was sweating too, but it wasn’t from the summer heat. She could smell the salt air blowing in on the cool breeze. Hear the sounds of seagulls in the distance, calling to one another above the neighborhood noises. A car chugging up the street, children playing tag in the alley, a dog barking in the yard next door.

He disappeared for a minute and then came back with two ice-cold beers. He twisted off the tops, tossed them onto the drop cloth, and walked back across the room. His limp was barely noticeable. He handed her one of the longneck bottles.

It was cold and damp in her hand, and Delaney realized she’d never drunk beer directly from the bottle, only in an iced mug, and even then, only twice. Beer, Honey was fond of saying, was a middle-class beverage and best left for the middle class.

Without ever taking his eyes off her, Nick tilted his head and took a long swallow from his bottle.

Her gaze tracked from his lips to his throat. She watched his Adam’s apple work and this time she did shiver.

Anxiously, she shifted her attention away from him, looking for something else to focus on. She surveyed the paint job.

It looked fresh and white and . . .

Bland.

All the personality of Lucia’s house was being whitewashed.

“What’s the matter?” Nick asked, coming up behind her. He was standing so close she could feel his body heat.

“You were right.” She crossed her arms over her chest.

“In what way?”

“The room looks so generic. Like it could be in any house in America.”

“I thought that was the point. It’s what you said would help the house sell better.”

“It is.”

“But you want more.”

“I want the house to sell for Lucia.”

“Is that the real reason?” he asked. “Or are you just more comfortable playing it safe?”

She looked at him. There was challenge in his eyes.

“We could take the paint back,” he continued. “Get another color. You could give your creativity full rein and not worry about what some upscale yuppie buyer wants in a vacation home. You could really do this house justice if you just allowed yourself to shake things up.”

He was tempting her, egging her on, but the truth was she wanted to do it. Wanted to use Lucia’s house as a canvas to create a bit of magic.

“We could do a Tuscan theme,” Nick suggested. “Reflect Nana’s heritage.”

“But the research I’ve done tells me . . .”

“Screw research.” He took her by the shoulders and turned her around to face him. He placed his hand over her heart. It thumped erratically. He was the devil, pure and simple.

“What does your heart tell you?” he whispered.

“I can’t be selfish about this.”

“The right person will find the house charming.”

“But your grandmother needs to sell the house as soon as possible.”

“Wouldn’t it be better if the house went to someone who could love it the way my grandparents did? Someone who could appreciate all the love that went into it?”

It sounded so good. She wanted to believe it was possible. She wanted to let go. To take a chance. But she was also afraid.

“Hang on,” he said. “I’ve got something I want to give you. I was going to give it to you later, after you finished the house, but I think it might be better for you to have it now.”

“You bought me a gift?”

He pointed a finger at her. “I’ll be right back.”

Puzzled, Delaney watched him leave the room. She heard the back door creak open and then slam closed again a few minutes later.

Nick was back. Holding a pretty pink box wrapped with red ribbon.

He’d bought her a present. She was touched.

“Here. Maybe this will help you decide.”

She untied the ribbon, lifted the lid. There, nestled in tissue paper, she saw his hula doll. Stunned, she raised her head and met his gaze. “Oh, Nick, I can’t accept this. Your mother gave you Lalule to help you deal with your grief.”

“It’s not Lalule,” he said. “I bought you your own hula doll. She’s to remind you that when life gets too bland and predictable, you need to shake things up.”

Delaney took the hula doll out of the box and gently thumbed her hips. The doll shook and shimmied.

Shake it up.

She looked at the white walls.

Shake it up.

She thought about what she wanted, but it was hard trying to figure out exactly what she did want. She’d spent so many years pleasing everyone else. Delaney had forgotten how to express her own desires.

Shake it up.

She looked at Nick and put the doll back in the box. She wasn’t convinced shaking things up was the smart way to go. “Thank you. I’ll treasure this.”

“So what’s your decision?” he asked. “Do we keep on painting white? Or do we make another trip to Lowe’s and exchange the paint for something exciting?”

“I want to help your grandmother sell her house.”

“Forget about that for a moment. If you could do anything with this house, what would you do?”

“I’d go for it. I’d make this place special. I’d make magic.”

“Look out, Lowe’s, here we come.” He laughed and the sound warmed her from the inside out. Nick reached over, took the box from her hand, and then walked over to set it on the windowsill along with his beer.

He turned back to her, grinning his cocky grin, eyes glistening with the same out-of-control impulses that were simmering through her blood. He took a step closer. She did not move away.

Nick took another step and then another.

Her heart pounded.

He reached out a hand.

She stopped breathing.

His thumb came down to rub the tip of her nose. “Smudge of paint,” he explained.

She exhaled heavily.

“If we were in a romantic movie,” Nick said, “this would be the point where I’d kiss you.”

“But this isn’t a movie.”

Their gazes fused.

“No.”

“And you’re not going to kiss me.”

He leaned forward until his lips were almost touching hers. “No.”

“That’s very good,” she said, “because I’m engaged to be married.”

“I know. I’ve seen the rock. It’s big enough to choke a two-headed Clydesdale.”

She smiled. “It is rather ostentatious, isn’t it?”

“From a cop’s point of view, it’s dangerous. You might as well wear a neon sign that says, ‘Rob me.’ You’re just asking to have your finger cut off for that thing.” He reached over and picked up her left hand. “And I’d sure as hell hate to see any harm come to that hand. Whenever you’re in an unsafe area you should turn your ring around to the palm side and close your fingers around it.”

He turned the ring to demonstrate. Closed his hand over hers. Over her engagement ring. His touch shook her. Fully. Completely. Upside down and inside out.

“Chopped-off fingers are not romantic,” she said. “It isn’t even remotely like something Tom Hanks would say to Meg Ryan. You are not making my knees weak.”

“Good,” he murmured and looked her straight in the eyes. “Because mine are weak enough for the both of us.”

Now
that
was romantic.

“You
do
want to kiss me,” she said. “Admit it.”

“Woman,” he answered softly, “you have absolutely no idea how much.”

A thrill blitzed down her spine. His warm breath tickled her skin. He smelled so good Delaney could scarcely remember her own name, much less Evan’s.

You can’t let Nick kiss you. You mustn’t let him kiss you. This cannot happen.

She raised her hands and clutched them together in front of her chest, building a barrier between them. It was weak, but it was all she could come up with.

“Please . . .?,” she whispered, meaning to add “don’t,” but her throat was so tight and his eyes were so dark and she was caught up in the strange magic surging between them.

He reached for her hand again and he turned the ring back where it belonged. Back where they could both see that she was spoken for and could not forget it.

“If you didn’t have the ring on your finger . . .” His eyes flashed a promise of the wonderful things that could happen if she were unattached.

“But I do.”

He nodded, took a deep breath. “Yeah.”

“It’s an engagement ring,” she said, not really knowing why she said it. “Not a wedding ring. Not yet.”

“Marriage is supposed to be for a lifetime,” Nick said. “Like with Grampa and Nana. The vows don’t read, ‘Until some guy you like better comes along.’”

Sympathy tugged her heart. He was thinking about his ex-wife. What was her name? Oh, yes. Amber. She could tell by the way he screwed his mouth up tightly, absentmindedly rubbed his injured knee, and stared off into the distance. Delaney wanted to make things better for him. She wanted to take away his pain.

It was the only excuse she could come up with for what happened next.

She was acutely aware of a very important line being crossed, but she couldn’t seem to stop herself from crossing it. The question was, how far across that taboo line was she willing to go?

Delaney touched Nick’s shoulder.

He looked at her and their eyes wed.

She felt everything all at once.

It was like an earthquake rocking her chest. Lust and chemistry. Longing and yearning. Guilt and loneliness. Hunger and sadness and hope. It fell in on her, heavy and warm and too much, too soon.

What had she gotten herself into?

His gaze was hot. Lightning that lingered.

The look made her lips tingle.

Neither of them moved.

He cupped his palm under her chin and tilted his head, his eyes never leaving hers.

She stiffened. Wanting him to kiss her, but scared, scared, scared of where it might lead.

He dropped his hand, backed up.

No,
something inside her whimpered.

Compelled by a force she couldn’t understand or explain, Delaney stepped forward. She just knew that she had to kiss him or die, but it wasn’t in her nature to act so boldly. She was accustomed to finding roundabout ways to meet her needs. She couldn’t bring herself to initiate the kiss, but she could make him kiss her.

Wantonly, Delaney slipped her fingers through the belt loops of his blue jeans and held on tight.

He arched his eyebrows, making sure he understood what she wanted.

She swallowed, moistened her lips. Nodded.

His eyes lit up and a smile tipped his mouth. It was like watching a drawbridge drop. And behind the door of the fortress, hidden beneath the tough-guy image, Delaney spied a center of tenderness she’d never imagined.