The Art of Love (The Windswept Saga) (15 page)

“Uh-huh.  And does Taylor know you invited Chandler?”

“It may have slipped my mind,” she said, tearing her gaze from him and focusing on a tossed salad.  “I mean, who I invite to my house is my business,” she measured out.

Mark laughed.  “True enough.”  He walked around the island and sidled up to her, placing one ha
nd alongside her hip.  “I’m just worried that they may not feel so benevolent about your motives.”

“And what do you think?”  She rested her head against him before he pulled her into a tender kiss.

“I think your heart is always in the right place, my love.”  He smiled thoughtfully at her.  “But we probably oughta prepare for a side of fireworks with our potatoes.”  She half-frowned at him, knowing he was right.  They were interrupted of any further discussion by a knock at the door.  “Saved by the bell,” Mark joked.  “Come on in, bud,” he said once he’d pulled the door open.

Chandler slapped him on the shoulder.  “You didn’t get cleaned up on my account, did you?”

“Hell no,” Mark retorted.  “I was just necking with my wife, and she prefers I don’t smell like a horse.”

Christa let out an expression of mock exasperation.  “Mark Jasper, I can hear every word you’re saying!”  Both men turned at the clattering of oven doors.  “We weren’t necking.”

“Bullshit,” Mark shot back good-naturedly.  “And we only stopped because your brother showed up.”

Chandler laughed and moved toward the kitchen.  “Hey, sis,” he said, stooping down to kiss her on the cheek.  “Where’re the kids?”

She hugged him briskly before shifting her focus back to the food.  “With Mom and Dad,” she replied.  “They’re a lot better with a teething baby than we are—even our own teething baby.  Go figure.”

His gaze swept across the room and to the dining table.  “I notice you’ve set four places,” he said.  “Care to explain yourselves?”

Mark raised his hands in defense.  “There was no manipulation on our parts.  Dinner is dinner.”

Chandler looked from one to the other, his left eyebrow raised skeptically.  “And does Taylor know that you invited me as well?”

Christa hemmed and hawed before answering.  “Who said I invited Taylor?”

He formed his index and middle fingers in a
V
shape, pointed them toward his face, and then hers.  “Same eyes, remember?  I know when you’re stretching the truth.”

“A neat trick,” Mark joked.  “Even I can’t read her that well.”

“You read me in other ways, cowboy,” Christa added quietly.  Their eyes met in something unspoken but in no way silent.

“TMI,” Chandler retorted.  “You keeping CJ in line?” he asked, shifting gears.

Mark folded his arms across his chest and nodded.  “Don’t tell Alison I said this, but sometimes I think your brother was crazy to retire.  He can still wrangle with the best of them.”

“Our lives would be a lot different now if he hadn’t retired,” Christa pointed out.  “If you believe in the butterfly effect
, then everything that happened after he came home…might never have occurred in the first place.  But I’d rather not dwell on what didn’t happen—because what did was pretty damned good.”

“I’m glad to have him around,” Mark countered.  “I never said any different.
”  Christa smiled at him, and he quickly realized she was teasing.

Chandler nudged him with his shoulder.  “Sandpaper.”

Mark nodded.  “I’ll pencil you in, bud.”

***
      

Taylor pulled her car to a halt, shut off the engine, and shook her head.  Of
course Chandler’s truck was parked in the driveway, right in front of the house.  Fate—or more accurately, Mark and Christa—wouldn’t have had it any other way.  As much as she had thought she knew Chandler, in ways physical and emotional, there were clearly many more facets to him now.  She didn’t always understand her reactions to him, was powerless to control certain feelings that arose.  They were sensations she knew were biologically normal and completely healthy—but that still didn’t make them any easier to swallow.

She closed the car door behind her and looked across the landscape.  The ranch was just as she remembered it—constantly beautiful, but ever-changing with the seasons; and rugged, but somehow safe.  The grass was a washed-out shade of green,
and the day was seasonably cold but thankfully the temperature hovered above the freezing mark.  She pulled her coat tight around her shoulders, walked with purpose and courage, and rapped the front door.

Christa greeted her with a smile and a hug.  “Welco
me to our home,” she said, hanging Taylor’s coat on the only empty stretch of the coat rack.  “Did you have any trouble finding the place?”

“I followed the smell of good food,” she replied, complimenting her host.  “Mark,” she said, as he pulled her into a
friendly embrace.  “Is it just us grown-ups for the evening?”

“Just us grown-ups,” he assured her, “and of course Chandler.  No one would ever mistake him for an adult.”

Chandler strode into view and shot his best friend a rueful glance.  “Get in the kitchen and give your wife a hand, Jasper.”  His words came off with a heavy dose of sarcasm, but a grin crossed his lips.  “And see if she can provide some manners while you’re at it.”

Mark left them alone, although due to the home’s floor plan he and Christa
were still in full view.  Taylor’s breath caught in her throat.  There was something altogether enticing about seeing Chandler in a domestic setting.  He was dressed as per usual, in jeans and a Western shirt, but something about his gait, the imposing figure he cut as he stood before her…it awakened something deep inside, something she was afraid to explore.

She was in big trouble.

“This was a total setup,” he whispered to her, his voice rough and unsure.  “I knew nothing about it.”

“Don’t worry about it,
” she replied in a similarly quiet tone.  “We’ll make the best of the situation.”

“If you’re not…I mean, if you want…I don’t know what I mean.”

Instinctively she placed a hand on his forearm, sending a frisson of heat through each of them.  The look he doled out was decidedly lustful, and he quickly dropped his eyes to the hardwood floor.

“Chandler Adams, are you stammering?”

He nodded, the movement of his head barely noticeable if not for the shadow of lamplight that spilled across the short blonde strands.  “I guess so, T.”  He knotted his fingers together nervously.  “Look, let’s just get through the meal.  I’ll try to get my head screwed on straight.”  He extended one arm, leading the way to the table.  Christa was just putting the finishing touches on the meal and she asked them to be seated.  Since she and Mark sat together, at their regular places, it was only natural for Chandler and Taylor to be seated side-by-side.

“Taylor, would you like some wine?” Mark offered.  “I know nothing about the stuff
but it’s supposed to be a good vintage.”

“Sure,” she replied quickly.
“Why not?”  She watched as he poured the aromatic, dark liquid into each of their glasses, giving Christa little more than a thimbleful.

“I’m a total lightweight,” she revealed.  “Any
more than this and Mark will have to carry me to bed.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time, ma’am,” he drawled.  “Should we have a toast?”

Christa nodded.  “To friends.”

“To friends,” Taylor agreed as they all clinked glasses.  Food was passed around as they all p
artook of the wine.   She couldn’t remember the last time she’d enjoyed a meal this much.  She loved her mother, undoubtedly, but those dinners were always so much quieter and reflective.  Mark and Christa were gently boisterous, sharing humorous anecdotes and stories but not overwhelming the room with them.  Mainly they talked about the ranch or their children; she noted that they steered clear of Chandler’s mysterious time away from home, an era of life unknown to her.  She wondered if she’d ever get a chance to piece those lost years together—the years when she was wife and mother, and he was a leaf drifting on the wind.  How different their lives could have been…

“Taylor, do you remember the time we snuck off to get tattoos?”  Mark’s eyes literally plead
ed for remembrance across the table, and she could barely stifle a laugh.

“I do,” she said, “and I am so glad you both thought better of it.”

“I would’ve had to think twice about marrying a man with the Big I branded on his ass,” Christa joked. 

Chandler,
whose eyes had been staring at some imaginary speck of dirt on the table, looked up at them with a touch of melancholy tumbling past his smile.  “We had our first fight that night.”

“I remember that, too,” Taylor said reluctantly.  “We didn’t break up the
n but we said a lot of hurtful things…things I still regret.”

Mark took note of the downcast mood at the table.  “I didn’t mean to open up old wounds,” he apologized.

“It’s not your fault,” Chandler promised.  He backed his chair up and stood.  “If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go and get some fresh air.”

“Put on your gloves,” Christa prompted.  “You need fresh air, not frostbite.”

He responded with a short laugh.  “Yes, Mommy.”  With his hat and coat on, he closed the door firmly behind him.

“I’m sorry,”
Mark apologized again.  “I remember you guys fighting and yet I brought up that story anyway.  I should’ve thought better of it.”

“It’s fine,” she rejoined through gritted teeth.  She loosened her jaw and looked to them for the answers to her quandary.  “I
should go talk to him.”

Christa nodded and she rose from the table, quickly retrieving her coat and slinging it across her back as she headed out the front door.

She eyed her husband prudently when they were alone.  “I guess now’s the time to say ‘I told you so’, honey.”

Mark laughed.  “I’d never do that to you, cowgirl.”  He touched her cheek in a reassuring manner.  “They’ll get it sorted out, the two of them.  They both know what they want.”

Taylor found him at the corner of the porch, staring off into twilight.  He cut a dashing figure, even in profile, the edges of his mouth hard, his face sullen.  “Sorry,” he said, hearing her boot heels echo across the porch.

“You don’t have to apologize to me, Chandler.  For anything.  You gave me a job, helped me
put my life back together, and I didn’t ask for anything else.”

A pair of searing blue eyes studied her warily.  “You want more.”

She drew close enough to hear his breath catch in his throat.  “Don’t you?” she asked after a beat.

He exhaled sharply.  “
Yeah, but I didn’t think that was fair to either of us.  We barely know each other.”

Taylor leaned back against the porch railing, staring at him until their eyes met.  “I’ve known you most of my life.  I wasn’t swapped out by aliens in that ten years we were
apart.  I may not be exactly the same—neither are you, I’d wager—but I’m still me.”

“You’re still beautiful,” he replied in a hoarse voice.

She struggled and failed at replying with a frown.  “I was never beautiful,” she countered, her tone dripping with sarcasm.  “But if your eyes thought I was, then I guess that’s okay.”

He watched her breath escape her mouth and form a cloud in the wintry air.  “Are you cold?” he asked.  “We could head back inside.”

“It’s not too bad right now.  This coat does its job.”

He pushed up the brim of his hat with a gloved thumb.  “For a lot of people winter symbolizes death, but for me that’s always been the fall.  When the trees lose their leaves and it looks like the world is tumbling down.”

Taylor parsed out his words and carefully considered her next question.  “So what’s winter symbolize for you, cowboy?”

He replied with a fragile smile.  “Planning for the future,” he answered.  “Thinking about everything you’re gonna do when the sun shines again.”

She rolled her eyes.  “I remember when you used to write poetry.  You still do that?”

He nodded.  “Some.  I wrote a few lines when my brother and sister got married.”

“Were you the best man at both weddings?”

“Sort of.  Mark and I shared duties when CJ got married.  Same thing whe
n Mark got married.  CJ and I split it.”

“Sounds like you need to get married and let them return the favor,” she teased, gently.

“Someday, I guess.”  He frowned.  He lifted both hands from the porch railing, rested them on her shoulders.  “Look, Taylor, I…if I don’t just go ahead and kiss you, I’m gonna go out of my mind with regret.”

Her chin lifted upward, a silent vow of acceptance.  He lowered his face to hers, his breathing unregulated and broken, and pressed his lips to hers with the expert care and
precision he expended on every aspect of his life.  She was soft against his stomach, yielding to the quiet power of his touch.  He pulled away, looked deep into her eyes, and kissed her again, a little more firmly, parting her mouth and drawing a murmur of satisfaction from her throat. 

“Was that okay?” he asked half a minute later, when he’d wrested himself from her sweet, pliant lips.  He chi
ded himself internally afterward. 
God, I say the stupidest shit sometimes.
  He could feel her back tremble beneath his hands, her body breathing unsteadily.  He took a step backward but didn’t release his grip on her shoulder blades.