Unable to Resist (11 page)

Next thing I know someone is shaking my shoulder and silently chuckling.

Who the hell?!

My eyes snap open and I see Duane smiling down at me. He’s sitting on my coffee table, in blue jeans and a Boston Red Sox shirt, being impossibly handsome. No one should look that good. Ever. Wearing clothes just isn’t fair to the female race. Clothes enhance his already stunning body. I mean—we can only take so much sexiness before we explode from the overabundance of deliciousness. And this man radiates it. I feel like I need to shield my eyes.

“Hey sleepy, we need to get going,” he calmly says to me while tucking a piece of hair behind my ear.

It feels amazing.

Look at me, the simplest touch from him and I’m falling apart. I don’t know if it’s the tired haze I’m still in, but I lean into his hand and breathe in his clean scent. He smells like soap and hay. I know that sounds crazy, but in Arizona, we lived across from a hay field and it always smelled so sweet. It might be my favorite scent. He smells like home.

“Mmmm, okay,” I mumble. I can’t seem to form any real sentences in my sleepy brain.

He laughs again, and stands. My eyes follow him the entire way up, and he sticks out his hand for me to take. Like an idiot, I don’t hesitate, and accept it. As soon as I make contact, a jolt of electricity shoots to all of my parts, and my eyes instantly look at our joined hands.

I can’t believe I’m thinking like those saps in my books. Maybe I need to lay off the romance for a bit.

Doubtful. You love that shit.

Duane’s breathing picks up, and I look into his eyes. He’s looking at our hands as well with a quizzical look on his face.

Does he feel it, too?

He pulls out of the fog first. Dropping my hand, he walks to my suitcase at the door. “Let’s get going, yeah?”

I try to brush the disappointment off of my face and give him a smile. “Yeah,” I pause, thinking, “How did you get in here, anyway?”

He grins and looks down at his feet.

“Well, I knocked for a couple minutes and you didn’t answer, so I went downstairs.” He laughs. “Someone named Liv let me in once she saw me.” He gives me a knowing smile. “She seemed to know me.”

Freaking traitor! I’m going to kill her. What the hell did my she-bitch of a best friend say to him?

Think fast on your feet, woman!

“Uhhh, yeah, she saw you at the bar the other night.”

Sure that works.

His mouth bunches on the side of his face, like he’s trying to hide his smile. He doesn’t seem to buy it, but he’s gentleman enough to let it slide. He straightens his mouth and nods his head, motioning for the door.

I reach for my suitcase, but Duane brushes my hand away and picks it up.

A true gentleman to the end. The feminist in me is stomping her foot in annoyance, but I’m kind of swooning.

We go through the shop to leave. Why? I have no idea. There’s a perfectly good exit in the back.

I must be some sort of masochist.

Sitting behind the counter, Liv and Mia laugh out loud like teenagers. I’m sure they are talking about me. About us. Looking over my shoulder, I shoot them a death glare, and mouth, ‘shut up.’

Liv sputters and Mia barks laughter. My eyebrows shoot up in surprise. Oh yeah, both of them are kaput when I get home.

Duane turns around just in time to see Mia slap her hand over her mouth and at least have the decency to blush.

Serves her right.

But Liv, in typical Liv fashion, blows a kiss, and I guarantee it wasn’t to me. Bitch.

I huff and follow Duane out, stomping rather loudly. “Love you! Try not to burn the place down,” I call out, sarcasm lacing my every word.

Something hits the back of my head and I turn to scowl at Mia without hesitation. I know for a fact Liv couldn’t have hit me from that distance, or at all, actually. I bend to pick up the un-used cupcake wrapper and throw it at Mia’s face.

And, whoop! Square in the forehead.

Seriously, how old are we?

I mentally applaud myself while blowing a kiss and waving to my best friends. At the front door, Duane is grinning a magnificent smile my way.

I roll my eyes at our antics, mildly embarrassed.

He looks back at me. “What? That was cute, and you have good aim.”

A smile creeps onto my face. I can’t help it when he’s around. “Thank you, but to be fair she has a big head.”

Duane pffts, and shakes his head. “You are a fiery one,” he decides out loud.

“That’s an understatement.” I laugh. “I’ve always been told I can be kind of a fireball, but I think it adds to my charm. I blame the red hair.”

My dad always called me a spitfire. Said that I had the attitude to match my hair color. Lively and spirited. Feisty. It always made me laugh.

Duane’s old Ford sits in the parking lot next to my new, shiny one. Old and new. His truck is beat up. I’m sure it’s seen better days and the white color is faded, yet it’s still sexy as hell. Rugged and handsome, like its owner. My hand itches to drive it.

The truck. It itches to drive the truck. Not Duane.

Okay—maybe Duane, too.

I run my hand along the bed of the truck, and revel in the silkiness of the old machine. It doesn’t have a speck of rust. By the looks of it, Duane has taken great care of it. “This is a beautiful truck, Duane.”

“I think so too.” He beams. “I don’t have the heart to give her up. I’ll have this truck till she dies and I have to push her off a cliff.”

I laugh. “She, huh?”

“What?” He looks at me curiously as if he didn’t realize he called his truck a woman.

Then it clicks.

“Oh, yeah, she.” He grins, playing it off as if referring to a truck as a person is normal. “She’s beautiful, strong and trustworthy.”

I’m not going to lie, hearing him love this truck so thoroughly makes me kind of fall in love with her, too.

“Alright, alright, you’re right,
she,
” I emphasize the word, “Is divine, Duane. Truly, a beautiful truck.”

He scratches the back of his head and grins. “Thanks, Darlin.”

He puts my bag in the bed of the truck and opens my door. As soon as I step inside the truck, the smell of gasoline assaults my senses, probably because the tank is behind the cab. There’s also a strong smell of hay, and just a bit of the smell that only Duane has. It reminds me of working on the ranch as a kid.

My parents owned about ten acres in Arizona. We had horses, cows, chickens and any other damn farm animal you can think of. I learned how to drive a tractor at the age of five, and Dad often joked I could drive the tractor better than I could ride a bike.

I can still smell the freshly-cut grass in the hot summers. Back then life was simple. I’d hop on a horse and ride until the sun went down. I’d spend hours in the barn with my chestnut gelding, Skip. There would be times when my parents would fight all through the night, and I’d escape to the barn and sleep in his stall. He was my buddy.

The driver door opens, and Duane gets behind the wheel. “Ready?”

“As I’ll ever be,” I reply with hesitation.

He starts the truck and we back out of my comfort zone.

As we get closer to the airport, my hands begin to sweat, and I start doubting my decision to go back to Arizona.

The daunting thought of returning to my hometown is a scary thought in itself. I have a lot of demons waiting for me there. Demons I don’t know if I want to face. They fight their way into my subconscious, making me doubt life, love and happiness. They torment me so I suffer in silence, making sure I don’t let the past go. Dad and—other things—have stopped me from living. Truly having a happy life is alien to me.

I guess being a good actress comes in handy in this case. I can go through life acting like I’m fine. When really, I’m struggling to keep my head above water. I’m so close to drowning; I don’t know how much longer I can take treading in the sea of my past.

The craziest thing about my freak out isn’t just the massive heap of issues I have waiting for me in Arizona, it’s oddly being in that damn plane that’s making me waver.

Again—I. Hate. Heights.

I really didn’t think this through.

Holy shit, what am I going to do? I need to get out of this truck and back to my safe home where I can stew in my own head. Just go back to normal and ignore my problems.

My forehead glands start to cry, and I wipe the perspiration with my hand.

“Ann, you okay?” Duane asks, snapping me out of my thoughts.

I don’t think I’ve talked the entire trip. God, what is wrong with me?

“Umm, actually,” I falter.

Before I can answer, Duane places his hand on my bare leg and squeezes. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”

Dammit. When he touches me it makes my head fuzzy and I have a hard time concentrating. There’s a serious possibility that he’s a ninja. He karate chops my brain into thinking I can bend the rules and let him in.

I huff a lungful of air and debate telling him my childish fear. On one hand, it makes perfect sense; being miles up in the air is beyond unnatural. I don’t want to go plummeting to my death. Then on the other hand, any logical person, who I am clearly not right now, would say that traveling by airplane is safer than driving. More people die every year from car accidents than airplanes.

Therein, lies my problem. No one survives a damn airplane crash. Once those masks shoot down from the ceiling, you’re done. Bye bye, no more life, adios amigo. It’s reason enough to put me in full-panic mode.

Yeah. Panic mode: engaged.

“I don’t know if I want to tell you,” I say honestly, “I feel like an idiot.”

He removes his hand, and returns it to the massive steering wheel. “You can tell me anything, Ann, I hope you know that.”

I nervously laugh. “It’s stupid, really. I’m alright. I’m fine, totally fine.”

Quit rambling.

Duane gives me a stern look and shakes his head. “No way, Ann, I see you sweating bullets over there. Spit it out.” He pulls up to a stoplight then turns toward me. “I’m sure it’s not stupid. Just tell me.”

The sincerity in his eyes diminish my uncertainties.

“Okay, this is going to sound crazy, really crazy,” I trail off, “but I’m deathly afraid of heights. The only other time I’ve been on a plane is when I moved here. I shouldn’t even tell you that I had to take a sedative to calm myself down before getting on the plane. And of course, the dumbass thing didn’t help one bit. I was like a kid hyped up on candy, and I couldn’t sit still. I bounced in my seat, and constantly asked the flight attendants if the pilots were conscious. It was bad. I was a mess. God, what am I saying? I am a mess. This is me. Messy.”

Duane’s laughter fills the cabin as he pulls into the airport parking lot. “First of all, you aren’t a mess. Being afraid of flying is totally normal. But, you’ve got one thing going for you that you didn’t have before. You know what that is?”

I wrack my brain. Oh geeze, I have no idea. I’m older, so I should be more prepared? I can drink alcohol on the flight? Heck if I know. I’m completely clueless.

We’ve pulled into a parking space, and he shuts off the truck. I tear myself from my deliberations and look over at him to answer, but his seat is empty and the door is swinging shut. Damn ninja.

Scrambling to unbuckle my seat belt, my fingernail catches on the clip and I yelp in pain. Quickly, I bring my injured finger to my mouth to relieve the aching throb.

Nursing my finger longer than necessary, I attempt the seat belt again. This time, my door flies open and Duane leans over my body to click the damn contraption. The belt snaps back into place and I’m set free.

Traitor seatbelt.

I look up at him in gratitude. “Why thank you, kind sir.”

“Not a problem, Darlin’. She sometimes doesn’t let extraordinary women out of her clutches.”

Be still my overly beating heart. Are we flirting?

Playing off his corny, yet sweet, words, I shake my head. “Smooth Duane. Very smooth.”

Duane looks of goodness. “What? I’m being serious, although this is the first time.”

I thrust his shoulder playfully and hop out of the cab. The last thing I want to do is think about all the women he’s had in his truck.

Inside the stacked parking garage, the light wind from this beautiful Nashville day makes for a hurricane, whipping my hair into my face, blinding me. Before I can get my bearings, I hear a loud screech and I’m thrust back against the truck.

My back hits the protruding door handle, producing a scream at the white-hot pain. Keeping my eyes closed, controlling my breathing, Duane cradles my body from some unknown force. In the stumble, I’ve managed to wrap both arms around his waist, and bury my head in his chest, feeling way too comfortable.

Duane pulls back in the slightest, breaking a little of our connection. His breathing falters, looking into my eyes and, I swear, into my soul. Pupils dilated, his eyes jump between my lips and my eyes. My lips and my eyes. Over and over again. I lick them, maybe hoping to sway his next move. His eyes stop at my lips, and just when I think he might do something we, or just he, will regret, a car door slams and cracks our foolish dream.