Wishes and Stitches (10 page)

Naomi seemed to collect herself. She sat up straighter and turned her knees so that she faced him more directly. “Do you want something to drink?”

“Um . . .”

“I'm going to have some iced tea. Would you like some?”

“Yeah.”

She practically ran to the kitchen, leaving Rig behind on his wooden chair. He took a deep breath, and stuck out a foot. He examined the scuffs on his work boot and wondered idly if he should get a better pair, a nicer pair, for the office.

Then he wondered if she'd notice.

What would it feel like to kiss her again?

Was he truly as crazy as he was feeling? Maybe, if he was, he should prescribe himself some antipsychotics because he sure as hell never felt like this.

Rig leaned back and studied the poppy on the wall. It was perfect, blooming exactly where it should.

Chapter Fifteen

L
eaning against the refrigerator, Naomi raised a hand to her cheeks. What the
hell
was going on? Why was she so thrown by him? She opened the door of the refrigerator and stared into it blindly.

Fact: She had a new employee in her business.

Fact: Rig Keller was equipped to do the job and would be an asset to the practice, no matter how she felt about it.

Fact: She was more attracted to Rig than she'd been to anyone in years. In more years than she could count, actually. Was it because she already knew what he could do? Funny, it felt like she didn't have the slightest clue to what he was capable of doing to her.

Fact: It felt dizzying. And wrong. And just plain frightening.

The chill from the refrigerator made her shiver. Did she even
have
iced tea? She'd offered it before she'd thought. There, she had the bottled kind. She had no idea how old the bottles were—did they expire?—but at least she could pretend she was a hostess sometimes.

Whereas in reality, she never was. Not once since she'd moved here. Besides the cable guy and the two Jehovah's Witnesses she'd invited in one day because she was bored—boy, had
that
been a mistake—Rig was the first person to be in her house. The townspeople hadn't beaten a path to her door like she'd thought a small town would, and she never had to choose between social engagements.

Naomi twisted open the caps and poured the tea into glasses. Adding ice, she placed the glasses on a serving tray that she used to hold her frozen dinners when she ate in front of the TV. She shook some stale gingersnaps out of the Trader Joe's box onto a saucer and called it good.

She was serving him
tea
.

Dammit, one of the few places she'd ever felt confident in her reactions to people was in sexual attraction. Maybe it was because it didn't require language, which was where she was always tripped up in everyday interactions, but sex had always been kind of easy for her.

Relationships? That was a different matter—the men she'd been involved with always ended up telling her that they couldn't understand her because she wouldn't talk about her feelings. No relationship had ever lasted more than four months, maybe six, tops. Naomi had gotten over the hurt as quickly as she could each time, determined to pour all her energies into medicine. With patients, behind the closed door, where she had the knowledge that they needed—she could relax then. She didn't relax many other places, or with many other people. But then again, she'd never been in love with anyone as much as she was in love with pursuing her dreams.

She bet her father had felt the same way—maybe that was why he'd never dated after the divorce. She got her focus, her dedication, from him.

And now just look at her. Naomi was nervous, frantic butterflies in her stomach the size of the blue ones she'd painted on the wall in a fit of creative energy last year. She picked up the tray and swallowed, hard. Maybe she didn't understand how she felt around him, but that didn't mean it had to show.

In the living room, Rig stood staring at the picture of the poppy she'd taken years before, during the drive out to the reservoir with Eliza.

“It's good,” he said. “Really good. Did you take it?”

Naomi nodded. The scrapes on the yellow-painted surface of the coffee table had never bothered her before, but they seemed to jump out at her now, and she placed the tray so that it covered as much of the damage as it could.

“Nice.” Rig reached for a glass, and as he pulled back, their arms brushed. She felt the warmth of him, smelled the soap he'd used that morning.

If this was playing it cool, she wasn't doing very well.

“How long have you lived here?”

Naomi felt a sharp burst of embarrassment. Most people would have gotten around to buying furniture that matched. Sometimes she felt like such a fake grown-up. “Ever since I got into town a year ago. Doesn't look like it, does it?” She laughed lightly, but the sound didn't hit the right note.

“I like it. It looks like you. I never would have pegged you for the owl-collecting type, though.”

Naomi exhaled as she fell onto the couch next to him. “I'm
not.
They're courtesy of my mother. Once, we were browsing in an antiques store and I said an owl figurine was cute. Since then, I haven't had a non-owl present from her, ever. I have an owl doormat, owl picture frames, even owl candle holders. And those are the things I leave out. In the hall closet I store all the other owl things I can't bear to look at—the owl clock that hoots on the hour, the owl bookends. On the rare occasions my mother makes a visit, I make sure to put them all on display, even though it's kind of like shooting myself in the foot.”

“But you don't really like them.”

“I don't hate birds. That's about as much as I ever think about owls.”

Another pause fell in the room, feeling heavy with something she couldn't name. “And I hear you're staying . . . with Shirley Bellflower?”

As if he was as conscious of the small talk as she was, he nodded and abruptly changed the subject. “What are you doing tonight?”

Naomi straightened. “I'm going to a party.” It felt good to say. Tonight, she was going to a party. Just like everyone else.

“The surprise party for Lucy Bancroft?”

“How do you . . . ? Yes.” Of course he knew about the party. Why was she even surprised?

“Me, too.” He glanced at his watch. “In fact,” he went on, “we should probably get over there if we want to be on time. Want to go together?”

The words sounded so easy for him, falling off his tongue as if he invited one-night stands to parties all the time.

Maybe he did.

Wouldn't that be a nice thing to be able to do?

Naomi thought furiously. She hadn't even glanced at her hair since leaving for the office this morning, and the ocean air had been whipping strongly as she'd walked home—it was a curled tangle, she could feel it. She'd never reapplied lipstick after lunch. She hadn't even
thought
about what she'd wear, and if she had, she was sure she didn't have the right thing.

And if she went with him, she might die of these nerves she didn't understand.

Forcing her lips to part, she said, “You know, I've got a thing, so I was going to drive myself . . .”

“A thing.”

“Yeah.”

It didn't look like he was buying it. “After, you mean?”

“Uh-huh.”

He shrugged. “Okay then. I'll just see you there.”

“That will be nice.” Oh, she longed to slide sideways and bury her face in the pillow she held on her lap.
Nice?

He reached for a gingersnap and popped it whole into his mouth. “It'll be good to go to a party,” he mumbled around the cookie. “Get to know some more people in town.”

Naomi chewed on her bottom lip until she told herself to stop. “I should probably change.”

“Why?” Looking puzzled, Rig cast his gaze down Naomi's body and then back up. “I think you look great.”

“You're crazy. I wouldn't go to the mailbox in this.” She looked beat up, she knew she did. These were her oldest yoga pants and her most comfortable T-shirt, and both had tiny holes in inappropriate places.

Rig set his glass down on the tray. His mouth twitched as if he were swallowing a grin. “Um.”

Naomi bristled. “What?”

“Like I said, you look great.”

Oh, that low tone of his voice, so low she practically had to turn her head toward him to hear the rumble of his words. His voice sounded like a caress.

She stood, her knees a little wobbly. “Thanks.”

He stood, too. “Just grab a jacket in case it gets cold and put on some shoes, and we're good to go. Please? Will you reconsider just coming with me? I'll take you by your thing later.”

“No thanks.” But Naomi's voice was weak, and the words were automatic. This was insane, this feeling of heat in her lower belly, this moronic groundswell of lust that was flooding her body. They just had good chemistry.
Really
good chemistry. Not her fault. That was all.

“I wish you'd change your mind.”

“Um, well . . .” Lord, the man was so close. Naomi could just . . . she could . . .

She couldn't.

“So, I guess I'll see you there,” she said.

Before she could see it coming, before she could move, Rig stepped forward and scooped her into a hug.

Chapter Sixteen

R
ig hadn't bargained on how soft she would feel. Instantly, his head swam, as if he'd had too much to drink. She smelled of flowers and adhesive, like a rose-scented Band-Aid. He'd never known before that he had a favorite scent, but now he did. It was her.

It was a second or two before he realized the hug was completely one sided. Naomi wasn't hugging him back. She was stiff as a two-by-four in his arms.

He released her, letting his arms fall to his sides and stepping back. “Sorry,” he said, feeling lame. “That was weird, wasn't it?”

Naomi looked up at him, those green eyes glimmering in a way he couldn't read. She swayed toward him and then took a breath. Dammit, he couldn't read her at
all
. She was nothing like she'd been in Portland—confident, secure, knowing. Now she was something else, almost fragile, and god
damn
he wanted to kiss her. But he couldn't. Wouldn't.

“Just one more thing,” she said. It seemed as if she was deciding something, and Rig wished like hell he could tell what it was.

He moved the tiniest bit closer, and it was official—he was now completely in her personal space. “What?”

“This.” Her cool fingers moved to his throat, and then trailed up to his cheek. Rig tried to remain as still as he possibly could, as if he didn't want to scare off a curious butterfly. He took a deep breath and held it as her fingers traced his jaw, then his chin. She was so close. If he wanted to, he could reach out and . . .

Naomi gasped and met Rig's eyes.

His hand slid down to her other hand, his fingers entwining with hers, and he tugged her forward as he stepped toward her, closing the final inches that had separated them.

His mouth inches from hers, she whispered, “I have no idea what I'm doing. And I hate that.”

She went up on her tiptoes and pressed her mouth against his.

Naomi's lips were sweet—he could taste the slightest hint of ginger and rose and faintly, mint. She moved her mouth so that she pulled slightly on his lower lip. Something shifted inside him, and Rig went from turned on to completely over the top, on
fire
for her.

Putting one arm around her, he pulled her to his chest. As her soft breasts pressed against him, he tangled his fingers in those curls he'd been dying to touch since he last saw her. Cool as chilled vodka she'd been then, that morning as she'd dressed, iced over, with that outrageous hair that protested her outward appearance, implying everything he tasted in her mouth that night and again now.

She was heat, and fire, and he'd
known
he hadn't gotten this wrong. Feeling triumphant, he crushed her mouth with his and her lips parted. He breathed her in as his tongue dipped into her warmth. She tasted darker now, heady, like wine.

His hand splayed flat on her lower spine, and he didn't have to pull her closer—she pressed herself against him, and he knew she could feel his reaction against her stomach. Fuck, he was hard.

Rig wanted her.

She knew it.

And she was just going deeper into the kiss. Who
was
this woman? Liquid nitrogen to molten lava in less than sixty seconds. His head swam and he didn't think he could hold her any tighter. It was already hard to breathe, and so hot in the room he thought he might explode into flames if she pulled his tongue into her mouth like that one more time.

“Uh—” Someone cleared a throat and coughed delicately. It took Rig a few more seconds to realize that the noise came from behind Naomi, near the front door. Maybe he should relinquish the hold he had on her, but God, it was so difficult. One last crush of lips, and he lifted his head and looked over her shoulder.

A girl stood next to the lamp just inside the door, hot pink stripes in her blond hair, a suitcase in her hand. She wore a calf-length black skirt, and a green tank top that emphasized exactly how pregnant she was. She had to be about seven months along, if not more. The fabric of the tank strained across her belly, and her feet looked swollen in her green flip-flips.

“Hi,” the girl said.

Naomi stiffened, freezing. Rig could practically feel her skin cooling to the touch. He let his hand fall from where it was twisted in her hair, and she spun, still halfway in his arms.

“Anna. Holy shit.” Naomi's voice was flat.

“The door was unlocked.” Anna gave a small, apologetic smile, and Rig saw the resemblance—they both had full lips and long, straight noses. Of course, Naomi's lips were a little fuller now, from his kisses. He hoped Naomi remained standing in front of him until he cooled off for a second. He didn't want the tent in his pants to scare off her little sister. This must be the one she'd said she never spoke to, never saw.

Looked like that was about to change.

“So you just walk in?”

Anna's smile wavered. “I didn't mean to interrupt. I knocked, but I don't think you heard. You're . . . busy. I can go out and come back later.”

“You didn't interrupt anything.”

Yes, she had. But while Rig minded that he wasn't kissing Naomi anymore, this was as good a reason as any not to be. He watched the reunion with interest. Why hadn't they hugged yet? Kissed each other on the cheek at least?

The girl looked over Naomi's shoulder. “Hi, I'm Anna.”

“I figured.” Rig stepped from behind Naomi—thankfully, he'd cooled off a little—and shook her hand. “Rig Keller. Pleasure to meet you.”

Anna grinned. “He's cute, sister.”

Naomi's mouth twisted, and it looked like she was biting the inside of her cheek. There was an awkward silence. Then Naomi broke it by saying, “So, you're just passing through?”

Anna looked down at her belly and then back up. “Well, I thought . . .”

Rig had never felt more awkward. “I'll just be—”

“Don't you go anywhere,” Naomi said fiercely to him. Turning back to Anna, she said, “Are you
kidding
me?”