in deep conversation
with Mrs. Baker.
“Let’s just go,” he says.
“No, I can’t. I’ll make it quick, I
promise.”
It takes twenty minutes for me to extricate
myself from the combined clutches of Joanne and Mrs. Baker. Tim,
the rat, makes himself scarce during our exchange. I try to hurry
it along, imagining Trace sitting alone at my house with his a slow
burning fuse, but it’s a waste of time. When I finally settle
myself into Monroe’s car, I’m ready to scream. Thank God it’s a
short drive home. I jump out of the vehicle before Monroe even has
it in park. I lean in the door as he reaches for the ignition
key.
“Oh, don’t get out. I can see myself in.” I
smile. “It was a fun night. I’ll see you in a couple of days,
okay?”
He laughs.
“Trace doesn’t want me around, huh? So I
guess you’ve made your decision. You know, you can’t keep your
relationship with him a secret for very long, Lynn.” He sounds
sympathetic, but I don’t buy it. I just shrug in response and he
sighs. “Okay, okay. I’ll butt out. Just be careful.”
I force a smile. “I always am.”
I slam the door, turn, and walk up to the
house. Monroe waits while the door opens. Trace steps out and leans
against the frame, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. The car
idles at the curb behind me and I wonder how far the pissing match
might end up going. I so don’t need this crap. Trace slings
an arm around my neck when I reach him and we walk inside the house
together. Peeking out the door as it slams, I see Monroe drive off
down the street.
Glad to be home, I kick off my shoes and
reach for the pins holding up my hair. It tumbles down my back and
I massage my scalp as I walk to the bedroom. Trace follows. I sense
him, but he does it without making a sound. Stopping near the bed,
I gather my hair to one side.
“Can you get this zipper?”
It slides down, the noise loud in the
tomblike silence of the room. I let the dress fall forward to pool
around my waist and instead of pushing it down over my hips, I
reach behind me for the snap to my bra and take it off with a sigh
of relief. Rolling my neck, I wonder what the night has in store
for me. I’m ready to crash, but as usual my body strums with
awareness of Trace standing nearby, watching me. I don’t know how
I’ve lived ten years without him. Addicted, that’s what I am--and
it isn’t a good thing.
I push the dress down and sit on the edge of
the bed to roll off my stockings. He leans against the wall, his
gaze like a hot caress. Last, I remove my thong and crawl under the
covers. Sleep and lust both tug at me and right now, sleep is
winning. My eyelids droop and I curl onto my side to admire him as
he undresses. His shirt comes off to reveal defined pecs and a
ridged abdomen. Dropping the garment to the floor, he reaches for
the snap on his jeans. I hold my breath when they slide down over
his narrow hips. He is beautiful, all lean sculpted muscle. He lies
down facing me and holds my gaze a long moment before speaking.
“Do you trust me?” he asks.
It is the last thing I expect to hear from
him, and it raises my guard. Do I trust him? I am beginning
to think I can’t live without him, but that can hardly be counted
as trust. Years ago I was sure I loved him, and where had it gotten
me? I know he would never physically hurt me, and he might even
protect me if necessary.
Yet I know he isn’t asking for that kind of
trust. Do I dare trust him with my heart? With my soul ? Can
he be trusted not to shove me out of his life again on a whim?
Never mind if it is wise to find myself in this situation a second
time. The answer to that question is obvious. I can’t say the same
for the one about trust.
I shouldn’t take this step. I should say no
and let the moment pass, but something hovers in his eyes.
Something that looks like hurt and insecurity and longing.
Something I can’t deny. We are so wrong for each other. Maybe what
I see in his eyes is only
with Mrs. Baker.
“Let’s just go,” he says.
“No, I can’t. I’ll make it quick, I
promise.”
It takes twenty minutes for me to extricate
myself from the combined clutches of Joanne and Mrs. Baker. Tim,
the rat, makes himself scarce during our exchange. I try to hurry
it along, imagining Trace sitting alone at my house with his a slow
burning fuse, but it’s a waste of time. When I finally settle
myself into Monroe’s car, I’m ready to scream. Thank God it’s a
short drive home. I jump out of the vehicle before Monroe even has
it in park. I lean in the door as he reaches for the ignition
key.
“Oh, don’t get out. I can see myself in.” I
smile. “It was a fun night. I’ll see you in a couple of days,
okay?”
He laughs.
“Trace doesn’t want me around, huh? So I
guess you’ve made your decision. You know, you can’t keep your
relationship with him a secret for very long, Lynn.” He sounds
sympathetic, but I don’t buy it. I just shrug in response and he
sighs. “Okay, okay. I’ll butt out. Just be careful.”
I force a smile. “I always am.”
I slam the door, turn, and walk up to the
house. Monroe waits while the door opens. Trace steps out and leans
against the frame, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. The car
idles at the curb behind me and I wonder how far the pissing match
might end up going. I so don’t need this crap. Trace slings
an arm around my neck when I reach him and we walk inside the house
together. Peeking out the door as it slams, I see Monroe drive off
down the street.
Glad to be home, I kick off my shoes and
reach for the pins holding up my hair. It tumbles down my back and
I massage my scalp as I walk to the bedroom. Trace follows. I sense
him, but he does it without making a sound. Stopping near the bed,
I gather my hair to one side.
“Can you get this zipper?”
It slides down, the noise loud in the
tomblike silence of the room. I let the dress fall forward to pool
around my waist and instead of pushing it down over my hips, I
reach behind me for the snap to my bra and take it off with a sigh
of relief. Rolling my neck, I wonder what the night has in store
for me. I’m ready to crash, but as usual my body strums with
awareness of Trace standing nearby, watching me. I don’t know how
I’ve lived ten years without him. Addicted, that’s what I am--and
it isn’t a good thing.
I push the dress down and sit on the edge of
the bed to roll off my stockings. He leans against the wall, his
gaze like a hot caress. Last, I remove my thong and crawl under the
covers. Sleep and lust both tug at me and right now, sleep is
winning. My eyelids droop and I curl onto my side to admire him as
he undresses. His shirt comes off to reveal defined pecs and a
ridged abdomen. Dropping the garment to the floor, he reaches for
the snap on his jeans. I hold my breath when they slide down over
his narrow hips. He is beautiful, all lean sculpted muscle. He lies
down facing me and holds my gaze a long moment before speaking.
“Do you trust me?” he asks.
It is the last thing I expect to hear from
him, and it raises my guard. Do I trust him? I am beginning
to think I can’t live without him, but that can hardly be counted
as trust. Years ago I was sure I loved him, and where had it gotten
me? I know he would never physically hurt me, and he might even
protect me if necessary.
Yet I know he isn’t asking for that kind of
trust. Do I dare trust him with my heart? With my soul ? Can
he be trusted not to shove me out of his life again on a whim?
Never mind if it is wise to find myself in this situation a second
time. The answer to that question is obvious. I can’t say the same
for the one about trust.
I shouldn’t take this step. I should say no
and let the moment pass, but something hovers in his eyes.
Something that looks like hurt and insecurity and longing.
Something I can’t deny. We are so wrong for each other. Maybe what
I see in his eyes is only
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