work, I’ve got hours of free time. I read. I read lots of different things. This is just what I’m reading now.”
“What else have you read?”
“Construction books to work on Brookhaven—wiring, plumbing, framing—tons of stuff on architecture,” she said promptly. “I’ve also read everything in the library’s Classics section—although I can’t get into the Russians—most of the Poetry section, and a good chunk of Biography. My interests vary, and I go off on tangents. That’s all this is. A tangent.”
“Alana called it ‘your average, run-of-the-mill obsession.’”
She and Alana were going to have words when she got back to Walkers Ford. “It’s not.”
He sat back and studied her, the focused gaze threatening on so many levels. “You’ve never been sailing.”
She laughed. “I’m fifteen hundred miles from the nearest ocean, so only in my dreams, as they say,” she said lightly.
“Speaking of dreams,” he said. An odd sensation expanded in her chest. “I want to help with the paneling.”
It took her a moment to recognize disappointment, the emotion unfamiliar because she’d tamped down what caused it—unfulfilled anticipation. She’d anticipated that Adam would say something else, like,
Let’s go sailing,
a laughable statement when South Dakota was last covered with ocean during the late Cretaceous period; or even,
Let’s go to bed
. Instead he brought up Brookhaven. Her real dream. Her obtainable dream. Because she wasn’t going sailing, and he was leaving.
She shouldn’t do this. One day with him and they were already right back where they left off.
Not quite where you left off . . .
Maybe getting Adam involved would make her take the step she couldn’t seem to take. “You’ve got other things to do,” she said.
He held up one long finger. “Prepare a best man’s speech.” A second finger went up. “Find an apartment so my mom gets her garage back. That’s it.”
“Somehow I don’t think that’s the whole truth,” she said, and was rewarded with a slight widening of his eyes. But the last thing she wanted was Adam Collins rising to the challenge. “We can talk about it on the way home.”
8
T HEY RODE IN silence back to Walkers Ford. Marissa had spent plenty of time riding shotgun with Adam, both in the passenger seat of whatever car he was fixing up and driving, and on the back of that dangerous motorcycle. Sometimes they talked. More often than not they just drove around until they found their way back to Brookhaven’s barn. She knew his silences as well as most people knew their lovers’ words, so she sat in the stillness heating between them as the car prowled the county highways, toward Brookhaven. In the cocoon created by the car’s solid feel, the rhythm of the windshield wipers, and soft rock playing on the radio, the mood in the car shifted. He didn’t touch her, didn’t look at her, but she didn’t need a hand on her knee or a quick glance to know what he was thinking. What he finally, finally would do.
What she’d always wanted.
He parked at the apex of the semicircular drive, and when he got out of the car to open her door, the gesture no longer felt gentlemanly. He stayed close, letting her bump into him, feel the heat and strength of his body as they walked around to the servants’ quarters entrance. While she unlocked the door he ran his palm over his buzzed hair and flung the collected water to the side, and something in that automatic gesture stripped away her resolve.
“I told you about the books,” she said. “Tell me how you stayed faithful, seeing Delaney once or twice a year.”
“It loses something in the telling,” he said. “I could demonstrate, though.”
Her pulse stuttered, then shot into high gear. She liked men, loved sex, wasn’t afraid to own her sexuality. Given explosive chemistry with a man disciplined enough to remain utterly faithful to one woman for twelve years, the possibilities for sexual
“What else have you read?”
“Construction books to work on Brookhaven—wiring, plumbing, framing—tons of stuff on architecture,” she said promptly. “I’ve also read everything in the library’s Classics section—although I can’t get into the Russians—most of the Poetry section, and a good chunk of Biography. My interests vary, and I go off on tangents. That’s all this is. A tangent.”
“Alana called it ‘your average, run-of-the-mill obsession.’”
She and Alana were going to have words when she got back to Walkers Ford. “It’s not.”
He sat back and studied her, the focused gaze threatening on so many levels. “You’ve never been sailing.”
She laughed. “I’m fifteen hundred miles from the nearest ocean, so only in my dreams, as they say,” she said lightly.
“Speaking of dreams,” he said. An odd sensation expanded in her chest. “I want to help with the paneling.”
It took her a moment to recognize disappointment, the emotion unfamiliar because she’d tamped down what caused it—unfulfilled anticipation. She’d anticipated that Adam would say something else, like,
Let’s go sailing,
a laughable statement when South Dakota was last covered with ocean during the late Cretaceous period; or even,
Let’s go to bed
. Instead he brought up Brookhaven. Her real dream. Her obtainable dream. Because she wasn’t going sailing, and he was leaving.
She shouldn’t do this. One day with him and they were already right back where they left off.
Not quite where you left off . . .
Maybe getting Adam involved would make her take the step she couldn’t seem to take. “You’ve got other things to do,” she said.
He held up one long finger. “Prepare a best man’s speech.” A second finger went up. “Find an apartment so my mom gets her garage back. That’s it.”
“Somehow I don’t think that’s the whole truth,” she said, and was rewarded with a slight widening of his eyes. But the last thing she wanted was Adam Collins rising to the challenge. “We can talk about it on the way home.”
8
T HEY RODE IN silence back to Walkers Ford. Marissa had spent plenty of time riding shotgun with Adam, both in the passenger seat of whatever car he was fixing up and driving, and on the back of that dangerous motorcycle. Sometimes they talked. More often than not they just drove around until they found their way back to Brookhaven’s barn. She knew his silences as well as most people knew their lovers’ words, so she sat in the stillness heating between them as the car prowled the county highways, toward Brookhaven. In the cocoon created by the car’s solid feel, the rhythm of the windshield wipers, and soft rock playing on the radio, the mood in the car shifted. He didn’t touch her, didn’t look at her, but she didn’t need a hand on her knee or a quick glance to know what he was thinking. What he finally, finally would do.
What she’d always wanted.
He parked at the apex of the semicircular drive, and when he got out of the car to open her door, the gesture no longer felt gentlemanly. He stayed close, letting her bump into him, feel the heat and strength of his body as they walked around to the servants’ quarters entrance. While she unlocked the door he ran his palm over his buzzed hair and flung the collected water to the side, and something in that automatic gesture stripped away her resolve.
“I told you about the books,” she said. “Tell me how you stayed faithful, seeing Delaney once or twice a year.”
“It loses something in the telling,” he said. “I could demonstrate, though.”
Her pulse stuttered, then shot into high gear. She liked men, loved sex, wasn’t afraid to own her sexuality. Given explosive chemistry with a man disciplined enough to remain utterly faithful to one woman for twelve years, the possibilities for sexual
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