LUKE PULLED HIS hand away from Whitney’s tender touch. Damn it, the woman had a way of getting him to say and do things he never intended. Like making a sandwich at one o’clock in the morning. With no clothes on. And liking it. But he never liked talking about his family history.
Everyone in Rendezvous Falls seemed to have an opinion about his family, and most of those opinions were based on rumors that barely flirted with the truth. He’d given up on setting things straight. People enjoyed perpetuating the myth of the violent Rutledge family from the wrong side of the tracks. Impoverished trailer park losers doomed to a life of crime and failure. It was a tidy box he and his siblings had been shoved into, and he’d long ago stopped giving a damn what people thought. Until he met Whitney. He backtracked on his comment.
“At least, that’s what folks in town will tell you.”
She stared hard into his eyes. “I only care about what you tell me.”
When Luke was a child, he’d foolishly leaped off one of the docks at the marina. The day was hot and the water was cool. It seemed like a good idea, even if he’d never been in the lake before. People naturally knew how to swim, right? Before someone dove in to save his stupid ass, he thought he was going to sink down and down forever, surrounded by all that soft, warm water, with the sun shining up above. It was beautiful, even though he was sinking and doomed. That’s how he felt now, as Whitney Foster looked deep into his soul and told him she wanted to hear his words about his story. Inviting. Safe. Treacherous.
He lifted one shoulder, trying to play it casual, but her expression said she wasn’t buying it. Of course not. He still wasn’t going to go there. But his mouth didn’t get the memo.
“My parents lived a hard life, and we got sucked into it, no matter how much we tried not to.” Her hand reached for his again. He almost pulled away, but found he couldn’t. Her fingers had intertwined with his. He was trapped. “Neither one of my parents ever caught a damn break in their lives. Second or third generation poverty, with no idea how to change it.” He glanced up and gave her a crooked grin. “Well, I’m sure the idea of going out and getting actual paying jobs crossed their minds, but they didn’t want to sacrifice their lifestyle.”
“And what lifestyle was that?”
“The one where Dad got shitfaced every night, and Mom tried to hide us kids from him.” He could still smell the stale cigarette smoke that darkened the walls and ceilings of the single-wide trailer. “Her efforts didn’t seem that noble as I got older, since she was the one who sold our food stamps so she could buy Dad’s beer every week.” The refrigerator was always empty, other than rows of shiny metal cans. Those never seemed to run out.
“Why didn’t your mom just leave him?”
Luke’s head dropped. He’d hoped Whitney would do more than spout the same answerless questions everyone else asked. Who the hell knew why Joanie Rutledge stayed with a creep like Cliff? He stared out the window, watching clouds scuttle across the face of the nearly full moon. For the first time in a long time, Luke saw some of the answers.
“Like I said, third generation. Her granddaddy beat her grandmomma. Her daddy beat her momma. Mom thought it was just the way of the world. It was her job to do the impossible—try to keep a perpetually angry man from blowing up.” The weight of his memories pressed down on him. “But Dad was raised in even worse circumstances than she was, and he spent all his energy raging at the world for the unfairness of it all. The five people sharing a three-bedroom trailer with him were the easiest targets, and Dad loved easy targets.”
He swallowed hard. He hadn’t wandered down memory lane in a long time. Confronting the hopeless truth behind his parents’ choices didn’t make him feel any better about what had happened. Understanding didn’t always lead to forgiveness.
“But you broke the pattern, Luke.”
He’d almost forgotten she was there.
“What?”
Whitney squeezed his hand. “You said your parents were the third generation of a dysfunctional spiral. But you’re a strong, decent, hardworking man who’s nothing like that.”
Luke wasn’t accustomed to receiving compliments. He pulled his hand away, holding it up and clenching the fingers tightly to show her the bruised knuckles. “This says otherwise. You want to know what it means when people called me ‘a Rutledge’? Well, this is exactly what it means. Trouble.”
She pulled his fist across the table toward her, and he didn’t resist. Couldn’t. That’s the kind of power she had over him. His heart started thudding against his ribs when she lifted his still-clenched hand to her lips.
“This...” She...damn, she kissed his knuckle, her voice calm and sure. “This means you are a gentleman willing to defend a woman’s honor. My knight in shining armor.”
He had a hard time drawing in his next breath. She saw him as some kind of hero? That was a first. She looked up through her long dark lashes, and his heart joined the strike his lungs were on. He felt...exposed...in a way he’d never been before. In danger, but not afraid. She kissed another knuckle. Son of a...
“This? This means you’re the kind of guy who doesn’t sit around and hope everything turns out okay. You’re the kind of guy who gets off his ass and walks into trouble to make things right.”
No. He avoided trouble, if only to confuse all the people who expected it of him. But he wasn’t afraid of it. Whitney wasn’t finished messing with his head. She kissed the bloodied knuckle. “This says you’re strong.”
She studied his hand some more and planted a kiss on an old scar. It was from pruning vines last year, when he dropped the clippers and tried to juggle them to keep them from landing in the mud. The result was a slice across the back of his hand. And muddy clippers.
“This says you’re not afraid of hard work. You’re a do-it-yourselfer who probably could have worked at some other vineyard for a lot more money, but stayed here because Helen needed you.”
Well, that much was true. He’d do anything for the couple who’d saved him from following the Rutledge family tradition. Whitney saw a truth most people in this town never bothered to look for. How was he supposed to respond when a beautiful woman, wearing only his faded T-shirt, told his fortune? Not from reading his palm, but from reading the marks on the back of his hand. And she wasn’t finished stripping him bare.
She tugged his ring finger up straight, exposing a spot of cranberry spread on the tip, giving him the naughtiest of smiles.
“And this? This means no one you care about will ever go hungry.” She licked his finger clean. Two images crashed together in his brain. One was of the old Kenmore refrigerator in the trailer, filled with cold beer and all those boxes of frozen fucking fish sticks. The other was of Helen’s stovetop, loaded with boiling pots of deliciousness that smelled like salvation to a teenage boy. It had been a glimpse of a better, different world from the one he’d known. A world he’d been destined to live in, right up until that moment when Tony had put his arm around a teenaged Luke’s shoulder in the kitchen.
“You can eat all this food yourself,” Tony had told him. “Or you can learn how to make it and feed your brothers and sister.”
That had been the first time someone had suggested he had the power to change things. Some people had given his family free food and clothes out of pity, and he’d hated it. No one until Tony ever told him he could do more than just accept his fate. Tony could have had Luke arrested the first time he caught him stealing tomatoes from his garden. Instead, he and Helen taught him how to grow things. How to cook. How to be a man. He closed his eyes tight, holding back the tears that threatened.
Whitney watched patiently, waiting for him to process her words, that playful smile still on her lips. Thank god she’d run out of things to kiss and praise, because his head was already pounding from trying to reconcile it all. The light cast from that ancient lamp of his mom’s was muted by its dark red lampshade. The warm tone made Whitney’s skin glow, even in the shadows. Or maybe that was just Whitney. Maybe that glow came from inside her, and not some thrift shop table lamp.
Their fingers were locked together again. He was drawn to her against all odds. There was no sense fighting it. He stood abruptly, pulling her to her feet in front of him. This night had been insane. He’d punched a guy. Drunk whiskey with Whitney. Let her seduce him up into his own damn apartment. Into his bed. The towel around his hips twitched. He tugged Whitney close enough for her to feel him against her. That naughty smile of hers deepened, and she pressed her body against his.
His arms slid around her waist and they started to sway to a silent melody. He was dancing with Whitney Foster. In his kitchen. Her head nestled on his shoulder. He rested his cheek on her head. It was...perfect. Luke’s chest swelled with some unfamiliar emotion too frightening to explore.
He brushed his lips across her ear. “I want you again.”
She chuckled, looking up at him. “I can tell.”
Would “again” be once too often? Would they cross some line that couldn’t be uncrossed if they spent the night in his bed? He gave her a chance to choose caution.
“I’ll understand if you don’t want to. Tomorrow’s Saturday. The winery’s open. We should get some sleep.”
Whitney turned away, taking his hand and heading for the bed. She winked over her shoulder at him.
“I have a friend who says sleep is overrated.”
He laughed, feeling the tension from their heavy conversation evaporating with every step they took toward his bed.
“Sounds like a smart friend.”
Whitney released his hand and swept the T-shirt off with a flourish before falling onto the bed, her hair falling wildly across her face. She pushed it back and gave him a smile that created a blossom of warmth deep inside his chest. Then she patted the mattress at her side in invitation.
“I don’t know about smart,” she said. “But he’s definitely talented.”
SOMETHING WAS BEEPING.
Whitney moaned and threw her arm over her face. What was Aunt Helen doing?
And now the bed was moving.
The bed.
Was moving.
Her eyes snapped open. This wasn’t her room. This wasn’t her bed. She started to sit up, trying to knock the cobwebs from her brain.
The sharp male voice inches from her head did the trick. “Oh, shit!”
Clarity returned with a rush. She was in Luke’s bed. She’d been in Luke’s arms until the beeping started.
Beep. Beep.
“Luke! Turn off your alarm clock already!”
“Hush! It’s not my alarm clock.”
She turned to find him sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at his phone. She sat up, trying to see the screen over his shoulder.
“What’s wrong?”
“Helen.” He ran agitated fingers through his hair.
Whitney started to scramble off the bed. “What’s wrong with Helen?”
Luke grabbed her arm, pulling her back onto the mattress.
“Stay put, damn it!” His voice was low and tight. “There’s nothing wrong with Helen.” He held his phone up so she could see it. “Helen is what’s wrong. She’s downstairs.”
The last thing they needed was for Helen to find her and Luke together. She might be upset. Or worse—delighted. They didn’t need her romantic notions interfering with whatever was going to happen next.
Whitney watched the security camera feed in horror. Her aunt was moving through the tasting room, rearranging the occasional bottle and picking up a cloth to wipe down the tasting counter. The counter where the whiskey bottle—and both glasses—sat.
“Oh, shit,” Whitney whispered. “What is she doing down there? What time is it?”
“It’s not seven yet. Sometimes she comes out to putter around if she can’t sleep.” He glanced her way. “A lot like her niece.”
“What are we going to do?”
Luke stood, bending over for a quick kiss and handing her his phone. “You’re going to stay right here. I’ll go down and see if I can get Helen back up to the house. When we leave, you can sneak out and...”
“And what, if you’re both in the house?”
“And...figure out how to quietly go in the back door and get upstairs to your room. I’ll keep her in the kitchen. Then come down like you just woke up in your own bed.” He yanked on his jeans, commando style, and it was one of the hottest things Whitney had ever seen. He pulled on a T-shirt and looked back one last time as he headed for the door, his dog following closely. His voice was low, but firm. “Stay there until the coast is clear.”
Luke and Molly came into view from the base of the stairs on the camera feed. Helen turned quickly, holding up the bottle of whiskey. She seemed to be laughing. That was a good thing, right? Luke went to Helen and they talked, looking around the tasting room, pointing to various shelves and a display of local handmade soaps by the cash register. After what seemed like hours, Luke ushered Helen out the front door. As Helen exited, Luke looked directly into the camera and waggled his eyebrows. Whitney covered her mouth to hold in her laughter. It was such a silly, un-Luke sort of thing to do.
Now to make her escape. God, her clothes were everywhere. Her panties were on top of a pile of Luke’s jeans. Her own jeans were crumpled on the floor at the far end of the sofa. Her bra was... Where was her bra? And her top? And her shoes? One high-heeled pump was by the television. The other was under the dining table. She had a vague memory of arriving in the apartment last night, wrapped in Luke’s arms, her lips on his, her bare chest against his skin.
Where was her bra?
Oh, dear god, what if her bra was hanging off a bottle of wine downstairs, where Helen could see it? Whitney’s cheeks flamed. Hell, her whole body flamed. How embarrassing would that be? But she hadn’t seen Helen twirling any items of clothing on her fingers while she was down there.
She found her bra and top on the top step outside the apartment door, as well as Luke’s T-shirt, all rolled into a little mound. Luke probably tripped over the clothes they’d both discarded as they kissed their way up the stairs, and he’d tossed them out of Helen’s sight. Nice save, Luke.
She left his T-shirt inside the apartment and tugged her own clothes on as she descended the stairs. She ran her fingers through her hair, knowing she was probably making it worse instead of better. She snuck around the main house and across the back porch. The back door would get her to the hallway and the staircase leading to her room.
Luke’s voice was unusually loud in the kitchen, and he was laughing. Sort of. The laugh sounded forced to Whitney’s ears, now that she’d heard his genuine, soft laugh of pleasure last night. Her abdomen clenched at the memory...
“I know you’ve shown me how to poach eggs a hundred times, Helen, but I never get it right. And that hollandaise sauce—mine always curdles. I need another lesson. Where’s the pan you use with the little cups for the eggs? Is that it over there?”
For one horrifying moment, Whitney was sure all was lost. She was at the bottom of the stairs, ready to dash up and change. But the kitchen doorway was right there, and Luke was at the stove, digging through the broiler drawer where Helen stored the pans she didn’t use often. He glanced up and saw Whitney. She had one foot in midair. She was barefoot, her high heels dangling from her fingers. His dark eyes swept up her body and the heated gaze created a highlight film from last night in her mind. He really had tasted every inch of her. She’d tasted more than a few inches of him, too. He straightened, his eyes darting to the unseen corner of the kitchen.
“No, Helen, not that one. What’s the pot behind you? Up in the cupboard? Isn’t that it? Are you sure?” He didn’t look at Whitney again, giving her a hand gesture that said “Go!” And she did, now that she was free from the grip of his eyes.
She flew up the stairs and into her room, shedding clothing almost as fast as she had last night, but not having near as much fun. She tugged on a pair of denim capris and a bright pink cotton top, slipping into her canvas flats and pulling her hair back into a messy bun. Glancing into the mirror after brushing her teeth, she decided she’d pass for a woman who’d just rolled out of bed after a chaste night’s sleep.
But there was nothing chaste about the dark shine in her eyes, or the slight beard burn on her cheek. Her skin was flushed, her lips swollen. Who was she kidding? She looked like a very satisfied woman who’d had a long night of stellar sex. She grinned, and almost laughed out loud at the seductiveness of her smile. It was her own reflection, damn it. She wasn’t supposed to be falling in love with it.
Her eyes went wide. She wasn’t supposed to be falling in love with anything. Those three words needed to stay out of her vocabulary. Last night was simply two adults having a good time together. A very good, maybe even epic, time together.
“Whitney!” Helen’s voice startled her from the base of the stairs. “Are you up? Luke and I are making eggs Benedict for breakfast!”
It would have been easier if Luke had left before Whitney went downstairs. Easier on her heart, and easier on her desire not to deceive her aunt. But he’d used a cooking lesson as his excuse to occupy Helen and save Whitney from humiliation, so she was going to have to suck it up and have breakfast with the man. All while knowing he was commando under those jeans.