SPENCER WAS CONTENT. Tatum sat in his truck, singing along with the Christmas carols on the radio and holding a steaming cup of hot chocolate in her hands. He drove five miles an hour down Cedar Bend Lane, uncaring that they were wedged, bumper to bumper, among the opening-night crowd. At the rate they were going, it would take an hour before they were done. And he couldn’t be happier.
Not that their adventures in the bedroom an hour ago hadn’t been amazing. They definitely were.
“Wow,” she said, tapping the window at one especially lit-up home. “Check out those animatronics. Do you get extra points for that?”
“Depends on the judging committee. There was a big fallout a few years ago, the younger home owners wanting a voice on the judging committee and all.”
“Sounds like serious stuff.” She smiled, cocking her head as they drove past another house with a psychedelic lighting scheme. “I wouldn’t give this one high marks... So what happened?”
“It was close, but the committee did have some turnover and there’s a more even distribution of judges.”
She glanced at him, sipping her hot chocolate. “I heard that.”
“Heard what?”
She raised an eyebrow. “Sarcasm. What does ‘even’ mean?”
“Let’s just say the whole age thing was fixed. But the overall mentality of the committee remains the same.” He smiled at her. “I’ve never seen a first-time winner.”
“Hmm.” Tatum turned to look out the window. “That sounds like a challenge. If I’m still here next year, I’ll have to pull out all the stops and see if I can steal one of those revered winner signs for my yard.”
He heard the “if.” He didn’t like it. Not that now was the time to talk about what she meant. Not yet, anyway. As they pulled up to a large white column-fronted mansion with a double lot, he slowed. “Betty Brewer’s grandmother still lives there.”
She stared. “She’s still alive?”
He chuckled, nodding. “Betty says her grandmother will live forever just to drive the rest of the city crazy.”
“I remember her and her causes. The city-hall clock being a minute off. The need for school buses to have their brakes regularly oiled—to reduce noise pollution. Wasn’t she one of the loudest voices in the fight to make this a dry county?”
“Damn happy that one didn’t work out,” he said. He loved the dimple in Tatum’s left cheek. Loved the way her eyes creased when she smiled.
“I take it she hasn’t mellowed with age, then?”
He shook his head. “Last city-council meeting she wanted to discuss trash pickup times. Too early disrupts her sleep, too late and it’s unsightly.”
“She needs a hobby.” Tatum laughed. “She and my mother got along famously—they played bridge together a couple of times a week. I remember visiting her house twice. The second time I bumped into an end table and knocked a tiny crystal lamb onto the floor. Its leg was broken. I felt terrible but Mrs. Brewer was so angry we had to leave. I wasn’t allowed to come back after that and my butt was sore for days.” There was no bitterness in Tatum’s voice.
“How old were you?”
“Um...around six, I guess,” she said, shrugging.
She might brush it aside, but the story reminded him of just how difficult Tatum’s upbringing had been. Especially after her father had left. How many family dinners had been disrupted in their own home? His mother would sit there wincing as Mrs. Buchanan’s shouts grew louder, staring at their father until he stood up, stomped across the street and warned Mrs. Buchanan that her behavior was crossing a line. Some nights, Tatum had come over to have dinner with them. And on one of those nights, he’d fallen completely in love with her.
“Does she win every year? Mrs. Brewer, I mean?” Tatum’s question pulled him from the past.
He took a deep breath and eased his iron grip on the steering wheel. “Her house was disqualified from judging last year because she’d hired a decorating company.”
“That’s against the rules?” Tatum glanced his way as she took a sip of her hot chocolate.
“Only if it’s not a local company.”
“So I won’t be disqualified? Since you and your cousins are from here?” she asked, turning her gaze back out the window. “I should do something for them—Jared and Dean, I mean. It was nice of them to lend a hand on their day off.”
“Dean would love that,” he muttered.
Tatum’s shoulders were shaking. The sound of her giggle startled him. “So, it’s okay for me to do something nice for Jared?”
“He’s not trying to get you into bed.”
She laughed then. “Dean might be trying to get me into bed but it’s never going to happen. Lucy would kill me.”
He almost rear-ended the car in front of them. “Lucy?”
“You don’t sleep with your best friend’s brother,” Tatum said, watching him curiously.
He stared at her.
She was still giggling. “What?”
“Nothing,” he growled. She was teasing him. He was acting like a child and he knew it. He had no right to be jealous—she’d laid out their arrangement clearly. No strings. No attachments. Just mind-blowing sex with an expiration date.
“What happened to Betty?” she asked.
“Betty?” he repeated. “Betty Brewer went off to college, married some guy and is living in Austin. She visits now and then with her kids.”
“That’s nice.” This time there was an odd sound to her voice—high and tight.
Kids. God, he hadn’t even thought about that. Did she and Brent have kids? Surely that would have come up by now. “Big commitment, having kids. Don’t think I’ll be ready for a while.”
She glanced at him. “No?”
He shook his head.
“But you do want kids?” she asked.
He nodded. “Well, yeah, eventually.”
“Be sure,” she said, that tone edging her voice again.
“I’m sure.”
“Just make sure you don’t change your mind. Especially after you get married,” she said.
He swallowed. No kids, then. Because Brent had changed his mind. He should be sorry for her but all he felt was relief. “You still want kids?” Tatum had always wanted a big family, one full of love and laughter—to make up for her childhood.
“Yes. I do.” The longing in her voice made his heart hurt. She looked out the window, tapping on the glass. “This house is gorgeous. Oh, it’s...magical.”
Spencer made a point of keeping it light from then on. He wanted her to laugh, to smile and relax. That meant keeping talk of Brent and her mother to a minimum. When the drive was through and they were pulling up in front of the house, he could hardly wait to get her inside.
Tatum turned to face him. “I had fun tonight. Thanks.”
He smiled. “Good.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow? At the women’s auxiliary fund-raiser?” she asked, her hand falling to the door handle.
He tried not to let his disappointment show as he nodded. He’d envisioned a long night in her bed. How the hell was he supposed to sleep under the same roof?
She opened the door and slid from the truck. “Then I’ll say good-night now.” She slammed the door and headed inside before he’d turned the truck off.
Spencer sat there, staring at the front door. Maybe he should take a drive, clear his head, get a beer—anything to help him forget he was going to bed—alone.
* * *
TATUM STARED OUT the front window. She saw him sitting in his truck, looking at the house. Beyond the steady stream of headlights and the happy sparkle of her Christmas lights, he was there. Waiting.
She was testing him and she knew it. She’d sent him away and he was listening to her. Even if she hadn’t really wanted to stay away, not really. What was she doing?
She crept closer to the window, watching him run a hand over his face, shake his head and back the truck out of the driveway. He headed down the road, his brake lights glowing red before he turned right.
“Fine,” she gasped. “Good. Time to bake anyway.”
She changed into some thermal leggings and a large sweatshirt, the feel of her own fingertips on her skin making her pause. Her fingers felt soft, not rough like Spencer’s. She tugged her hair into a ponytail, irritated, and headed into the kitchen. She would not spend the rest of the evening pining for Spencer. Nope. She was going to do something...that wasn’t Spencer. She smiled, blasted some Christmas carols and set to work.
She could make something else tempting to offer up at the bake sale tomorrow night. But what? Something about baking, which Brent approved of only when they were entertaining, brought out her rebellious side. She’d whipped up a batch of gingerbread, two blackberry-cranberry pies, some fudge, and finished two dozen pizzelle when her phone started ringing.
“Hello?” she asked.
“You up?” Spencer asked.
She smiled, running a finger around the inside of a bowl. “Clearly. It’s a little late for a phone call.”
“I knew I wouldn’t sleep.” His voice was gruff.
“Why?”
“Thinking about you.”
She swallowed, walking from the kitchen into the front room. She glanced out the window. His truck sat there. “You’re sitting in the dark?” She giggled. “Are you trying to have phone sex with me?” There was no way she could do that. It was too...odd. Listening to him telling her what he’d do to her. She felt incredibly warm. She’d touch herself and imagine it was him. Could she do that? Could she let the sound of his voice guide her until she—
“No.”
She drew in a deep breath, willing her heart to return to a more sedate pace. “Oh.”
He chuckled. “Don’t sound so disappointed.”
“Who said I was disappointed?” she lied. She’d rather he dragged his butt inside and had actual sex with her. “I’m tired. I’m going to bed.”
“Tired meaning you’ll be naked in bed waiting for me?” He paused. “Or tired meaning I’ll see you tomorrow?”
She waited, knowing what she’d say but not wanting it to be too easy for him. Oh, to hell with it. “I’ll see you in five minutes.”
She ran to the bathroom, brushed her teeth, tossed her clothes on the floor and slipped the rubber band from her hair. She was running to her bed when she heard the door open. She squealed, hopping into the bed and burrowing beneath the covers. “That wasn’t five minutes,” she called out.
He was smiling when he entered the bedroom. “I never said five minutes.” He started shrugging out of his clothes.
She slid to the edge of the bed, the quilts tangled about her. Her fingers traced a long scar that curved around his side. “What happened here?”
He kicked his pants aside. “A knife. Two guys fighting over a woman in a bar. First week on the job. I was so green. And this is what happened. A tetanus shot and twenty-two stitches.”
“Ouch.” She looked up at him, catching another white line along his shoulder. “And here?”
He glanced at it. “A broken bottle. Woman didn’t like me breaking up a fight. I didn’t think she had it in her. Guess I was wrong. Eleven stitches and a staph infection.”
She winced. “The one under your jaw?” she asked.
He traced the scar. “My brother Russ.” He smiled. “According to him, I’d been in the swing too long.”
Russ. She saw the flash of pain on Spencer’s face and pressed a kiss on his tattoo. “What happened to him?” she asked, looking up at him.
He shook his head. “I can’t. Not now.”
She nodded, covering his tattoo in slow, openmouthed kisses.
He dropped his boxers.
And she stared at the rest of him. She couldn’t seem to pull enough air into her lungs.
He stooped, pressing his open mouth to hers. In seconds, the quilts were gone and she was wrapped in nothing but Spencer. His arms, his lips and his tongue. She tugged him closer, running her fingers along his tapered waist and the clenched curve of his buttocks. He was man—muscle and power—and she wanted him. She parted her legs, panting, and arched into him.
“Impatient?” he rasped, his jaw tight.
She nodded. Impatient was an understatement. She’d been wanting him since she’d climbed out of his truck. Even making pie and gingerbread, she wanted him. So, so bad. “You weren’t supposed to leave.” Her words were bracing, too needy. She didn’t like it.
His eyes searched hers, the tightening of his features unnerving her. “I won’t.”
God, she hated how much she loved the sound of that.
He thrust forward, filling her, joining them. His groan sent a thrill down her spine, forcing her nipples into tight peaks. When he moved, she knew it wouldn’t take long to climax.
But he moved slowly, taking his time with her. There was a tenderness about him that made her nervous. She wasn’t sure why he insisted on looking at her, why he whispered her name when she’d close her eyes or bury her face in her pillow. He seemed intent on...connecting.
His hand cupped her cheek, tilting her face and pinning her in place. She couldn’t look away, couldn’t fight the way his blue eyes claimed her. He cupped her breast, caressing her nipple and forcing her into pure pleasure. His steady, deep, rhythm had her falling. Her body contracted, her cry spilled out into the room, but all she could see was him. His face crumpled, hardening as he gave up the control he’d been exerting. He stiffened, fusing them together as he throbbed with his release. He kissed her, his groan shaking her to the core.
He rolled them, pulling her on top of him—crushing her in his thick arms.
Her body was humming, pleased and relaxed. But her eyes were burning with tears... Which was the last thing she needed. Spencer didn’t need to see her that way. Emotional. Vulnerable. Dammit... It wasn’t fair. She’d kept herself together when most people would have fallen apart. So why now?
Because I’m alone. Her heart thudded. Even now, wrapped in Spencer’s arms, she was alone.
“You good?” His voice was low. His hands stroked down the length of her back, over and over.
She nodded, her tongue too thick to speak. She was not going to cry. Being alone wasn’t a bad thing. She needed to stand on her own two feet—to figure out what she wanted.
He hugged her, sighing. “Sorry if I interrupted your baking.”
She shook her head, swallowing the lump in her throat.
“Smells amazing,” he murmured, his fingers combing through her hair.
She closed her eyes, absorbing his touch. Maybe that was the problem. Sex was one thing—affection was another. She pushed off of him, pulling the quilts up.
“Cold?” he asked.
She nodded, refusing to face him. “Tired,” she murmured, flopping down on her side, her back to him.
He curved around her, his arm holding her against him. She sniffed as quietly as possible, wishing she was strong enough to move his arm and send him away. But she wasn’t. She wanted him to hold her. She wanted him to press kisses against her temple, like he did now. She wanted him to stay. Which was a very big problem.
She lay there, listening to his breathing even out and his body go limp. There was far too much comfort in the weight of his arm and the whisper of his breath against her ear. What would happen when this was over and she was in a big, empty bed—aching for what she now knew existed? Before she could only imagine. Now she knew. How could she ever go back to Chris and his batteries?