All I Want Is You (8 page)

“My dad loved this song,” she heard herself share without quite planning it.

And though she continued watching the road ahead, she sensed Jack's blue eyes upon her, felt the unanswered questions about her parents, felt his sympathy. She was almost sorry she'd spoken, put it out there, until he simply said, “It's a great song.”

“Yeah,” she agreed. “Thanks—­for bringing it, playing it. And . . . well, thanks for coming with me.”

As she'd wondered how this trip would go, she'd imagined it possibly being awkward—­there was something almost personal about spending time in a car together, and with someone you didn't know well, it could be uncomfortable. But the truth was, even despite her nervous snipping, she didn't feel that way at all. And now that she let herself begin to relax, she realized that, already, they'd reached that place where some silence between them was okay.

So after he quietly said, “Happy to, Alice,” they listened to the rest of “Thunder Road” without talking. And she found her thoughts settling into some old places that had to do with home and her dad, and her mom, and things that were gone—­but also, at the same time, she felt a faint breath of hope and newness. And she wasn't sure where that had come from, but it was a completely different feeling than snagging a date with a rich guy because she thought he might rescue her.

I
T
was a few hours later as they neared the Kentucky/Tennessee border that a familiar old feeling struck Christy—­a happy memory. “We're getting close to the Tennessee sign. Makes me think of other trips to Florida, when I was younger, with my parents.”

“Yeah?” Jack asked.

One thing she particularly liked about being behind the wheel right now was that it kept her from looking at him very much. Sometimes that was still difficult—­and a quick glimpse just now reminded her why. Those eyes. And that strong jaw with the hint of stubble on it. He didn't seem to shave much. She liked it.

“Before my grandma died, she and Grandpa Charlie had a winter place in Coral Cove. We always used to drive down for a week every March, just before they packed up and came home for the summer. And somewhere around Tennessee was usually where it really started feeling like a real adventure—­even though we were going to the same place every time. And if we were lucky, it was where the air started feeling warmer, where it started holding the promise of . . . summer. Even though it was still wintertime. When I was little, I thought Florida was a magic place where it was always summer.” She hadn't exactly planned to start a share fest here, but talking to him had just gotten so easy over the short time they'd known each other that it had come out.

“That's nice,” Jack said softly, sounding sincere. “My family didn't travel much when I was growing up—­no money for it. But I've tried to make up for that some since then. And I took a few road trips to Florida myself back in my college days.”

She looked over at him, a little surprised. “You acted like driving was such a crazy idea.”

“No, I acted like driving was a crazy idea for a girl by herself in a car that”—­he leaned over to look—­“has over a hundred thousand miles on it. But I can appreciate a good road trip as much as the next guy.”

Just then, they passed over the border into Tennessee, whizzing past the sign—­and an unexpected recollection made Christy let out a laugh.

When she glanced over in time to see Jack raise his eyebrows at her like a silent question, she explained. “Dad used to stop at all the state signs and he and I would get out and take a picture of me with the sign. It never got old, I don't know why.” Another soft trill of laughter escaped her as she went on. “Mom would be saying, ‘I wish you two lunatics would get back in the car before you get run over,' but Dad would just laugh and we'd take our picture. Our albums were filled with the same pictures over and over again.”

Jack smiled easily and said, “Maybe you can show me sometime.”

Which was a lovely idea—­but it forced Christy to bite her lower lip as the sad truth came hurtling back to her brain. “They're, um, gone,” she told him, working to keep her gaze locked tight to the road ahead of her. The car currently ascended a steep incline, winding up into the northern Tennessee mountains, so it was a good time to watch where she was going, and a good time to have something to focus on besides Jack or the reason she couldn't show him the pictures.

“Oh—­okay,” he said softly, and she knew he'd felt the weight in her words even though she'd tried to sound normal when she'd said them.

So she was thankful when he changed the subject. “I, uh, know a place in Georgia where we can stop for the night,” he said. “Unless you have someplace special you usually stay when you're driving through.”

She shook her head. “No, we always just played that part by ear. Where's your place?”

“Between Atlanta and Macon. A stop with a motel called the Colonial Inn.”

“Sounds nice enough to me,” she said.

T
HE
drive with Christy was killing Jack. As in somehow making him even more attracted to her. There was something about the close quarters of her little Corolla, something about not being able to walk away from her. Usually, that was his saving grace—­that their meetings were brief: an hour here, twenty minutes there. Maybe he hadn't really thought this trip thing through well enough. But it was too late now.

They hit a drive-­thru for dinner just north of Atlanta and ate quickly in the parking lot. They shared a large order of fries and their fingers kept brushing together when they reached for one at the same time. And in every instance that they touched, his groin tightened a little further. From a damn graze of her fingers. Shit. He'd pretty much stopped dating altogether since the unpleasant post-­divorce encounters—­but at the moment he was regretting that. A guy had needs, after all.

Only . . . he hadn't quite realized how needy he was feeling. Up to now with Christy, yeah, sure, he'd experienced that almost visceral chemistry with her—­when hanging curtains, when eating ice cream on his front porch, and on other occasions, too. But he'd had the situation completely under control. He'd felt fully able to back away from the temptation. Whereas this . . . hell, this felt different.

But don't sweat it. You can do this.
After all, he'd feel like an ass to invite himself on her trip and then try to seduce her on the very first night. He'd
look
like an ass, too. And he worked pretty hard in life not to
be
an ass—­so he didn't want to screw that up now.

You're lying to her. About your money. And not telling her about Candy—­that's sort of like lying at this point, too. Doesn't
that
make you an ass?

But as he got out of the car a few minutes later to pump gas while Christy went to the restroom, he convinced himself it
didn't
make him an ass. He wasn't doing anything to hurt her, after all. He was just exercising a little self-­preservation. Nothing wrong with that.

“Ready?”

Her voice came from behind him and he turned to see her looking ridiculously pretty for a girl who'd been on the road for seven hours. She wore a fitted pink tee that hugged her shape and offered just a hint of shadowy cleavage. Her eyes shone clear and bright, her smile cheerful. He suffered the urge to kiss the lush shadow that wanted to tug his eyes downward—­but he forced himself to focus on her face. Her hair was drawn back into a ponytail today, giving him the impression of seeing more of her than usual—­the curve of her neck, the soft blush high on her cheeks.

“Something wrong?” she asked when he didn't answer.

He just blinked.
Yes. I want you. I've been trying like hell not to—­but I still want you.
“No,” he finally said. Then gave his head a short shake. “Just tired, I guess. Let's hit the road.”

T
HE
sky stayed clear and blue through Atlanta, then night began to fall. And then it began to rain. In buckets. Before Christy knew it, the downpour plus the darkness had seriously decreased visibility. “Any chance your Colonial Inn is coming up soon?” she asked Jack.

She waited as he consulted his cell phone. “Yep—­anytime now. Next exit, I think. Can you see okay to drive?”

“No one
can see okay to drive in this,” she told him. “But you don't need to white-­knuckle the door handle or anything—­I'm fine.”

And even as she focused tightly on the road, Christy couldn't deny an unmistakable awareness . . . the sense, just since the downpour had started, of somehow being almost cocooned with Jack in the car. In a good way.

But that also made it kind of a
bad
way. It was just like the day he'd repaired her wall and rehung the curtain with her—­except worse. Even if they weren't actually touching now.

“Here,” Jack said when an expressway exit suddenly appeared out of nowhere in the night—­she must have missed the signs leading up to it in the deluge. She veered onto the ramp, thankful they were about to stop, then followed Jack's directions to the Colonial Inn.

As they pulled in, Christy couldn't help thinking the weather must be making the place look . . . well, run down. It was an old single-­story row motel that screamed 1950s and didn't look very Colonial, and some lights were out on the sign, leaving it to say: C
OLON
L
I
N
. “Um, no offense,” she began softly as she slowed the car to a halt in the nearly empty parking lot, “but what is it you like about this place?”

“It's cheap,” he said in his usual, easy way.

She tipped her head back slightly. “Ah.” She couldn't argue with that.

“What is it you
don't
like?”

Looking through the still pouring rain, she offered an assessment. “Well, to be honest, it looks pretty beat-­up and neglected. And the swimming pool”—­which was empty and surrounded by a torn, rusty chain-­link fence—­“is shaped like a coffin. But . . . my apartment fits the same description—­other than coffin-­shaped—­so I guess it's fine. As long as it's not run by Norman Bates or anything.”

“Let's stay in the car until the rain lets up,” he suggested, so Christy put the Corolla in park, ready to wait.

And that was when she looked over at him and saw those piercing blue eyes nearly burning a hole through her.

And time seemed to stop as her heart began to race.

His gaze was so intense that . . . well, usually the gorgeous intensity she saw there made her look away, too shy to meet it—­but this time she couldn't
help
but meet it, even as it consumed her, body and soul.

“Jack,” she whispered, planning to ask him why he was looking at her so intently. Yet instead all she got out after his name was, “wh . . . wh . . .”

Which was when he said, in the same low tone as her, “Christy.”

And she let out a gentle gasp.

“What?” he asked in response to her reaction. “What is it?”

She struggled to swallow back all the inexplicable emotion assaulting her. She just hadn't accurately envisioned what it would be like to be alone with him like this. Or . . . how it would feel to hear him say her name. “You've never called me Christy before.”

He blinked, clearly not having realized that. And those blue eyes stayed locked on her as he said, “I guess . . . I feel like I know you now.”

And then his warm hand closed over hers where it rested on her thigh, and she looked down, took in the sight of their fingers together, on her leg, and felt the touch moving all through her like some kind of hot, sweet drug coursing through her veins.

And that was when he leaned over and kissed her.

 

. . . and her heart began to beat quick

with excitement as she went on.

Lewis Carroll,
Through the Looking Glass

Chapter 7

I
T, OF
course, wasn't the first time she'd been kissed. But it was the first time in a while. And either she'd forgotten just how amazing a good kiss
was
—­or this one was more than good. In fact, she thought it was perhaps the most outstanding kiss she'd ever received. It wasn't rushed, nor ­urgent—­no, it was slow and deep and intoxicating, his mouth moving over hers almost as if . . . as if they'd done this before, as if they already knew how each other kissed. And if she'd thought the mere touch of his hand was moving through her veins, his kiss traveled somewhere even deeper within her. To her panties, yes, definitely. But it was even more than that, more than sex. She'd never felt so connected to a guy just from a mere meeting of their mouths.

It was Christy who parted her lips, who pressed her tongue to his until they were circling ever so deliciously. This was like . . . hungering for something for a very long time and then finally getting a taste of it. Like going someplace you thought you never would, or could—­like some beautiful garden that had, up to now, lain just out of reach.

As the rain continued to pummel the windows around them, muting everything that existed outside the car, she thought she'd be content to just sit here and kiss him forever in a dark, wet parking lot somewhere in rural Georgia.

It was only when a bright light suddenly illuminated the interior of the vehicle that they both pulled back, ending the kiss. Christy's gaze darted out into the night to see it had been only the headlights of another car passing as it left the motel. But the rain had lightened now, almost stopping—­the storm had passed.

Her lips felt wonderfully well used as she dared glance over at him.

He looked a little shell-­shocked. “Sorry.”

Uh oh. He thought it was a mistake. And of course she understood why, instantly.
Nice guys like him don't get romantically involved with money-­grubbing women like me.
“It's okay,” she said, the words coming out soft. “I . . . obviously didn't mind.”

“Still,” he said, “I didn't offer to come on this trip with you to . . . have my way with you or anything. I need you to know that.”

She nodded. “I believe you.” And she almost wanted to add:
I wouldn't mind if you did,
but instead decided on, “I trust you, Jack.”

“It . . . wasn't some big evil plan to take advantage of you,” he seemed to feel the need to reiterate—­only now it came out sounding more defensive.

And something about his tone almost offended her—­he didn't have to act like it was
that
awful. So rather than continuing to put his mind at ease, this time Christy replied by asking a question. “Why did you kiss me?”

The question stood between them like a blunt wall of truth. It was a place in time when she didn't see the need for beating around the bush, even if she herself had been guilty of that with him in plenty of ways. Maybe she was trying to make him acknowledge that he'd liked it, too. She knew he had, but saying it, admitting it, was better than apologies.

He looked away, out into the wet, dreary night where the lights of the motel shone on blacktop, turning it so shiny it glistened. “I don't know—­something about the moment, I guess. Maybe something about being in the car together all day, or about the rain.” He shook his head forlornly.

And her heart deflated a little. There were so many nicer explanations he could have given, and yet he'd gone with
I don't know.
Just what every girl longs to hear from a guy in an intimate moment.

But Christy bit her lip, swallowed back the little pang of emotion that had just washed over her. Because what did it matter? She couldn't have anything with Jack anyway. As great a guy as he was, he'd entered her life at the wrong time. He couldn't give her what she needed right now—­and apparently had no real romantic interest in her anyway. She felt like nothing more than an available pair of lips when the urge for a kiss had struck him.

“Well,” she pulled herself together to say, “I guess we should just forget about it and move on.”

“Good idea,” he said.

And she tried like hell not to let his eager agreement wound her, but it felt like just that—­one more tiny knife being plunged into her heart.

Though she shook it off. She had to. It didn't matter how attracted to him she was—­it didn't matter how mind-­altering that kiss had been; she needed a different sort of man in her life right now, and Jack obviously was interested in another sort of woman, so forgetting it only made sense.

Be your usual tougher self here. The you life forced you to start becoming the day your parents died.
When on earth had she gone so soft, after all?

When you met Jack?

No, don't even think that.

“Ready now?” she asked. Outside, the rain appeared to have stopped completely.

“Yep, let's do it.”

And despite herself, her eyes darted back to his. Because of what he'd just said. Because under the circumstances, it had sounded sexual to her—­and all too inviting.

“Let's
check in
,” he clarified.

“Yes, right,” she said quickly—­then rushed to put the car back in drive and pulled up to the front doors of the office, where a little orange Vacancy sign glowed in the dampness.

“
W
HAT
kind of candy bar do you like?” Jack asked the moment they walked into the badly-­in-­need-­of-­remodeling room and lowered their bags to thin, worn out carpet.

Perhaps understandably, Christy looked confused by the question. “Huh?”

“Candy bar,” he repeated. “What kind of candy do you like?”

“Um, Twix or Milky Way, I guess. Why?” She squinted her confusion at him.

“I'll be back,” he told her without answering the question. “You can get settled—­shower or change or whatever—­while I'm gone.”

And then he was out the door, back out into the warm, wet, humid Georgia night, a little thankful to be alone. That was what the candy bars were about. Giving her a chance to . . . do whatever she needed to do to get ready for bed. And giving
him
a chance to further recover from what had happened in the car.

He still couldn't believe he'd kissed her that way. And it hadn't been just a little kiss. Nope, it had been a full-­blown, like-­there-­was-­no-­tomorrow kind of kiss. An I-­can't-­hold-­back-­any-­longer sort of kiss. It had been a damn long time since Jack hadn't been able to hold back with a girl. Now his groin was uncomfortably tight and his skin literally itched with wanting her.

But he couldn't have her. And so for some reason, the idea of getting them candy bars and soft drinks had popped into his brain.
Because sugar at bedtime is so restful.
He shook his head, wishing he'd come up with some better reason to escape the room for a few minutes. But too late now, so he made his way back to the motel's run-­down lobby where he'd seen a row of vending machines tucked into a cubbyhole.

“Pretty little wife ya got there.”

Jack turned from examining a candy machine to see the old man who'd checked them in. “She's not my wife,” he replied instinctively.

“Even better then,” the old guy said with a wink.

Jack just gave a short nod, a halfhearted attempt at a smile, then went back to perusing the candy selections.

The old man meant no harm, he knew.

And what he'd said actually made Jack stop and think. Would it be so awful if something did happen between him and Christy? Was there some reason he was acting like a saint here?

After all, as long as she didn't think he was a competitor in the Rich Man Tournament, and if they were attracted to each other and even really liked each other . . . would it be so terrible to enjoy that? Just for a little while? While they were traveling together anyway? If they both knew that was all it was—­fun, just for now—­what was the harm?

In fact, maybe, just maybe, it would be good for them both. Maybe it would give them both something pleasurable and easy in their lives right now.

Of course, you'll have to see her afterward, after the trip. You'll have to watch her dating other guys.

But as long as they both understood the situation, and as long as neither of them got attached . . . well, maybe it would work out okay. Maybe even better than okay.

And maybe that meant it had been pretty silly to go racing from their room the way he had.

Punching the buttons for a Twix and a 3 Musketeers bar, he watched both drop into the metal tray below. Then he bought two cans of Coke from another machine before making his way back outside and up the broken, cracked walkway toward the room.

The truth was, he would normally stay someplace better than the Colonial Inn at this point in his life. But he didn't mind older places, and really had stayed here a few times on guy trips to the beach in college. And even though he'd offered to spring for accommodations on the trip, he intended to make economical choices. A night in a roadside Marriott or Hilton might send the wrong message.

He found an old bench a few doors from their room and settled onto it—­he'd told her she'd have time to take a shower, so he shouldn't head back right away. Though the very idea put thoughts in his head.
What if I did go back? What if I knocked on the bathroom door and she told me to come in? Or what if I just turned the knob and went inside without asking?
And into the shower
with
her?

It was difficult not to imagine how she would look beneath the spray of water, soapsuds sluicing down her smooth curves. And it wasn't the first time he'd imagined what her breasts looked like—­but it was the first time he'd imagined it in so much detail. He could see them in his mind, could almost feel his hand closing gently around one, squeezing lightly, then more firmly, just before he brushed his thumb across her taut nipple.

As the vision made him go hard—­well, harder than he already was—­he realized he needed to stop with the fantasizing. Yeah, she'd seemed pretty into kissing him—­but then she'd said they should forget it, so who knew if she'd be interested in more.

And he wasn't going to find out by bursting in on her shower. After all, he'd told her he hadn't come on this trip to seduce her. If anything more happened between them, it would have to occur as naturally as that kiss had.

Returning to their room a few minutes later, he tried to maneuver everything he was carrying into one arm so he could dig his room key from his pocket. That was when the door opened from the other side and he found her standing before him in a pair of gray jogging pants and a big faded red T-­shirt that said Destiny Bulldogs—­and damn, she looked adorable, even now. Damp blond curls curved about her face and shoulders, and she smelled fresh and clean from the shower. Of course, that also brought back to mind that vision of her, naked beneath the spray. “Hi,” he said.

“Saw your shadow through the window, trying to juggle everything,” she told him.

“Getting settled?” he asked as he handed off a candy bar and a Coke.

“Yeah,” she replied, plopping onto the bed nearest the door. “Shower's a little creepy—­kind of screams
Psycho
—­but otherwise was fine.”

“Sorry about that,” he said, suffering a soft pang of guilt.

But she just shrugged, smiling her pretty, innocent smile. “Like you said, it's affordable, so no problem. And I appreciate you paying for the room.”

This time the shot of guilt was stronger. Because—­damn—­she was being so sweet. And this place had really become a dump since he'd last stayed here. But he pushed it away, because if she was okay with where they were, then why should he feel bad about it?

Tossing his own candy bar and Coke can on the other bed, he said, “Guess I'll clean up, too.” The fact was, he kind of
needed
a shower, for more than just removing the feel of a long drive.

And he sort of hoped that by the time he came back out she might be asleep.

After a candy bar and a Coke?
Sure, that'll happen.

C
HRISTY
sat with her back against the old headboard nibbling at her Twix, thinking through how she'd gotten to this precise place in life. Despite the bad parts, at this moment she somehow remained filled with hope. Going to the beach was always like that for her—­something in the journey, and the destination, never failed to fill her with a general sense of optimism for the future.

She still wasn't sure what that kiss had been about—­Jack was a guy, and maybe he was just horny—­but she had decided to try to do what she'd said and move on from it. And be thankful that he was paying for a lot of this trip, making it much more feasible for her to take it. And also be thankful that she was with someone she liked and who made her feel safe. Yeah, the Colonial Inn was crappy and the kiss was confusing—­but at least it had reminded her that there could
be
kisses like that in life, and that when they came along they were wonderful and amazing.

And yes, the kiss had created . . . a feeling of closeness with him she hadn't quite expected. But maybe that was okay. Even if the kiss meant nothing. It had meant something in that moment—­it had gone on too long for her to believe she'd been the only one enjoying it—­but she could be cool and mature enough to just value it for what it was: a pleasant few minutes that had made her feel a little more connected to him. Her shower had somehow washed away the hurt feelings and helped her appreciate that he was a nice guy not just trying to get her into bed. And there was a lot to be said for that.