CHAPTER THREE
. . . .
. . .
She didn't need to be carried, but she didn't want to be set away from him either. Being this close to Carlton was just fine.
She refrained from whimpering when he set her down gently on the porch, already missing the connection which she'd only just learned was crucial to her.
He opened the front door and she was barely inside before he urged her to step out of her sodden, muddy shoes.
He pointed to the dark wood staircase. "Go on. If you hit the master bedroom first you can find something of Miss Annie's to borrow. Bring your wet stuff down and we'll get it washed and dried."
Next thing she knew, she was at the top of the stairs in a brightly-papered hallway, disoriented and shivering, but the bathroom was in sight so she dashed in for a warm, cleansing shower.
Wash fast, get downstairs to him faster.
No taking time to study the décor or wonder about his showers there. No. No time at all. Dammit. Time was of the essence and she wasn't sure why except that it had a lot to do with wanting to be in the same room with him again. No, needing to be in the same room with him again.
Turning off the water with a savage twist, she realized she should have gotten the fresh clothes first. She dried herself off and wrapped up in a towel and stepped back into the hall—the coast was clear, and that was a shame too.
The first bedroom she came to was obviously Carlton's, and she stood near the bed, shivering in a different way.
It's true, she thought, surveying the little signs of his occupancy—the indentation in the pillow, the slightly mussed dark blue coverlet, the closet door ajar, the faint scent of him all around.
It's true. I'm terrified but I am in the right place.
Turning to leave before she could give in to the urge to lie naked on his bed, she caught sight of a long-sleeved white tee hanging on the back of the door.
There was no chance she wasn't wearing it, no chance at all, because it was his.
Dropping the towel, she pulled the tee over her head and felt its soft warmth against her bare skin, and again she knew she was in the right place—surrounded by Carlton.
However, she had enough sense to accept she'd better get her lower half covered with something of Miss Annie's, not his, and went back into the hall, using the towel to blot at her hair.
Carlton was at the top of the stairs.
His damnably blue eyes were huge as he took in the sight of her, bare-legged and wearing his t-shirt and coming out of his bedroom.
Juliet mumbled something about getting turned around and grabbing the first garment she could see, and Carlton mumbled something about her wet clothes, so she hurried to collect them from the bath and he hurried them away down the stairs again, and it took a while for her to catch her breath and focus enough to make it to the master bedroom.
With her hair finger-combed into shape, and wearing a pair of soft violet flannel pants from Miss Annie's closet—but still in the t-shirt because no way was she giving that up now—she padded down the stairs, wondering how he was dealing with her wet underthings in addition to the soaked jeans and pullover.
It's fair. I'm wearing his tee, he's handling my undies.
Shivering yet again for reasons unrelated to cold, she followed her nose to the kitchen.
Carlton turned from the stove, where he was stirring some kind of stew. "Coffee's on, if you want some."
She picked up one of the mugs in front of the coffee pot and filled it with heavenly elixir; Carlton could make a mean cuppa and she'd missed that too over the past month.
"I didn't start your clothes. Thought you… um… might be particular about their care."
Juliet glanced at him; he was still stirring the stew but she detected a faint tinge of red at his neck. She really liked the beard, and the way his longer hair curled. The black and silver seemed to amplify the blue of his eyes… or maybe it was the soft gray of his Henley shirt, the top button undone and...
She wanted to touch him.
A lot.
Instead, she sipped coffee, set the mug down, and asked where the washer and dryer were. He pointed to an alcove at the back of the kitchen, a place which would be sunny and bright on any other day. Miss Annie apparently liked bright.
When Juliet returned to the kitchen proper, slightly more composed, there were two bowls of aromatic beef stew on the table with rolls, and he brought her coffee over as soon as she sat down.
He sat across from her, all familiar lanky grace, and sipped from his own mug. "Do you need anything from the car?"
A clue?
"Just my phone, but that can wait. The keys are in the ignition, though."
He jerked his head toward the window, beyond which the rain continued to fall in torrents. "Anyone who can get that car out of the swamp is entitled to it."
Juliet had to agree. "Be fun to watch, too."
He grinned, and she asked him about his stay so far, because she did want to know what he'd been doing while she missed him, in addition to needing a moment or ten to get herself together.
Carlton told her about the farm, and mending fences, mowing grass, fixing shutters and patching the driveway—which had potholes he'd managed to avoid dropping her in as he carried her up to the house—and also feeding (and riding) the horses; he said he'd kept busy out here in the quiet green isolation and he liked it and didn't miss the police station like he thought he would.
She ignored how much that scared her.
She also ignored the images in her head of Carlton working in the sun, riding the horses… ignored the little imaginings of herself just out of sight but never far away as he worked on their home…
Their home? Girl. Come back now.
Hank and Miss Annie had checked in a few times and reported their own successful journeys down under, and when Carlton was done talking and she'd run out of questions to ask in order to have an excuse to hear the semi-smoky voice she'd been deprived of all these weeks, he set his mug down and looked at her the way he looked at suspects he was about to skewer in interrogation.
Thank God the phone rang from its perch on the wall, and Carlton got up to answer it.
While he talked to someone about fencing supplies, she studied him again. He looked good—too good—and had picked up a tan; she could see faint freckles dusting his cheeks. The Henley was thin and outlined his lean body and once again she wanted to touch him.
But why? You've worked closely with him for years without wanting to maul him. Why now?
Because in the past month she'd missed his… person-ness; who he was in mind and voice and action. But seeing him now, in this element, bearded and out of the suit and tie and so undeniably male, she was being whumped with his considerable physical appeal, an appeal which only strengthened the emotional hold he—however unknowingly—had over her.
Double whammy.
So screwed.
He ended his conversation and returned to the table, explaining it was a friend of Hank's who was coming to work on another section of fence next week.
Then he gave her that look again. The steely blue I will get my answers look.
Hoping to stall, she volunteered that he made really good stew. It was unsurprising; the few times she'd been treated to his cooking, he'd impressed her. He liked simple dishes, but he prepared them with care and they were always savory.
Allowing the momentary distraction, he said thanks and broke a roll in half, and after another considering glance at her, asked calmly, "So what washes you up on my shore, O'Hara?"
Common sense? Finally?
"I wanted to talk to you," she said instead. Don't call me O'Hara now.
Carlton frowned. "About what?"
"I mean, I… I just wanted to talk to you."
Still he frowned, and she knew he was genuinely puzzled. "Long way to come for a chat."
She swallowed. "I missed you."
Rain hit the windows to her left, and jagged lightning flashed brighter than the overhead lights.
He was very still. Nobody could do still like Carlton Lassiter. "The last two weeks before I left, you were barely talking to me."
"I had issues," she admitted. "Some unrelated to you."
"Some weren't."
"Most were. I broke up with Shawn, you know. After you and I had our spat."
Carlton drew back a little, surprised.
She rushed on, "It was long overdue. I think the reason I was so angry when we argued is that I knew you were right and I was spinning my wheels with him and that night it all just came together for me."
He didn't ask why she hadn't told him.
"You blamed me." His voice was quiet. Flat.
"No. No, I was glad I'd done it. But then you blindsided me by saying you were taking off and I got scared, and that made me mad too."
Carlton searched her face as if she were totally inexplicable to him. Which she probably was. "Juliet," he said, and she was so glad he wasn't using her last name this time, "what the hell were you scared about? And why are you here?"
"I told you." She sipped coffee, but knew he noticed her hands trembling. "I missed you and I wanted to talk to you. So I got in the car this morning and just started driving."
He stared at her so long, and so intently, that another involuntary shiver overtook her. "You drove nearly two hours on a whim. On your day off. To see me."
Please catch up with me. Don't make me spell this out. It's still so new despite being so obvious and I need you to get there by yourself.
"You're my BFF." She said with a smile.
Carlton did not smile back.
All at once she felt vaguely ill. This wasn't going to work. He was an impenetrable fort and she was an idiot for thinking she could breach his internal security. Still, she held his gaze even as her own face grew dangerously warm.
He just kept … evaluating her.
Jerk, she thought bitterly, and didn't mean it. It was embarrassment thinking and she knew it and she hated herself for being a coward.
She picked up the mug again. "You know what? Never mind. I'll just stay here and drink coffee until my clothes are ready."
One dark brow quirked upward. "You can drink coffee until your clothes are ready but you're not going anywhere in that Bug."
"I'm sure you can pull me out. Bugs don't weigh much and it's not like it's quicksand out there."
"Even if the rain stops right this second, I'm not pulling you out."
His voice had an edge, and Juliet tried to figure out that very particular shade of darkening blue in his eyes.
"Why not? Surely Hank's got some equipment you can use. Rope, or a—"
"I'm not pulling you out until you tell me why you came up here."
Oh, you…
She didn't hide the irritation she felt. "Then I'll call a tow truck."
"Your phone's in your car."
"I'll use yours," she said, even more annoyed.
"Nope." He was smug, and she wanted to slap him a little. "Spill it, O'Hara."
"Stop calling me that," she snapped. "I have a first name and you've known me nearly seven years. Use it."
He blinked, losing his smug expression. "I… just tell me why you're here."
"You heard me the first two times." She stood up, filled with a sudden and immediate urge to flee. "This was a stupid idea. I'm going to get a pair of Miss Annie's shoes and then I'm leaving. Maybe if you can find an iota of courtesy you'll loan me an umbrella."
She had no idea what she was saying: walk out? In the pouring rain? Or make it to the Bug and sit inside sulking until the sun came out and the swamp dried up and… you're an idiot.
Didn't matter anyway; Carlton was too fast. He cut her off and hemmed her in against the wall.
"Hey," he growled. "I'm trying to understand why you're here because I'm the last person anyone drives twenty minutes for, let alone two hours. You broke up with Spencer; I'm glad to hear it. But you were pissed off for two solid weeks and that wasn't all about him. I need to understand things because when I don't understand things I get crabby and people like me even less. So why are you here, Juliet? Make me understand."
She could have taken any number of actions to escape him, from kneeing him in the groin to punching him in the gut. She could have used words to spin some Shawn-quality lie about partnerships and clearing the air and some other crap.
But instead she breathed him in, relishing the heat of his much-too-close body. She looked into those crystal blue eyes and thought miserably that she really did love the bastard, and before she knew it, she'd reached up between them to trace a gentle line across his mouth with her fingertips.
Carlton stopped breathing.
She might have, too.
But he didn't move, so she stroked his beard and followed the line of his cheekbone up, still gentle, completely mesmerized by touching his warm skin.
As her fingers slipped into the wavy hair at his temple, she discovered she was shaking.
He whispered, and it sounded almost anguished, "Why are you here?"
She whispered back, "To make you tell me whether you're coming home."
Please come home.
"I told you I was." Husky.
Juliet's heart was pounding. "Whether you're coming back to me."
"To you."
God, his eyes are so gorgeous when he's confused, or uncertain, or angry, or pleased, or…
"To us, Carlton. To our partnership. Our friendship."
The blue gaze flickered. "Juliet..."
They were still whispering. Alone in the house, no one for miles, and impossibly close.
She had never felt as naked under her clothes as she did that moment.
Curving her fingers against his head, she pulled him closer, and closer still, and in the silent house with only the rush of rain as accompaniment, she knew two things: neither of them was breathing, and he was not going to pull back when she kissed him.
His lips were warm as they brushed hers, and he sighed, and they kissed.
. . . .
. . .