A/N: I've actually been working on this one while I was writing my other story and I was going to wait to post until the other was complete. I decided to go ahead and post now though. Hope you like it.
He stood outside on the porch of his house, watching the waves and the darkening sky above. It was late afternoon. A storm would be coming soon, from the west, so it would roll over the house from back to front. The beach in front of him was empty, not surprisingly. This was a place where people mostly came for vacations and long weekends in the late spring and summer. It was November now and so people were few and far between, especially this far down the beach. This was his favorite time of year, the off-season. He'd lived in this modest beach house almost his whole life. His grandfather had built it at a time when the beaches were wider and there weren't any of the grander beach houses up the road, the ones the wealthy people had built and mostly used during the warm months. It was a nice house, even back when his grandfather had built it, built up 4 feet off the ground and with materials that withstood the storms they would sometimes get along the coast. It had a wide front porch that ran the width of the house and overlooked the beach and the ocean beyond. There was a great room, with vaulted ceilings covered in wood shiplap, and large picture windows that gave great views of the ocean. The kitchen was behind it, expanded from a rather small room to a larger space in the back of the great room. And there were 3 nice sized bedrooms and 2 generous bathrooms. A screened in back porch ran the width of the house as well, facing west towards the sound.
He'd had an unsettled childhood. His father was an angry, abusive man and the family had lived in fear of him for many years. When he was 17, after he left home, his father left, never to be seen or heard from again. Later his sister had looked to see what had happened to him and found a death notice in Natchez, Mississippi, where he was originally from. There were no real details, just that he'd died there. His mom died in 1989, which brought him back home, leaving the house her father had built to him and his sister Beverly. When Beverly married and moved inland, he kept the house. Even with all the early memories, he loved the house and the seclusion of the area. Development hadn't made it this far down the beach yet, although he thought it probably would eventually. After Beverly had moved out, he'd renovated it, updating the kitchen and bathrooms, rebuilding the porches, shoring up the exterior even more, and painting the dark brown paneling that covered all the walls in the house shades of white, cream and light blue. It was peaceful and suited his lifestyle. He had a few friends, mostly from high school, that lived in the closest town, 5 miles north, and he liked to meet them at the local bars on the weekends or to fish during the day. It was a nice life.
As he was standing on the porch, the sky got darker and the clouds started to roil, looking angry. He heard thunder in the distance and knew eventually he'd see lightning. Thunderstorms weren't common in November, especially with hurricane season almost over. It was almost always windy on this part of the coast, but the breeze had picked up in the past 30 minutes and he could see the seagrass along the edge of the beach whipping around. He was ready to go inside when he saw her. She was along the edge of the water, wearing jeans and a sweater, her long red hair flying around in the wind. He frowned, wondering where she'd come from and if she knew she was about to get caught in a storm.
Just then a bolt of lightning crisscrossed the dark gray clouds, followed by a loud clap of thunder. The woman stopped, looking up then back behind her, as though she'd just realized what was going on around her. The waves were crashing against the shore and another bolt of lightning crossed the sky. Rain started, big droplets that he knew would soon turn into a heavier rain. Without thinking he ran off the porch and down to the beach. He came face to face with the woman and could see the concern and anxiety in her face.
"Come on!" he yelled over the sound of the storm. He put his arm around her and a hand on her arm that was pressed against him and together they ran for the house, all the way up the steps and onto the porch. He let her go then and really took a look at her. She was young, close to his age he guessed. Her red hair was wet, and strands were already plastered against her face. He could tell she was slender, even with the heavy sweater. When she looked at him, he was struck by her beauty. She had freckles running across her nose, beautiful deep blue eyes framed by long lashes and when she smiled, her face lit up.
"Wow," she said then and he heard the Southern accent. He wondered where she was from. "I didn't realize it was getting ready to storm like that. Thanks for saving me." She laughed a little, a rich sounding laughter.
He shook his head slightly, partly to stop himself from focusing so much on her. "It's okay. It did sorta look like you didn't know it was gonna rain."
She waved her hand behind her. "I am staying in a house, I guess north of here. I like to walk the beach and I guess I wasn't paying attention to where I was." She looked around. "This doesn't look familiar." She shivered then and he realized it was a little chilly even on the porch with the rain and wind.
"Look, come on inside. I got a fire going and you can get warmed up." He opened the front door, and she walked in, stopping to look around.
"This is really nice," she said. "A real beach house." She looked at him and rolled her eyes. "Not like my father's house." He raised his eyebrows. "It's one of those big houses up the beach."
He nodded once. "Gotcha." She was still shivering a little. "Hey, let's get you over to the fire." He'd built up a fire that morning, knowing it would be cool outside. There was a rug in front of the fireplace hearth, and she sank down onto it when he led her there, holding her hands out towards the flame. "You want coffee or hot chocolate or something?"
She looked thoughtful for a second. Then she smiled. "Hot chocolate, if it's not too much trouble."
"No trouble." He walked towards the kitchen, then turned back. "It's instant. Hope you don't mind."
"That's fine."
He didn't drink hot chocolate as a rule, but he kept the instant kind for whenever his niece Scarlett came to visit. He put a kettle of water on the stove to heat up and got a mug, filling it with a packet of the instant hot chocolate. He watched the woman as she held her hands out towards the fire, her legs tucked under her. He realized the sweater she had on might be wet and she probably needed to dry her hair. "Um, you need a towel or something?"
She looked over at him. "Uh, maybe." She looked a little uncertain.
"If you want, there's a bathroom right down the hall" – he pointed – "and some beach towels." He thought for a second. "I'll get you one of my shirts that you can put on until your sweater's dry."
"Okay. That would be nice." She stood up.
He hurried back to his bedroom and grabbed one of his many flannel shirts. He smiled to himself as he thought about his sister calling him Mr. Flannel and teasing him that he could open up his own flannel shirt store. He walked back out. She was standing at the edge of the kitchen island, and he handed her the shirt. "Here you go."
She smiled gratefully. "Thank you so much." She hurried down the hall and he heard the bathroom door close. While she was in there, the water started to whistle and he turned it off, pouring hot water into the mug and stirring it. When she came out, he had to swallow. She'd wrapped her hair in a towel and the flannel shirt was loose on her and fell past her hips. She'd taken off her jeans too and he couldn't help but notice her long, beautiful legs. He was already seriously attracted to this woman he'd just met. She smiled. "I hope you don't mind. I hung my sweater and jeans over your shower rod." She laughed. "I do still have my underwear on though."
"No problem," he croaked out. "Oh, here." He handed her the mug. She took it and leaned her face close to it, closing her eyes. He thought he was going to die right there.
She opened her eyes, looking back at him. "Thanks for this." She turned and walked back into the great room, sitting on the couch, and pulling the blanket on the back down over her legs.
He poured himself a mug of coffee and then followed her, sitting in the club chair opposite the couch. "Uh, my name's Deacon, by the way. Deacon Claybourne."
She sipped on the hot chocolate and then smiled again. He was in love with her smile. "Well, thank you Deacon Claybourne, for saving me. I'm Rayna. Rayna Jaymes." She looked around and then back at him. "I love this house. Do you live here all the time?"
He nodded. "I do. Born and raised here. Never really been anywhere else."
"Lucky you."
"So where do you live?"
"I'm from Nashville. Born and raised there." She laughed softly. "My father built one of those fake beach houses up the road and I came here off and on in the summer as a kid. Never ventured down this far though."
He shook his head. "Most of the tourists don't. Everything's farther north anyway."
They fell silent, but it was a comfortable silence, not awkward like it probably should have been between two people who had just met. She sipped her hot chocolate and stared at the fire, which gave him a chance to look at her. Her hands looked delicate, but he didn't think she was dainty, although he couldn't have said why. He figured she'd probably come from a rich family, if her father had a beach house here. Her profile was breathtaking, maybe especially because her hair was hidden under the towel. Just as he thought that she unwrapped the towel, letting her damp hair fall across her shoulders and down her back. When she set the towel on the coffee table, she caught his eye and he looked down, embarrassed at being caught.
"So what do you do, Deacon Claybourne, living out here on the beach?" she asked.
He looked up. "I write songs."
Her face lit up. "Really? I sing songs." She sighed. "Well, I did sing. I'm not so sure about that anymore."
"What do you mean?"
She sighed again, kind of dramatically he thought. "I've wanted to be a country music artist pretty much forever. I've worked really hard at it. Since I was 16 years old." She rolled her eyes. "Which has caused many, many arguments between my father and me. He didn't want me doing that. But I wanted it, so I kept at it anyway. But I've failed."
He frowned. "How did you fail?"
"I've been trying to make it for years. I did so many spotlights and showcases for labels. I finally thought I'd gotten a break. A label signed me a year ago and told me they would help me put together a record and launch me. They weren't even one of the big labels, just a smaller one. I did a few demos and then they told me I wasn't gonna make it. That I had nothing special to offer. And dropped me 2 months ago. Which is why I'm here."
He smirked. "To try again here?"
She shook her head, grinning. "No. To think about what's next. If I'm not going to be able to follow my dream, then what do I do now?"
"Who says you can't? You?"
"Every label in Nashville."
He grinned. "I'm sure it's not every label. And I don't think you should give up. Maybe you just don't have the right songs."
She leaned forward and put her mug on the coffee table. He caught a glance of her cleavage and was pretty sure he was falling for this woman. She sat back and looked at him. "What kind of songs do you write?"
"Funny you should ask. Country songs."
"Any I would have heard of?"
Normally he wouldn't talk about the successes he'd had. The people around here knew who he was and what he did. They knew he wrote music, knew he'd had great success at it, because he played those songs – and others – in some of the bars and clubs up and down the coast, but they didn't know the rest of the story. "Probably."
She made a face. "Such as?"
He took a breath. "Some of these are cowrites, so not a hundred percent mine. What Part of No, Easy Come Easy Go, In a Week or Two, Don't Take The Girl, To Be Loved By You." Her eyes grew wide, and her mouth was open.
"Oh my god," she said finally. "You're like a really big deal. How long have you been doing this?"
"Writing songs since I was probably 15 or so. Writing songs that get recorded, 6 or 7 years ago. And I'm not really that big of a deal."
She looked thoughtful, then she smiled. "I'm gonna want to hear some of your songs, you know. I mean, the ones no one's recorded."
He grinned. "You stick around, maybe you will." He got up and walked over to the front window. It was pouring rain now, although it seemed the lightning and thunder had backed off a bit. He turned back and she was looking in his direction. "I don't think you're gonna be able to walk back the way you came. I can drive you back or I can make us some dinner and then drive you back." She looked like she was trying to decide the right answer and he really, inexplicably, didn't want her to leave. At least not yet. "I make a great spaghetti and meat sauce."
She smiled then, the smile that lit up her pretty face. "I think I need to have some of this great spaghetti and meat sauce."
He smiled back, relieved he'd get to have her around a little longer. "Alright then. I'll get working on it." He headed for the kitchen and rooted around for what he'd need. Fortunately, he'd been to the store earlier in the day and had meat that wasn't frozen. He grabbed spaghetti noodles, a jar of spaghetti sauce, and some olive oil for the pasta water. He leaned on the island and looked at her. "Maybe a salad too?"
"That sounds perfect." She threw off the blanket and hopped up off the couch, heading for the kitchen. "I can make a great salad. Assuming you have what I need, that is."
He wasn't sure how he was going to manage being in the kitchen with her. The flannel shirt hit her about mid-thigh, just enough to cover up the underwear that she said she had on. But she was enticing, and his head was spinning, and he thought he might be in love with her. As soon as he had that thought he decided that was ridiculous. Except that it didn't feel ridiculous. He was pretty sure he was in love with her. He cleared his throat as she walked up beside him. "Uh, what do you need?"
"Some kind of lettuce, tomatoes, carrots, maybe some red onion and avocado if you have it. And salad dressing."
"Well, I don't have red onion, but I do actually have an avocado. Could you put cheese on it?"
She grinned. "Sure. What kind do you have?"
"Cheddar."
"Okay. I can work with that." She turned around and opened the fridge door, leaning over slightly to peer in for what she was looking for. He nearly groaned as he saw just a peek at the underwear she'd mentioned. It didn't look too fancy, but it didn't have to be. He turned away, forcing himself to start browning the meat in a skillet. She started to put ingredients from the fridge on the countertop next to him. "Wait a minute," she said. She picked up the jar of sauce. "You don't make your own sauce for your great spaghetti and meat sauce?" Her eyes twinkled merrily.
He grinned. "Do you?"
She laughed. "Touché. I guess it isn't necessary and I know that one is top drawah." She exaggerated a high society accent at the end, and it made him laugh too. She then looked through his cabinets until she found some bowls for salad and placed them next to her work area. They worked silently for a minute and then she looked over at him. "So, you write country songs. Famous country songs. Do you ever go to Nashville?"
He nodded. "I do. I usually go every few months and spend a couple weeks, sometimes more. There's a lot of folks there I write with and it's good to kind of get into the mindset of Nashville. Not everything I do is a cowrite though, so I don't really need to go more often than that. Or I haven't."
"You ever think about living there all the time?"
He took a deep breath. "I actually did live there for a while. I left home when I was 17 and went to Nashville to chase a dream. I wanted to be a singer too, like you. And, like you, I couldn't get any traction. So after a while I came back here. But I had at least made good songwriting contacts. And I do have a publishing deal. I don't have to do that in Nashville."
She looked at him curiously. "Why did you not want to stay?"
He put the spaghetti into the pot of boiling water, stirring it to get the cooking started. "I wanted to come home. And there wasn't really anything I needed to be in Nashville for."
She arranged the salad fixings in the bowls and then set them aside. "Was it a girl?" she asked. He looked at her and she gave him a cheeky smile.
"Uh, not exactly."
"But there was a girl, right?"
He looked at her and then smiled. "I did have a girlfriend and we broke up, but that's not why I left. I needed to be here. And you've spent enough time here, it sounds like, that you should understand that. The sand and the salt air are in my blood."
She looked at him for a second. "Okay. That's fair. But when you do come to Nashville again, I hope you'll look me up."
"I will." He picked up the pot with the spaghetti then and turned to the sink. "So, dinner's almost ready." He poured the spaghetti into a colander in the sink. Then he got plates and plated up the spaghetti and the sauce, sliding them to the other side of the kitchen island. "Water good for you?" he asked.
"Perfect." He got water out of the fridge and then she took the bowls around and put them at each place, along with the salad dressing. He got silverware and napkins and then they sat at the island and ate together. And all he could think about was that he would have to take her home and he really didn't want to.
After dinner, while he cleaned up, she went back and sat on the couch, covering herself again with the blanket, as though she wanted to stay a while. Not that he minded. He put his hands on the island and looked towards her. "Will you play a couple of your songs for me?" she asked.
"Sure." He walked around and picked out one of his favorite guitars and settled onto the other end of the couch. "What do you want to hear?"
"Something that you like to perform. Not your big hits but the songs you play, remember."
He smiled. "Okay." He thought for a minute. "So, here's one I wrote, actually when I was living in Nashville. I was out a ways from the city. Really rural area, along the banks of the Cumberland River at night."
"Were you with your girlfriend?" she asked, interrupting, a teasing smile on her face.
He chuckled a little self-consciously. "I don't remember. Maybe. Anyway, the moon was out, not a full moon though, and the stars. And these little fireflies in the air. It actually made me think about home, 'cause we have those here in the summer. And, you know, I was young and maybe a little homesick." He started to pick at the strings on his guitar and then launched into the song.
Sometimes it feels like I'm so far away / Like everything I love has lost its place / When life gets the best of me / I just close my eyes and see / There's fireflies dancing in the yard, under a blanket of stars / The sound of that rusty string guitar / Playin' songs we know...
He didn't know how much time had passed. Eventually they sang together, old songs they both knew, and he was astounded by the fact that she couldn't get a serious deal. She had a beautiful voice and they harmonized well together. She also moved closer to him, although he couldn't say that he saw any movement. She was just there, leaning back against the couch, one leg tucked underneath her, the other bare foot pressed against the coffee table, her hands in her lap.
The fire was dying down and it almost looked like her hair was ablaze. Her eyes were dark and her lips slightly parted when she wasn't singing. The feelings he'd had all night, the attraction he'd felt right from the beginning, finally overtook him. He stopped playing, just letting his hand rest on the guitar, and he leaned over and kissed her. He wasn't sure what he expected but she leaned into the kiss, opening her mouth to his and chasing his tongue with hers. He stopped long enough to set the guitar aside and then he went back to her mouth as his hand moved to her face and his fingers threaded her hair. He pushed it back and rested his thumb on her cheek, drinking her in. He felt her hand pressed against his chest. He finally pulled his mouth from hers again.
She looked at him. "Don't stop," she whispered.
He stared into her eyes, then got up from the couch and, putting his arms under her, lifted her up and carried her back to his bedroom. He set her down on the floor and then took her face in his hands and kissed her. He leaned his forehead against hers. "Is this okay?" he asked.
She nodded. "Yes," she said. He reached out and unbuttoned the flannel shirt. She was wearing nothing underneath except for her bra and underwear. He could see she had full breasts, large for her frame and he couldn't wait to put his hands on them. He breathed in deeply. She reached out for his belt, unbuckling it, then unbuttoning his jeans and slowly drawing down the zipper. She looked up at him through her thick lashes and he swallowed. She grabbed the hem of his shirt and pulled it up and he helped her take it off. Then he pulled the flannel shirt down her arms, dropping it on the floor. He drew in a deep breath, then reached around her and unhitched her bra, drawing it off. He let out an involuntary moan as he gazed at her and then cupped her breasts, letting his thumbs roll over her nipples. He looked at her and her mouth was very slightly open, and he could hear her breathing. This is crazy. But crazy's good.
The rest of their clothes came off quickly and they met in the bed. He took his time getting to know her body, running his fingers over her skin, and she did the same, as they stopped periodically to kiss. Finally he moved on top of her and, after a moment, he pushed into her slowly, taking time to feel how ready she was for him and how good she felt. She fit him snugly, like a hand in a glove and he groaned. He stopped for a moment when he was completely inside her, afraid he'd come too quickly. He really wanted to savor this, pleasure her in a way he wanted them both to remember. She moaned softly as he started moving inside her and she fell into his rhythm. He couldn't remember ever feeling like this before and he loved how uninhibited she was. She arched into him and drew her legs up, urging him on wordlessly.
When she came, he could feel her pulsing around him. He watched her face as she moaned her pleasure and then he let go, feeling like he was home, that he was where he was supposed to be and with the woman he was supposed to be with. It was truly magic. He was very definitely in love with her.
He woke up the next morning and wondered for a second if the night before had been a dream. He looked to his left and saw her, turned away from him and snoring very lightly. He smiled to himself. Then he carefully got up, not wanting to disturb her, and got dressed, then walked out into the hall, closing the door quietly behind him. He went to the kitchen and set up the coffeemaker. While the coffee was brewing, he walked to the front windows and looked out. The sky was still gray, but the storms were long gone, the breeze gentle again, the waves tame.
He thought about the night before, about this Rayna Jaymes who'd just appeared on the beach in front of his house as the storms began. He'd first been intrigued by her but then quickly he felt himself drawn to her. She was beautiful, of course, but also spunky and charming and funny and sweet. She'd been in his dreams the night before and they had been together in a simple house with a white picket fence. It had been home and she felt like home. He thought that he wouldn't need much else besides her to be happy. He could hear it in his head – two arms around me, heaven to ground me. A family to come home to, music, and a life that's good.
He went back to the kitchen and poured a mug of coffee. He took that outside along with a guitar and his notebook. He opened up the notebook and started to write. Sittin' here tonight / by the firelight / it reminds me I already have more than I should ...