“Hmm.” She sipped, strolled over to the window. “Oh, it’s snowing now. Pretty. God! I have to finish my Christmas shopping. You’d better go before it starts to stick.”
“Just wait a minute.”
She glanced back. “For what?”
“Damn it, Avery, you can’t just say something like that then say go home.”
“Just voicing an opinion.” When he stepped around the counter, she took the glass from his hand. “You shouldn’t have any more. I know you handle it well, but still. Whiskey, driving, and snow, not a good mix.”
He repeated, with all the patience and potency he could muster, “I don’t have sexual issues.”
“Are we still on that? All right, my mistake. You’re sexual issue–free.”
“Don’t placate me.”
“Jesus, Owen, what do you want from me?” Her eyes fired like lasers when he gripped her elbows, hauled her to her toes. “Watch it,” she warned.
“Now we’re expecting it,” he told her, and gave her a quick yank.
She knew where his buttons were and how to push them—and could admit she’d done so. She didn’t mind irritating him into kissing her. She wanted an encore, one way or the other, to see how both of them reacted.
“Okay.” Deliberately she linked her hands behind his head. “Now we’re expecting it.” She moved in first, before he could overthink and pull back.
Not an explosion this time, she thought, but more of a long, slow fall that picked up velocity. His hands dropped from her elbows to her hips, then molded her body inch by inch on their way up her sides. As the intensity built, he shifted her until he’d trapped her between his body and the counter.
She’d manipulated him—he knew it, but didn’t much care. The tang of whiskey on her tongue, the hint of lemon in her hair, the hot pulse of her body against his all tangled his senses into a slippery knot of need.
He skimmed the heels of his hands along the sides of her breasts, glided his fingers over them—felt her pulse kick lightly against his palms.
Felt her breath quicken as the kiss deepened.
Easing back, he struggled for equilibrium while she stared at him with drowsy blue eyes.
“Sexual issues, my ass.”
Humor warmed her face an instant before she laughed. “I stand corrected.”
“So . . . what now?”
On a sigh, she laid her hands on his cheeks, held them there briefly. “Owen,” she murmured, then slid to the side and away.
“Owen, what?”
“What now?” She picked up her glass of scotch again. Hell, she wasn’t driving anywhere. “We rip each other’s clothes off and go to bed. If I’m any judge, we have really exceptional sex. But since you ask, you’re already thinking what-if and what then in addition to what now—taking that rational and mature route. So you go home, and consider the what-ifs and what thens until you figure it out.”
“The what-ifs and thens matter, Avery.”
“You’re right. You’re absolutely right.”
“You matter. You and me—you and all of us—matter.”
“I know. The fact that you’re thinking about that instead of ripping my clothes off is part of what makes you Owen, and part of the reason I’d have let you rip my clothes off.”
Now he had new pictures in his brain, and found he didn’t much want to hike on that rational and mature route. “You’re a confusing woman, Avery.”
“Not really. It’s just I can appreciate you considering what matters and still be sorry you didn’t wait to consider until after that exceptional sex.”
“I love you.”
“Oh God, I know.” She turned away, as casually as possible, terrified the tears would come, terrified they’d show. “I love you, too.”
“I know what to do about that, what to think about that. I don’t know what to do about, what to think about wanting you like this. Wanting you, a lot.”
She took a careful breath, turned back, and smiled. “That helps, a lot. It’s an adjustment. You never thought about me that way.”
“I wouldn’t say never.”
“Really.” Steadier, she studied him over the rim of her glass. “Is that so?”
“Well, hell, Avery, of course I thought about it, occasionally. You’re gorgeous.”
“No, I’m not. Hope’s gorgeous. I’ve got cute, which I can boost up to hot with time and tools. But thanks. So, what now?” She sat on the arm of a chair, studied him. “You go home before the snow gets too bad, and you do what you’re wired to do. You think about it. And I’ll think about it.”
“Okay.” He crossed to her, bent down to brush his lips over hers. “If it was anyone but you, I’d stay. And that really didn’t sound right. I meant—”
“I know what you meant, lucky for you. Go home, Owen.”
He walked to the door, glanced back as he opened it. “See you.”
“See you.”
She sat, listening to his footsteps recede down the stairwell. Rising, she walked to the front window, stood, and watched the snow fall.
And thought, for a moment through the light drift of white, she saw a woman standing at the window of the inn, gazing out as she was.
Waiting? she wondered. Was that what she was doing now, too? She’d never been one for waiting, but for doing, for acting.
And yet . . . maybe she had been, on some level, all this time. Waiting for Owen. The idea struck her—sweet, annoying, baffling all at once.
What now? she mused again. It looked as if she had more to think about than she’d realized.
It snowed through the night and into the morning. Owen kept busy most of the day plowing out his lane, his mother’s, his brothers’. He enjoyed the task—at least this early in the winter—the rumble of the jeep, the bump of the plow, the strategy needed to direct the snow into reasonable piles and banks.
While he worked on Ryder’s lane he spotted his brother muscling his snowblower to forge a path from the door. One out the front, Owen thought, to where Ryder parked his truck, another out the back so D.A. could meander out and do his business away from the house. Each of them did their respective jobs with barely a wave of acknowledgment until Owen pulled into the cleared space beside Ryder’s truck and turned off the jeep.
“That should do it.”
“Good enough,” Ryder agreed as he angled the snowblower under an overhang. “Want a beer?”
“Why wouldn’t I?”
Together they trudged around the side, into Ryder’s combination game room and home gym. They stomped off their boots, took them off on the tiled entranceway floor. Each of them peeled off layers of outerwear, hung them on pegs.
D.A. wandered over, leaned briefly on Owen’s leg, then stared at Ryder. “Yeah, your way’s all clear.” Ryder opened the door. “That dog’ll roll in the snow, run in the snow, eat the damn snow, but he won’t walk through it to shit. I don’t clear the path, he shits right by the door. Why is that?”
“Hence his name.”
“Yeah, hence. Except I’m the one out in the cold blowing snow.”
They walked upstairs into the kitchen, where Ryder pulled out two beers.
“How was the date?” Owen asked him.
“She’s a lawyer, right? Smart. I like smart. Got a killer body.” Ryder took a long pull of the beer. “She can even talk sports, which is a big check in the plus column. So I ask myself, why don’t I want to close this deal?”
“And the answer is?”
“The giggle. I figured it out last night. She giggles. A lot. I think it’s supposed to be adorable, but it’s fucking annoying.”
“The giggle’s a deal breaker?”
