water to warm, she started scrubbing. As she did, only one thought raced through her mind, and she couldn’t get away from it.
They’d just made love; bone-dissolving, earth-shattering love. They’d moved as one, their hearts and souls had beat in rhythm.
Somewhere along the way, no doubt far before today, she had tumbled hopelessly in love with him. And it was a permanent kind of love.
Unfortunately, she’d let herself forget, Kent didn’t do “permanent.”
11
GOING BACK INTO Becca’s bedroom was the hardest thing Kent had ever done. Especially since he could no longer fool himself. What they’d just shared hadn’t been merely fun.
It hadn’t even been just great sex.
Whatever he’d experienced, it was going to be difficult to recover. Hell, who was he kidding? Recovery was going to be nearly impossible.
And what would happen now? They certainly couldn’t go back to their previous relationship.
For the first time in a long time, indecision and fear gripped him. All his life he’d made a habit of avoiding all ties, of keeping things simple and commitment-free.
Well he’d just had the best, most loving, most joyous moments of his life. Not to mention he’d seen the earth move. Nothing simple or commitment-free about that.
Dammit. Panic swirled in his belly as he filled up yet another glass of water from the kitchen sink, stalling. He looked longingly at the back door. His first instinct was to tear it open, run out and never look back.
Come to think of it, that was his second instinct, too, but there was one little problem.
He was buck naked.
He needed his clothes, his car, his own space, and not necessarily in that order. Resolutely, he walked through the living room-and stopped short at the sight of a brand-spanking-new mountain bike. Oh God, there was an accident waiting to happen, he thought. Becca on a mountain bike.
On the other hand, she’d look great in her little shorts, wind in her hair, the world at her feet as she rode. He could go with her, just to keep her safe-
Oh yeah, he was definitely out of control.
By the time he walked back into Becca’s bedroom, she was fully dressed, wearing his shirt and hugging herself.
He was utterly unable to help his body’s response to the way his shirt fit over her body. It looked as if she’d attempted to tame her hair, and while she seemed to have delicate rings of exhaustion beneath her eyes, her gaze was flashing with temper, not fatigue.
She turned away and something deep inside him hurt at that, even though just a second ago he’d wanted to turn away, too. “Regrets already,” he murmured.
“You’re…naked.”
“Yeah. I thought maybe you would be, too.”
“Maybe you should go,” she said weakly, studiously avoiding his nude body.
Yeah, that’s what he’d thought, too. Actually, up until about one second ago, he’d wanted that with every fiber of his being. So why was he still standing there staring at her? Reaching out to touch her?
She stepped back, away from him, tightening his shirt around her body. The modesty of that gesture was both touching and mysterious, considering all they’d just shared. And the look in her eyes, that hurt, bewildered look, did something painful to his chest, when he didn’t want to feel anything at all. “Did I hurt you?” he asked quietly.
A blush rose up her cheeks. “No.”
“Then why the distance between us when we could be in that bed, wrapped around each other, skin to skin-”
“Okay with me.”
“I don’t think that’s necessarily the truth.”
He raised his brow and looked down at himself, where the “truth” was there for both to see.
She reddened even more. “You know what I mean. Look, you’re dying to run. I’d appreciate it if you’d just do it now before I make a bigger fool out of myself here.”
“Hey, it was a just a teeny-weeny moment of panic,” he said, feeling another one right now at the determined, resigned look in her eyes. “It’s gone.”
“Well mine isn’t. I’m sorry, please excuse me.” She left the room and, stunned, he followed. In the living room she strapped on a helmet, mounted her bike and coasted toward the front door.
“Your helmet is on backward.”
“Oh.” Looking sheepish, she kept going. “I’ll fix it outside.” Somehow she managed to pick up speed in the small space and his worry about her helmet faded to be replaced by a new one.
“Becca, slow-”
Too late. She let out a squeak at the sight of the looming front door, started to frantically pedal backward, but didn’t slow down.
“The brakes are on the handles,” he shouted. “Watch-”
She crashed into the door.
“-out,” he grunted to himself and rushed over. “You okay?”
“Fine.” Her face was red as she straightened away from the door and opened it. “I knew about the brakes, I just forgot.” She pulled away from him, still straddling the bike, then promptly got caught between the door and the screen.
Muttering beneath her breath, not looking at him, she finally freed herself and awkwardly maneuvered down the stairs.
“Becca-”
“Goodbye, Kent.” She rode off without a backward glance.
“At least let me fix your damn helmet!” he yelled, terrified for her. “Come back here.” But before he could blink, she was gone, and he was alone in her condo.
The realization galvanized him into action. He went after her, skidding to a halt at the top step. “Becca! Wait!”
The cool Sierra breeze hit him full on the chest, and in regions south that made him yelp.
Still naked as a jaybird.
A jogger moved past, giving him an alarmed look before she picked up her pace.
Terrific. He raced back to the bedroom to shove his legs into his pants. No shirt, it was still on Becca, which slowed him down some. She was long gone, and clearly wanted to be alone. She was confused, and the truth was, so was he.
He was a man who liked to fix everything himself, but this time he didn’t have the tools.
Or did he?
IT TOOK LITTLE EFFORT for Kent to find what he was looking for in her bathroom.
Less effort to haul the trash can from beneath the sink and start loading it full of everything he considered to be at the root of the problem: lipstick, mascara, hair-styling gel…whatever beauty element he found, he trashed.
Grabbing the can, he stalked outside, grumbling about the danger of mountain bikes, even though he’d ridden one for years. He intended to fill the dumpster, only to be halted on the front step by a bony finger to his chest.
An old woman, imposing for all her barely five-feet, stood glaring at him, her blue-silver hair glittering in the light of the porch, her finger still drilling a hole in his middle.
