to the kitchen, thrown everything she found into the pillowcase: salami, yogurt, granola bars, trail mix.
Her legs shook, and a lump like a cannonball was in her throat. She couldn’t bear for him to go. She’d never had a chance to make him see her as anything but a tagalong kid who needed help with her homework. She’d barely begun to grow boobs. She was a late bloomer, almost sixteen, but she looked about twelve. She would never know what it was like to kiss him, or dance with him, or—or anything else.
She’d found him on the lawn, shoulders shaking. His face was pressed against his knees, his long legs folded up tight against his chest, like he was trying to take up less space.
She’d dropped down to her knees next to him, and shocked them both speechless by demanding that he kiss her goodbye.
The memory still had the power to make her face go red, right there, in front of her open refrigerator, a slippery quart of half-and-half in her hand. She’d been so bold. Years later, she still had no idea where she’d found the nerve to do that. It was unimaginable.
At first he’d made fun of her, told her he didn’t feel that way about her, and don’t be a dingbat. Then the mocking smile faded out of his eyes, changed into a wary, waiting expression. And it happened.
Something intangible kindled between them. An ancient, prickling instinct, a swelling heat that made her skin feel too small for her body. Mysterious and powerful. Just remembering it made her shiver.
She remembered every sensual detail. Her hand splayed against his chest, his pounding heart, the damp warmth of his sweat. Her other hand against his cheek. The fine bones, the soft skin, the sharp angle of his jaw. The smell of smoke that clung to his hair.
The look in his eyes, almost scared. As if she, clueless, goofy, awkward El Kent had some mysterious power over him, to bestow or withhold something he was desperate for. It made her dizzy.
She leaned closer slowly until she felt his breath against her face, jerking in and out of his open mouth. The instant her lips touched his, the spark whooshed into flame. He’d pulled her onto his lap, wound his fingers through her hair and kissed her. Really kissed her, until her soul melted and mixed with his. Every part of her buzzed with his electricity. His lips coaxed her mouth open, ardent and eager.
She wrapped her arms around his neck, the world turning itself over and over until she was on her back, in the grass, crushing down her mother’s bed of purple petunias. His body was feverishly hot. His hands slid under her nightgown, shoving it up. Touching her all over, making her shudder and gasp.
She felt so clear and bright and sure. Now was the time, and he was the one. She’d chosen him years ago, before she even understood what she was choosing him for. She wrapped herself around his wiry, shaking body and offered him everything she had, everything she was.
And he took it.
The memory made her thighs clench. Clutching his back, staring into his wide, frightened eyes. Pain that was intimate and terrible and sweet. A storm of emotion and sensation. Collapsing into a tight, panting knot with him afterwards, both of them weeping.
Then the faraway whistle of the approaching freight train sounded, and his hot, lithe body went rigid on top of hers. He pulled away. Told her he had to make that train. Nothing could change his mind. Not even telling him she loved him.
Ellen laughed, but the laughter had a false, soggy sound. Look at her, sniveling over girlhood memories in front of a fridge that was gaping wide open in a heat wave. Serve her right if the milk went sour.
In all the lovers she’d had in her thirty-two years—not that there had been all that many—she’d never again told a man she loved him. Not even Brad. Though now that she thought of it, Brad hadn’t made any declarations of love to her yet, either. Until now, she hadn’t even thought of that fact in terms of an omission.
She couldn’t imagine saying those words to Brad. The pain and vulnerability associated with them were light years from Brad Mitchell’s high-quality universe, where things made sense. Things behaved. Whatever didn’t was judged to be unworthy and promptly rejected.
Brad valued her. He appreciated her and respected her, enough to want to be her partner for life. That was love for rational grown-ups. Love wasn’t ripping your heart out of your chest on a dark morning and being haunted by the smell of smoke ever since. That was juvenile stupidity. Or plain bad luck. Like a bout of food poisoning.
“Excuse me, miss. I’m looking for El Kent.” The low, quiet voice came from the swinging door that led to the dining room.
Ellen spun around with a gasp. The eggs flew into the air, and splattered on the floor. No one called her El. No one except for—
The sight of him knocked her back. God. So tall. So big. All over. The long, skinny body she remembered was filled out with hard, lean muscle. His white T-shirt showed off broad shoulders, sinewy arms. Faded jeans clung with careless grace to the perfect lines of his narrow hips, his long legs. She looked up into the focused intensity of his dark eyes, and a rush of hot and cold shivered through her body.
The exotic perfection of his face was harder now. Seasoned by sun and wind and time. She drank in the details: golden skin, narrow hawk nose, hollows beneath his prominent cheekbones, the sharp angle of his jaw, shaded with a few days’ growth of dark beard stubble. A silvery scar sliced through the dark slash of his left eyebrow. His gleaming hair was wet, combed straight back from his square forehead into a ponytail. Tightly leashed power hummed around him.
The hairs on her arms lifted in response.
His eyes flicked over her body. His teeth flashed white against his tan. “Damn. I’ll run to the store to replace those eggs for you, miss.”
Miss? He didn’t even recognize her. Her face was starting to shake again. Seventeen years of worrying about him, and he just checked out her body, like he might scope any woman he saw on the street.
He waited patiently for her to respond to his apology. She peeked up at his face again. One eyebrow was tilted up in a gesture so achingly familiar, it brought tears to her eyes. She clapped her hand over her trembling lips. She would not cry. She would not.
“I’m real sorry I startled you,” he tried again. “I was wondering if you could tell me where I might find—” His voice trailed off. His smile faded. He sucked in a gulp of air. “Holy shit,” he whispered. “El?”
Chapter 2
The gesture tipped him off. He recognized her the instant she covered her mouth and peeked over her hand, but he had to struggle to superimpose his memories of El onto the knockout blonde in the kitchen. He remembered a skinny girl with big, startled eyes peeking up from beneath heavy bangs. A mouth too big for her bit of a face.
This woman was nothing like that awkward girl. She’d filled out, with a fine, round ass that had immediately caught his eye as she bent into the fridge. And what she had down there was nicely balanced by what she had up top. High, full tits, bouncing and soft. A tender, lavish mouthful and then some, just how he liked them.
Her hand dropped, and revealed her wide, soft mouth. Her dark eyebrows no longer met across the bridge of her nose. Spots of pink stained her delicate cheekbones. She’d grown into her eyes and mouth. Her hair was a wavy curtain of gold-streaked bronze that reached down to her ass. El Kent had turned beautiful. Mouth-falling-open, mind-going-blank beautiful. The images locked seamlessly together,
