to give it a try—if our boys are for it.”
A silence fell. At least for Tucker, it felt like an elephant suddenly plunked down on her front porch. They’d been talking easily, naturally, but once the topic of their sons was over, Garnet stiffened up.
“Well,” he said, “I should be getting back.”
She vaulted from the chair as if spring-loaded. “Me, too. I still have things I have to do tonight.”
He got it. She wanted him to leave. And hell. He did need to get back to his place. But standing next to each other, he felt like a bear next to delicate crystal. He said slowly, “It bugged me all day. That you were hurt because of me this morning.”
“That’s silly, Tucker. It was a complete accident. No harm done.”
Yeah, he’d heard all that before.
“Yeah? Well, I’ve watched you a couple times reach for the back of your head. How big’s the goose egg?”
“It’s nothing,” she said for what seemed like the zillionth time, but he was all through buying that malarkey.
He was already within touching distance. One step closer, and he could ease a palm around her neck and gently push her head into his chest. She didn’t fight him as he felt for the scar. In fact, she seemed to quit breathing altogether. The texture of her silky hair, tangling around his fingers, tangoed with the fresh smell of her shampoo and caused the obvious physical reaction in him. He ignored the arousal. He wanted to see the cut, for Pete’s sake.
And he found it. It wasn’t actually a goose egg, but looked more like a burn mark. Buried in her hair, but looking raw and fiery. “Ouch,” he said. “What’s wrong with you, that you haven’t been whining and yelling? Take advantage. Heave on some guilt.”
He stepped back, so she’d quit worrying he was going to jump her. He wanted to. Really, really wanted to. But obviously he was going to have to earn her trust by baby steps. A zillion of them. And when he stepped back, he won a reluctant grin … possibly because she liked his joking tone.
“I admit, it still smarts.”
“I’ll bet it does. So I owe you. You just have to think about what and when you want to collect.” He was using his best teasing tone, but abruptly realized that his fingers were still in her hair, drifting through that soft, silky sea, no longer looking for hurts and scrapes, just … feeling.
He dropped his hand, but all that provocative feeling was still there. Electrified because she was looking at him. Because their eyes met and neither could seem to break the sudden sharp connection between them. He could smell that raspberry shampoo of hers. See the pulse in the hollow of her throat. Hear the worry and tension in her scattered breath.
He’d known it’d be like this. Or he’d hoped it would. All he’d wanted was the chance to spend some time with her, be with her, do something to make her notice. Not notice him. But notice that something had a chance of firing hot and bright between them.
But he figured, for now, he’d pushed enough. He smiled, made a slow, easy business out of fishing the truck keys from his side pocket, letting her see that he was leaving. A little worry was fine. A few nerves were fine. But she really did seem like a fawn, standing in bright headlights, ready to bolt and flee.
He had no idea what made her so wary, but now, he just might have a chance to find out.
“How about trying the plan with the boys, say, next Tuesday afternoon?”
“Sure. That sounds fine.” But her eyes hadn’t left his. Her voice still couldn’t muster more power than a whisper.
“I think we’ve got a good idea. If it doesn’t work, then it doesn’t. But no harm in giving it a try.”
“I agree. I appreciate your coming up with the plan.”
He shot her an easy smile, took one step off her porch. “You know the old legend about Whisper Mountain, don’t you?”
She started to speak, then seemed to correct herself. “I heard a really foolish story, about when the wind’s coming from a certain direction, people can hear the sound of voices, or something like that.”
She wasn’t getting off that easy. “The legend is that it’s a lovers’ wind. That only lovers can hear the mountain whisper.”
“Silliest thing I ever heard,” she said.
“Yeah. That’s what I think, too,” he concurred, and with another grin, strode off toward his truck … just as the sky opened with a noisy crack of thunder.
Well, fine, Garnet thought irritably, as she yanked on a yellow slicker and fumbled in the back hall for a flashlight. Hard to imagine this day getting any more upsetting. First there’d been the stomach-knotting talk with Mrs. Riddle, then the foot and head scrapes that hurt the whole darned afternoon, then behaving like a goose with Tucker … and no, of course she had no illusions what’d been going on there. He’d been kind. Looking at her sore head.
She was the one imagining his interest … when she knew perfectly well she was invisible to men. Always had been. Always would be. Particularly with powerhouse alpha guys like Tucker.
And now, an unexpected torrential rain put a sharp cap on the day. “Petie!” she called from the back door. “I’m going to check on the greenhouses!”
She heard a distant “okay,” then pelted outside into the deluge. The rain was warm, coming down in sheets, making the ground slick and blurring her vision. Her plants—all of them—loved rain more than well water, but a downpour like this could erode the soil and smash down delicate leaves.
She unlocked the door to her precious vanilla house first, then checked the other greenhouses at a run, ending up at the raised garden beds closest to the shop. The raised beds all had “shade curtains”—mesh that rolled out twelve feet above ground. The curtain protected the plants from too much sun as well as allowing rain in—but not this kind of gully-washing rain. She cranked out the roll of curtain, which shouldn’t have been hard … except that her hands were wet and her eyes blinded with rain.
The whole task shouldn’t have taken fifteen minutes, but by the time she charged back into the house, she was soaked to the bone and trailing more water than a river. “I’m back!” she called, so Petie wouldn’t worry.
She peeled off the slicker and shoes, exchanged the rest of her clothes in the bedroom for a long robe, grabbed a brush and started tracking down her son.
Likely he’d be near either a TV or computer screen, but that hardly limited the possibilities. Her bungalow was built in the old-fashioned Southern style, with all rooms having a window view, and storage located in the windowless center of the place. The back side—the woods and mountain sides—had her bedroom, a den/TV room and Pete’s bedroom, which she checked first.
His sanctuary had walls of cracked pine, with a built-in desk and shelves. Unlike her bedroom, Pete’s bed was tidily made and his clothes put away. The only noise in the room came from a pair of hamsters, furiously running their wheels. She spotted Pete’s bare feet propped on the bed, but she had to lean over the bed to find the rest of her son. Petie was nestled in a down comforter on the floor, reading from a Kindle.
“Well,
