past.
Turning sideways, he sprinted up the hardwood steps to the landing and up again. Whitewashed walls gave way to faded wallpaper with cabbage roses. Claire had talked about her plans for stripping the paper in her never-ending task of renovating the house. She worked too hard. Who looked out for her?
He shut down the thought, along with others stinging him with how much this place resembled the family house he’d sold in North Dakota. Not that they actually looked alike, this one full of old southern class and his eked in prairie starkness.
But the air of home, he recognized well.
At the top of the stairs, Vic reached to open the hall door leading to the living quarters, never loosening his hold on Claire. Scents of home-cooked meals gave way to the fragrance of a hundred percent her.
Flowers, the purple kind. Lilacs maybe? The perfume she carried on her body. On her crisp fresh sheets. A scent she’d imprinted on his memory.
Vic turned to Starr a couple of steps behind him. “Where should we go?”
“She’ll be more comfortable on her bed.”
Pivoting on his heel, he charged through the sitting area, down the hall, to the first room on the left.
And froze.
He shouldn’t know which door led to her bedroom. Heat crawled up the back of his neck. Aw, for Pete’s sake, thirty-nine was too old to blush.
He offered a belated questioning look to Starr. “Uh, is this it?”
Starr cocked her head to the side. The heat along his neck flamed a little hotter. Busted.
Since Starr lived in the carriage house out back and their other sister, Ashley, lived on campus at the College of Charleston neither of them had known about his weekend up here. Unless Claire had told them.
Starr’s eyes narrowed before concern returned to wipe away her unspoken question. She nodded, pushing the door wide. “In here.”
Memories nailed Vic. Dead on. Flattening all his defenses as surely as if he’d been the one to pitch onto the floor instead of Claire. Her mammoth four-poster bed loomed in front of him with all those gauzy things draped around the square bracket along the top. The open window rustled the filmy draping like some kind of bridal bower over her bed.
He’d spent the best seventy-two hours of his life with her there—and against that faded cabbage rose wallpaper, and on the stairs.
In his bass boat.
Behind him, Starr cleared her throat. He needed to get his head on straight and think about Claire. Carefully, he lowered her to the fluffy comforter.
Talk about reliving memories.
You’re in big trouble, champ.
Vic looked over his shoulder. “Could you get a glass of water for when she wakes up?”
Furrows wrinkled Starr’s forehead. “Good idea, and a cool cloth, too. Maybe a thermometer? I’ll be right back.”
Claire burrowed her face into the pillow as Starr’s footsteps faded down the hall. Relief kicked through him so strong he almost staggered back a step.
“Vic?” she mumbled in a sleepy voice too like the one that haunted his dreams.
“Yeah, Claire. It’s me.” He cleared his throat along with any thoughts of Claire’s waking-up voice. “You really gave us a scare down there, lady. Are you okay?”
He hoped so, because he needed to make tracks out of her place and away from her appeal before he landed next to her.
“Mmm.” She shifted onto her side toward him. “Now I am.”
Claire flung an arm over Vic’s shoulder and toppled him forward onto her bed.
Claire snuggled into her dream, fighting consciousness just a little longer. Tingles teased along her skin as she inhaled…man. Strong, warm man in her bed, heavy muscled arms and legs tangled with hers.
And not just any man.
The one she’d been dreaming of having right here beside her since the first day he’d sauntered up her walkway, taut butt, broad shoulders, so much man even her towering entry hall could barely contain him.
Vic’s pine-soap scent and steady heartbeat soothed her senses, mellowing and exciting her at the same time. She’d needed the support of his chest so much on that night. The first anniversary of Aunt Libby’s death had hit her hard, especially so close after the holidays. And she’d already been stressed out by the monied bigwigs drooling over her prime piece of waterfront property, pressuring her day in and day out to sell.
Vic’s steady friendship had meant a lot to her. How could she not turn to him? Comfort that night had shifted quickly to something more.
She nuzzled his neck. “Mmm. You smell so good.”
And she was so sleepy.
Vic coughed.
“Really good.” Her languid arms flopped around his shoulders to toy with his collar. “You feel good, too. Have I ever told you how hot your butt looks in jeans? And that faded patch in front makes me want to flatten my h—”
“Uh, Claire…”
“Yeah, Vic?” She slid a button free through warm cotton covering even warmer man.
“We need to stop.”
“Don’t wanna.”
His wry chuckle kissed her ears as seductively as his mouth had done a few months ago. “Well, me neither, but we have to.”
She didn’t want to think about her groaning bank account and repairs piling up faster than she could count them, not when a much-needed nap and a warm chest waited in this bed. She fought consciousness. For just a few seconds longer she wanted to abandon Claire-logic to the boundless possibilities of dreamland. “Why should we stop?”
“Because Starr is in the next room filling a glass of water for you. She’ll be walking through that door any second now.”
An icy shower of realization splashed her wide awake. This wasn’t a few months ago. This was now, with Vic on her purple comforter and totally unaware of a third little person with them.
Her eyes focused simultaneously with her thoughts.
Claire shoved Vic’s chest. She bolted upright just as he rolled off the mattress, work boots thumping on the braided rug as he launched to his feet.
She hitched the hem of her dress down past her knees. “What are you doing here? What am I doing here? How did we—? What were we—?”
“Stop.” He kept his voice low, glancing over his shoulder at the door before continuing, “You passed out downstairs.”
Memories flooded back of pitching toward the floor. Claire pressed a hand to her stomach to reassure
