here to stay.”
Chapter Three
I’m here to stay.
Where the hell had that come from? Staying had never been part of the plan. There’d never even been a plan, just a vague notion that he’d stop in Hart Valley long enough to speak with the Russos and deal with Sean’s ashes. But somehow seeing Nina, working with her again in the café, had changed everything.
But who was he kidding? He couldn’t stay in Hart Valley. The town busybodies would chew him up and spit him out, just as they’d done all his misguided life. It would be even worse now, with him fresh from prison, with all the unanswered rumors flying through town like buckeye leaves scattered by a breeze.
Nina stared at him, shocked to the point of horror. “You can’t stay.”
He sensed something in her voice—simple worry? Or was that panic? His instincts sent a warning that settled as a knot of tension between his shoulders. “Why not?”
“Because I…because they won’t let you. Arlene and Frida and the others.”
“The busybodies.”
Nina had given the gossiping group that nickname, back when he’d worked at the café. The four old matrons would hold court in the corner booth by the front window, watch him work in the kitchen and whisper about him. When he would emerge to help bus a table or ring up a sale, they would fall into disapproving silence, their angry eyes trained on him every moment.
Jameson grabbed a towel and wiped down the griddle. “Let them talk.”
“Jameson, please.”
The desperation in her tone sent up warning flares again. “I don’t give a damn what the busybodies have to say about me.”
“I do.” She barely whispered the words.
He felt fingers crawl up his spine. Dropping the towel on the now clean griddle, Jameson rubbed his hands against his apron. “What’s going on, Nina?”
She stood frozen, looking trapped. “Nothing.” Her gaze flicked away.
His stomach a mass of snakes, Jameson stepped closer to her and grabbed her shoulders. “Tell me.”
The moment he felt the warmth of her against his palms he realized he never should have touched her. The thin fabric of her white blouse offered such a frail barrier, they might as well be skin to skin. Whatever self-control he might have once possessed was torn away by the long years of abstinence.
Gripping Nina tighter, he took in a long breath of air, waiting for her to move…praying she’d step away. Because if she didn’t, he’d kiss her. And if he kissed her, there was no telling what else he would do.
When she did move it was with excruciating slowness, her hands lifting, no doubt to nudge him away from her. But instead she rested her palms against his chest, and the contact was so unexpected it pulled the air from his lungs, released in a low fragment of a moan. Then her hands drifted higher, and Nina’s face lit with wonder.
She was perfect—skin the color of cream, brown eyes endlessly deep, full lips begging his to brush against them. Her mouth curving in a smile, one lock of ebony hair falling across her brow—everything about her invited him in. Her spirit flowed through him like a balm soothing the sharp edges of his soul. He shut his eyes, her beauty almost too painful to see.
Her voice sifted into his ears. “I’d forgotten how amazing it feels to touch you.”
His heartbeat thundered so violently he thought it might bring down the walls of the café. If he shifted even slightly he would lose the last scrap of will he possessed, and the result would be mortifying. “Nina,” he managed, parceling out just enough breath for her name.
He risked a glance down at her, then cursed his mistake. With her face lifted up to him, her lips moist and barely parted, he would die if he didn’t taste her just once.
Any thought that he might resist evaporated when she lifted her face to him. His hands left her shoulders and cradled her head as he touched her mouth with his. She arched against him, her full breasts grazing his chest, her fingers brushing against the sensitive nape of his neck.
He plunged his tongue into her mouth, a distant part of his mind knowing he was taking things too fast, too soon. With a step, he positioned Nina up against the prep counter, thrust one leg between hers. He knew she had to feel how hard he was, the length of him pressed against her hip. But she didn’t pull away, didn’t push him from her.
He ground against her, knowing he shouldn’t, helpless to resist. It felt far too good, impossibly pleasurable. But even as his tongue tangled with hers in her mouth, even as he imagined taking her here in the kitchen, a wrongness began to creep in.
He didn’t know where he found the strength, but he stopped, edged away from her. He couldn’t look at her, partly out of shame, partly out of fear that the sight of her tousled hair and flushed face would drive him to pull her back into his arms.
Half-blind with the need still burning through him, Jameson walked back toward the sink, took a water glass down from the shelf and filled it. He kept his back to her as he drained the glass.
He heard her light footsteps, sensed her moving closer. He felt the heat of her hand before she touched him, and choked out one word. “Don’t.”
“Jameson.”
Even his name on her lips was powerful temptation. “Don’t touch me. I can’t—” He didn’t finish the thought, hoping she’d understand.
A hesitation, then she said, “I’m sorry.” She moved away, putting space between them.
Jameson filled the glass again before he turned to her. She wouldn’t meet his gaze at first and when she did, he saw a trace of guilt in her expressive brown eyes. “I shouldn’t have done that,” she said.
“We both—”
“No, it was me. I took advantage.”
He laughed out loud at that, some of the tension in his body dissipating. “Believe me, sweetheart, the advantage was mine.”
She blushed, the faint pink an appealing lure. Then he saw the tears in her eyes. “I didn’t want to tell you.”
He set aside the water glass, risking a few steps closer to her. “Tell me what, Nina?”
She searched his face. “I don’t want him hurt.”
Confused, he shook his head. “Who—”
He heard the shuffle of feet from the cook area and a small querulous voice. “Mommy? Where are you?”
“Right here, sweetie.” Nina turned to go to her son, casting one last glance over her shoulder at Jameson. He followed her, an elusive sense of precognition dancing just out of reach.
As Nina knelt beside her son, Jameson hung back. It was only because he’d promised to keep his distance, not because his intuition screamed at him. Still, as he leaned one hip against the prep counter, his flesh tingled with anticipation.
