“Jazz, blues, or R&B? Sorry, I don’t have any bluegrass CDs.”
“I can only listen to bluegrass at a festival. You pick.” She rummaged in one of the kitchen drawers. “Where’re your knives?”
“Second one down.” I went into the living room and put on some blues. “What’s your favorite music?” I asked, coming back into the kitchen.And please don’t say country.
“Some country, and I also like southern rock—you know, Lynyrd Skynyrd, The Marshall Tucker Band, ones like those. Oh, and soft rock and love songs.” She glanced up from dicing a tomato. “Really, there’s not much music I don’t like… except rap. Not crazy about that.”
“That makes two of us.” Conversation was easy with her, and by the time we finished dinner, I knew her favorite color, purple, her favorite food, lobster drenched in warm butter, and the food she hated the most, green peppers. She had me laughing with her stories of some of the residents of Blue Ridge Valley.
“Here’s another one,” she said, amusement lighting up her green eyes. “Every Sunday, Preacher Seamus calls on someone to open his service with a prayer. One time he asked Old Man Pickens. Everyone bowed their heads and waited. And waited. And waited some more. Then people started peeking their eyes open just in time to see the ass end of him crawling out the window.
“He’s never been seen at the Baptist church again. He converted to Methodist with a promise from Reverend Joe that he’ll never be called on to speak a prayer. Now Preacher Seamus claims Reverend Joe owes him one parishioner. Reverend Joe asked for a volunteer to switch to Baptist, but none of his people want to change because the Baptists don’t dance or drink.” Her lips twitched. “At least not in public.”
“That’s hilarious, Red. I don’t think I’ll ever get tired of your hometown stories.” I was definitely glad I hadn’t canceled our dinner. She insisted on helping me clean up the kitchen, and we had that done in short order.
“You cook a good steak,” she said as I poured her a glass of wine after we’d returned to the balcony.
“That’s about the extent of my cooking abilities. Wait, I can make a mean omelet, too.” I glanced over at her. “You ever decide to stay over, which is my greatest wish, I’ll prove it.”
“No green peppers?”
“For you, I’ll leave them out.”
She laughed. “You’re sweet, you know that?”
“I’ve been called a lot of things, but sweet has never been one of them.” I noticed that she was snuggling up into herself. The temperature had dropped considerably since we’d been out earlier. “Cold?”
“A little.”
I patted my leg. “Come over here.” Without hesitation she set down her wine and then straddled my lap. “Hello,” I said, my gaze on her mouth.
“Hello to you. Want to kiss me?”
“Silly girl.” I slipped my hand under her hair, cradling her neck, and tugged her to me. She nestled against my chest as I claimed her mouth. I let go of her neck and wrapped my arms around her back. She was soft and warm, and tasted like the wine she was drinking. It wasn’t long before I was burning for her, but I didn’t know how far to take this. If she wasn’t ready yet, then I needed to stop now.
“Jenny…” When she started to unbutton my shirt, I caught her hand. “Are you ready for this? For us?”
Her gaze locked on mine. “I think so.”
I had no idea what her hesitation was all about, butI think sowasn’t good enough. “No, Red, we’re not doing this until you know it’s what you want.” I pulled her head to my shoulder. “The second you’re sure, you call me. I don’t care if it’s four in the morning, okay?”
“I’m sorry, Dylan.” She picked at the top button of my shirt. “I honestly don’t know why I’m hesitating. I want you. I really do. It’s just that… well, it’s different with you.”
“How so?” I wrapped a lock of her hair around my finger while wondering if I’d ever walk normal again.
“You’re different from any man I’ve been with before. Not that there’s been many, but you’re special.”
No, I wasn’t. “Jenny, I’m just a man doing his best to get along in this world. Don’t make me something I’m not.”
She lifted her head from my shoulder, her eyes studying me as if she could see my deepest thoughts. I hoped the hell she couldn’t. If so, she would see a man who’d failed to listen to his wife’s cry for help. I had to live with that every fucking damn day. To hear anyone say I was special made me want to smash my fist through the wall.
“I think you misunderstand.” She put her hand on my cheek, and I forced myself not to lean into her palm. “I’m not saying you’re special, you know, like some kind of superhero. I mean that I like you a lot, and I don’t want our sleeping together to be nothing more than a matter of getting our jollies off.”
I tried not to laugh. I really did. “Get our jollies off?”
She punched my arm. “That wasn’t meant to be funny, Dylan.”
“Yet it was.” I gave in to temptation and pressed my face against her palm. What was it about this woman that soothed my soul?
