Mick whacked his head on the steering wheel again and then rubbed his aching temple. “There’s a whole house up the drive, probably with real beds and pillows. We could—”
He stopped as her body tightened beneath him, making him regret the suggestion he hadn’t fully made. It was her father’s house. To him, it might have seemed no different than her dad’s favorite pickup that they were currently defiling in the best possible way, but to her, it must have been a whole other matter.
“I’m sorry,” he said automatically. “I wasn’t thinking.”
“It’s fine. Really. But as I said, I turned the heat way down in the house.”
“And it’s at least a little warmer out here,” he said, accepting her excuse though they both knew it was more than that. He climbed off her carefully to avoid injuring either of them and then stepped around the door to grab his sweatshirt.
A heaviness settled in his chest, while the cold he hadn’t noticed before prickled his skin. Though he was dying to make love with Rachel, nothing about this felt right. Not the timing. Not the location. He wanted more for them. Yet if she asked him to, he would climb right back in that truck and finish what they’d started. He’d fought the temptation to get too close to her, but it couldn’t have been clearer that he’d lost the battle before the first shot was fired.
“You’re not backing out, are you?”
He glanced up to find her watching him from the open doorway.
“No, but—” He gestured to the messy space all around them. If they couldn’t go inside, they were out of options.
“Good. Because I have an idea.” Rachel scooted out of the truck, shivered and lunged for her coat. Once she had it on, she race-tiptoed barefoot across the cold concrete.
“What’s that?”
When she didn’t answer, he followed after her, slipping his arms into his sweatshirt sleeves as he went. His feet stung every time they touched the floor. She moved from box to box, peeking inside a few, and then moving on to the labeled tubs.
“See if you can find anything that says ‘Quilts.’”
Soon, they’d located four plastic containers, all labeled the same way, and dragged them to the room’s one open space, next to the truck. Once Rachel started pulling out the heavy, colorful blankets and dumping them on the floor, he realized what she had in mind. Together, they spread out at least seven quilts until they’d created a pallet. She rolled an eighth quilt into a long pillow of sorts and held a folded one in her arms.
“Now that’s better.” She shook out the last blanket, settled crisscross on top of the pile and covered her lap, still wearing her coat. Then she held out a hand to him. “It’s not the Ritz, but it’ll do. Kind of like camping.”
Mick lowered to his knees and brushed his fingers over the soft pallet but didn’t take her hand. “Have you done a lot of ‘camping’ out here?”
Without looking up, Rachel rubbed her hand over the fancy connected-circle pattern on the cloth. “You didn’t ask me that about the truck.”
“I guess I didn’t. I shouldn’t have asked you this, either. You don’t have to answer. It’s none of my business.” He wasn’t prone to jealousy, but the burning sensation in his gut was hard to deny.
“I told you I have a past. Just like you do.” Her hand stopped moving, and she looked up at him. “But if you’re asking if I ever shared my mom’s handmade quilts, the ones we had on every bed in the house until she died, with anyone…ever…then no.”
Without stopping to think or talk himself out of what he wanted, Mick bent and touched his lips to hers. Though sweet and brief, it felt like the most intimate kiss they’d shared so far. His heart was entangled in this one, he realized, too late to take it back.
Rachel grabbed the hood strings of his sweatshirt and pulled him to her, drawing him in, giving him no chance to hold back anything.
They dispensed with the jackets, and then he joined her beneath the covers. Touching. Sampling. Readying. Her hands slid over him everywhere, each of the nerve endings in his skin seeming to reach out to her, craving her touch. Then just as he was certain he would explode if they didn’t move forward, she flopped back in the pile of covers.
“I don’t, uh, have anything. I can’t take a risk like that. Again.” She blew a stream of breath into her hair. “Why didn’t I think—”
“Don’t worry. I’m a firefighter. We try to be prepared for anything.”
He grabbed his coat from the box where he’d left it, unzipped the inside pocket and pulled three linked packets from it.
She grabbed them from his hand and sat up. “You had this in mind when—”
“No. I didn’t.”
She held up her pinkie, ring finger and middle finger to signify thethreecondoms.
“One of my friends back in Chicago warned me that a new divorcé should be prepared in case he does something rash.”
Her shoulders appearing to relax, she rolled over and straddled his lap. Then she tore off the first packet at the perforation and ripped it open with her teeth. “Is this irrational?”
