Melting Into You Read online

  He continued to play with the section he held captive. “I’ve dreamed about wrapping my hands in it and kissing you. I’ve dreamed of having it spread across my pillow while I’m inside of you. I’ve dreamed of it trailing across my legs while you go down on me.”

  Her breaths came faster. His words wove a spell around her, drawing her even closer.

  “But, you hate me, don’t you?” His nose crinkled and his voice was dreamy as if casting for a memory he couldn’t quite catch.

  “I don’t hate you, Alec.” She repeated her earlier assertion, this time with more force.

  His face smoothed and his eyes closed. “Prove it.”

  “Wha—”

  He tugged her hair. She didn’t fight him. In fact, she may have sped the movement. Their lips met in a closed-mouth chaste kiss, brief and unsatisfying. She pulled back, even as he tangled his hand in her hair, and lifted his head off the pillow, seeking, searching. She propped her elbows on either side of his head, wondering what in hell she was doing. He had the excuse of being loopy on painkillers. What was her excuse?

  The kiss would be muted and muffled in his memories, if he remembered at all. Too much like their hook-up in college.

  “Lilliana, please.” The plaintive tenor of his whisper destroyed her. If she could make him feel better, shouldn’t she? A thin justification.

  She brushed her lips over his face, paying special attention to his wounds. He relaxed back into the pillow, the tension draining from his body with each pass of her mouth. Finally, she kissed him. Not a chaste kiss, but a slow, sensual, exploring kiss. The kind of kiss they’d never taken the time for.

  Tonight was only about a kiss. She sucked and nipped at his mouth. His fist tightened in her hair and held her still. Tingles shot from her scalp, registering as pleasure.

  He flicked and curled his tongue against her lips until she opened her mouth with a groan. Their tongues rubbed and danced, one kiss bleeding into the next. She ran a hand over his good cheek, the uninjured one, the scrape of his stubble tickling her palm. Her breaths came ragged and quick against his mouth. Her body wound tighter with arousal even as the kiss unspiraled, slowing to the simple brush of their lips.

  She pulled her lips from his but stayed close enough to feel his deepening breaths. She was losing him to the oblivion of a drugged sleep. Would he dream of her again tonight? Disentangling his lax hand, she sat up and considered his pants once again. A definite bulge tented the fabric between his legs.

  She stared. For too long she stared. Safer if she left his pants on. The man was incapacitated, and she’d already proven to have no self-control.

  His arrival had interrupted her work. She left him for her studio, cleaning her brushes and capping her paints, too distracted to concentrate on the commissioned portrait. While she got ready for bed, she checked on him frequently. A grunt brought her running. He’d turned his face into the pillow, his hurt arm thrown over his head. Pulling a quilt from the antique chest at the foot of her bed, she spread it over him and climbed into bed beside him.

  She reached across to turn off the light but stopped. She pulled the quilt down a few inches. With his arm above his head, she could see the script he’d had tattooed down his flank.

  Rather than love, than money, than fame, give me truth.

  She whistled low. Wow, trust issues much? In sleep, or maybe on the pain medication, he looked different—peaceful and open. The lines around his eyes had softened, the harsh pull to his mouth was gone, relaxing his lips, making him look younger.

  Feeling safe, she trailed a fingertip down his cheek, over his lips, and into the dimple in his chin. Even after she’d kicked the red Alabama dirt off her shoes, she’d followed his career. The passing records he’d set as a senior in college, the media coverage during the Heisman race, the sports articles touting him as the Eagles’ savior. He’d dated a series of skinny, leggy blondes—the quintessential all-American cheerleaders. The injury to his knee had happened his second year in the league. And then … nothing.

  Until she’d come home for her daddy’s funeral and discovered him running his construction business and coaching the Falcon quarterbacks. She traced the quote with her fingertips. How much pain was etched into those words?

  His right hand caught her wrist, and her gaze darted to his face. His eyes were barely open. She steeled herself for accusations, but he said nothing, only pulled her hand over his heart and covered it with his own. With a sigh, he closed his eyes and drifted back to sleep.

  She took his cue, flipped off the light, and pulled the quilt over them, keeping far enough away she wouldn’t jostle him during the night, but sneaking her foot to rest against his leg, needing to anchor him top and bottom to her somehow.

  The rhythm of his heart and the smell of cedar from the quilt lulled her into sleep where she dreamed of a younger, smiling Alec, his tattoos and distrust gone.

  Chapter 6

  She jerked awake with early morning sun diffusing through the windows. Sometime during the night Alec had rolled away from her, resting on his uninjured shoulder, and she had curled around his warm, naked back, a hand draped over his taut stomach.

  She lay still and listened. The doorbell chimed, probably for the second time. Shimmying to the opposite side of the bed, she slid out, doing her best not to wake him. She ran toward the door, hoping to catch her visitor before the doorbell rang again and possibly woke Alec.

  Halfway down the stairs, it rang two more times in succession while a hand rapped hard on the door. She tore at the locks and swung the door open. “For the love of—Aunt Esmerelda.”

  Her aunt—in reality her great-aunt, but she’d only been ten years older than her daddy—stood on the porch bearing a cloth basket. “Good morning to you too, missy. Constance said she saw you at Walmart looking the worse for wear.” Her aunt walked past her and into the kitchen, and she trailed like a chastised puppy.

  “I’m fine.”

  Lilliana switched the coffee maker to brew, and the sound of hissing, dripping hot coffee and smell of hazelnut filled the kitchen. After unloading freshly baked bread and several jars of her home-cultivated honey, Aunt Esmerelda set a bejeweled hand on her hip, shook her head, and tutted. Lilliana pulled at her tank top and crossed her arms, trying to masquerade her braless state.

  “Why is Mr. Grayson’s truck in your driveway, Lilliana? I assumed he was working, but seeing you now…” Her aunt looked over a pair of cat-eyed glasses, her mouth pinched into a circle, the picture of a stereotypical, shushing librarian.

  “It’s not what you think. I can promise you that.”

  “I think you shared a bed last night.”

  “Well…” Lilliana drew the word out. “Then it is kind of what you think, but I have an explanation.”

  The coffee maker burbled the last of the coffee into the pot, and Lilliana pulled out two mugs. She added milk and sugar to each before pouring and handing one over. How much should she tell her aunt?

  “Alec showed up last night hurt. I cleaned him up and put him up in my bed knocked out from pain pills. He’s still asleep.”

  Her aunt’s eyes widened. “His truck looked fine, so not an accident?”

  Lilliana bit her lip and took a sip of coffee. Her aunt could be old-fashioned and a stickler for propriety, but she knew everyone and everything that went on in Falcon, and the woman was a sharp as a Ginsu knife.

  “He was over in Mill Town looking for Hunter Galloway and got jumped by Will.”

  Her aunt hummed and took a sip, her dark eyes never leaving Lilliana’s face. “That boy is trouble. Does Mr. Grayson need a doctor? Dr. Mackenzie would make a house call if I asked.”

  Lilliana chewed on a fingernail. “He didn’t want me to take him to the hospital last night. I’m worried though.”

  “Are you? I didn’t think you could stand the man. Interesting he would choose to come here of all places.”

  “The last week has been strange. We don’t hate each other anymore—�
� Her aunt laughed, the tinkling sound echoing around the kitchen. Lilliana popped a hip. “What’s so funny?”

  “Mr. Grayson never hated you, I can assure you of that.” Her aunt added another spoonful of sugar and topped off her cup with fresh coffee.

  “He acted like he hated me.”

  Her aunt’s smile was Cheshire Cat–worthy, and she raised the cup, steam fogging the glasses that had slipped farther down her nose. “He certainly isn’t indifferent to you.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “I watched him watch you. I think he finds you … intriguing.”

  A warmth that resembled embarrassment, but had tinges of something else settled in her chest and spread outward, heating her cheeks. “He watches me?”

  Her aunt only waggled her eyebrows and took another sip with her secretive smile in place. “I thought perhaps you’d hired him to fix up the wiring. Carl told me it was a mess.”

  Lilliana slumped over the counter, propping her cheek in her hand. “He offered, but it’s not only the wiring. The entire guest bathroom needs to be gutted.”

  “Perhaps it’s time to modify your plans for a B&B, dear.” Her aunt took another sip of her coffee, cows in bikinis dancing across the mug.

  Lilliana straightened. “What do you mean? What else could I do with the old place?”

  “You could find a young man, settle down, fill it with children.”

  Aunt Esmeralda wasn’t Nostradamus, yet the picture she painted was closer to fruition than Lilliana dared admit—minus the implied husband. She raised her mug and took a slow sip, buying time.

  A crash sounded upstairs. Lilliana plopped her cup down and made for the stairs, taking them two at a time. Alec was leaning in her bedroom doorway, one hand pressed against his injured shoulder while he worked it in circles. He’d put his shirt back on, but buttoned it incorrectly, leaving the bottom uneven.

  The cuts on his face were already scabbing, but faint bruises tinged one cheek, making the other look abnormally pale. His eyes were shut, the lashes blending with the dark circles underneath.

  She put her hands on his arms, and his eyes shot open. “I hope you’re feeling better than you look, Alec.”

  “I’m fine.” He straightened against the doorjamb, looking far from “fine.”

  “Will you see a doctor today?”

  He stretched his elbow up, testing his shoulder, and rotated at the waist, wincing. “Nothing’s broken or torn. I’m only sore.”

  Her aunt crested the top of the stairs holding a glass of water and a bottle of pills. Alec’s gaze shot to Lilliana, his eyes narrowed. “You told her?”

  Lilliana chewed the inside of her mouth and shrugged. “She asked. I couldn’t lie.”

  No longer glassy or pain-filled, his hazel eyes bore into her, but the crinkles eased. His gaze wandered south, and she glanced down to see her nipples poking at the thin cotton of her shirt. She tried to will them away, but instead they puckered further, as if seeking his attention. Instead of hiding them, she had the urge to arch her back and flaunt them. The instinct went against years of ingrained behavior, leaving her confused.

  Aunt Esmerelda sniffed from beside them. “Lilliana, darling, might I suggest you change into something a bit more … appropriate. And, Mr. Grayson, you need aspirin.”

  Lilliana walked past Alec, grabbed a change of clothes, and retreated to her bathroom to dress. What she really needed was a cold shower. If he hadn’t maybe knocked her up, they would still be throwing eye daggers from across rooms and football fields. Now she had no idea what they were doing.

  When she returned in her requisite oversized T-shirt and jeans, Alec and her aunt were gone. His voice echoed from the foyer. He was on the phone, his eyes closed and emitting a few “uh-huhs” as he rubbed a hand across his shoulder. “Yep. I’ll be there.”

  His gaze followed her quickstep down the stairs and he disconnected, his hand already on the door handle.

  “Headed out?” she asked even though the answer was obvious.

  “I have to meet with my foreman on a job up in Jasper.” He clipped the words out, aloof and bordering on chilly. “Thanks for last night.”

  Where was the man who’d given her a soulful kiss? Or confessed she’d haunted his dreams? Or admitted he was lonely? Maybe that man didn’t remember—or exist—in the light of day.

  From the top of the porch steps, she watched him slide into his truck and drive off. The knot of anxiety about her possible pregnancy took up too much space in her chest.

  How would her aunt treat her after she found out? How would the rest of the town treat her? It might be the twenty-first century, but it was still Falcon, Alabama, and she was a Hancock. Gossip would spread like kudzu in summer.

  Back in the kitchen, her aunt spread honey onto a toasted piece of bread and set it on a piece of good china next to her coffee mug. Her aunt had grown up in the house and had a vested interest in keeping the grand dame from crumbling into rubble.

  “You should have inherited this place, Aunt Esmerelda.” Lilliana took a bite of her toast, the honey adding to her bittersweet mood.

  “I’d have turned it into a shrine to my childhood. No, with your artist’s eyes, you’re turning it into something modern yet with a nod at her past. It couldn’t have fallen into better hands, sweetheart.” She patted Lilliana’s arm, the skin of her hand wrinkled and soft. When she leaned in to buss Lilliana’s cheek before leaving, the scent of her face lotion invoked nostalgic memories of summers long past.

  Lilliana hugged her. The bones across her shoulders seemed thinner and more delicate than Lilliana remembered. She had been more like a grandmother than a great-aunt. She had been the one to discipline Lilliana and bake her cookies during her summers in Falcon. It was Esmerelda she’d turned to for advice when she got the acceptance to art school in New York, Esmerelda who had encouraged her to go. Lilliana gave her one last squeeze before retreating to the table to take up her coffee mug.

  Her aunt smoothed her bottle-red hair and chuffed, but a smile played around her mouth. “You come on down to the library this week, you hear?”

  After Lilliana saw her away, she lost herself in her work—a portrait of Edwin Culpepper. The commissioned piece would bring in much-needed cash.

  Even though she’d left New York, she’d maintained ties with several galleries and kept in touch with friends from school. They funneled work in her direction when they could. She was cheaper, and honestly, better than most portrait artists. The work had paid off her student loans and kept her plans for the B&B afloat.

  When she worked, brush strokes measured the passing of time. Colors blended, textures popped, fine facial features took shape. She wanted anyone who saw one of her portraits from a distance to be drawn closer, unsure if it was a painting or photograph.

  She stepped back and assessed. Only then did her hunger register. She’d worked through lunch. Three o’clock. The football team would be hitting the field any minute for practice. A normal man would have called Robbie Dalton, told him what had happened, and gone home to recuperate, but she had a niggling feeling Alec would suck up the pain.

  Throwing together a sandwich, she grabbed a Coke and a bottle of over-the-counter painkillers. Trekking through the woods behind Hancock House, she emerged on Main Street, across from the practice field.

  She jogged over to the aluminum bleachers. Now that they were halfway through the season, the crowd had thinned to a few die-hard retirees and a handful of mothers. With Robbie Dalton and Logan Wilde off the market, the number of bleacher babes had dwindled.

  Sure enough, Alec was on the far sideline in a black long-sleeve workout shirt and shorts talking with Hunter. She sat on the bottom bench. The sun-warmed metal felt good, a welcome contrast to the biting snap of the breeze. Any vestiges of summer’s heat were a memory.

  Knowing what Alec had hidden under that too-concealing shirt made her squirm. As if sensing her undressing him in her head, he swiveled to face her. She froze lik
e a doe caught in the headlights. Heat burned up the back of her neck, yet she couldn’t tear her eyes off him.

  He turned away first, directing Hunter and two of his wide receivers to practice a fade route. He barked orders and pointed, making them repeat the play. Once they were occupied, he approached, his gait stiff, his hurt arm curled gingerly around his waist.

  Like he’d lassoed her, she rose and stepped to the fence to meet him. Pain etched his face, deepened the crinkles at his eyes, and pulled his mouth into a frown. Her words came in a rush. “My God, Alec. What can I do?”

  He swallowed, his throat working. “I need a favor.”

  “Anything.” The word came out more earnest than she’d intended.

  “Hunter needs a place to crash tonight. I’m in no shape to play host. Could you lend him your couch or something?”

  “What’s going on?

  “Things are bad at his house.” They both looked toward Hunter who dropped back and threw a perfect curl route. He rubbed at his sore shoulder. “I’m not sure what to do.”

  “You’re both staying with me.”

  “I’m—”

  “No, you’re not fine. Don’t give me crap on this, Alec. Otherwise, you’ll force me to find your house and break the door in. And here”—she grabbed her drink and the pills from the bleachers and shook two into his hand—“take these.”

  He huffed, sounding annoyed, but popped the pills in his mouth and took a swig from the can.

  “Thanks,” he mumbled and looked over his shoulder.

  She grabbed his forearm. “I’ll cook us something for dinner, so don’t dawdle.”

  The tension in his body seemed to abate with his long exhale. “I don’t want you to go to any trouble.”

  “Sometimes you need to accept help, you stubborn man.” She threw his words back at him with a smile. He angled toward her, the ghost of an answering smile on his face.

  A couple of feet separated them, and she tilted her head back the same time he leaned in, leaving their faces close. He tucked a piece of hair that had escaped her ponytail behind her ear. His fingers stayed to trace the outer rim, brushing down her neck like the lightest of a butterfly’s wings. “All right. Thanks again.”