One Spring Night

Chapter Eleven

She put on the kettle for hot tea, glancing out the kitchen's paned window every few minutes as she went about the task.

Ben had sent her inside with the plants while he worked outside. He'd insisted that she stay indoors while he righted some of the mess, salvaging what he could.

She'd wanted to help—after all it was her house—but she knew enough about men to know when it was advisable to let them work out their energy on their own.

So she fiddled around the kitchen, putting away clean dishes from the dishwasher, trying not to ogle as he hefted the main weight of the branch off the greenhouse structure. Rain soared from the sky, illuminated by her back porch light in gilded bronze drops, while Ben muscled through the mess.

As she felt her way through a torrid of emotions, she had to admit that watching the man deal with the demolition in her backyard, attempting to put together part of her past that meant something to her, symbolically, her heart melted as much as her body appreciated the extremely sexy view.

A man working, hoisting things, throwing things, rebuilding things, was intensely attractive. Add in that he was doing it for her, in the middle of a massive storm, after she'd had a bit of a meltdown. The man was a saint. Or half crazy, which would've made her feel less like an idiot for keeping her feelings for him at bay for as long as she had. And for saying things she shouldn't have said.

She'd needed healing. She'd needed that time by herself, just as she'd needed to hear that her brother was okay. And, she thought, she'd needed to let go of the greenhouse garden and the emotion that had been rooted right along with the plants. A new one could be built—she knew that—but those feelings had uprooted and she was sorry she'd compared the two men.

Ben listened too easily, which made her feel like she was sharing too much, sharing what may ultimately hurt him to hear.

For all of Ben's patience, the man wasn't a pushover. He cared for her, she knew, but she also couldn't overload him with burdens that had been hers. If she was going to start something new, she would have to make room for it, to make room for new thoughts, new feelings. Just like when she was writing. Sometimes she just needed a little inspiration to open up, she thought, unable to take her eyes off of him.

Ben was right though, she knew, as she folded the same dishtowel for a third time. Josh would've wanted her to be happy. And she knew that.

Why else had she gone to the same pub, day after day, holing up in the corner to work, when she had a perfectly fine desk at home? Yes, she'd felt the camaraderie around her was important for her work, but that was more of an excuse than anything. She could admit that, she decided, as she opened the cupboard, retrieved two mugs for hot tea, then glanced outside again as she closed the cupboard.

She'd gone to the Plumber's Pub every day because of Ben.

The way he paid attention when customers talked to him, the easy smile he offered, the shoulder of sympathy he provided when needed. The man was as steady and strong as they came. That his past had been so hard, it made her want to share smiles with him, to share laughs together in bed on lazy Sunday mornings, to linger too long when they kissed one another, to share silly inside jokes. She wanted to share the little things that weren't so little to her. They were what made up life, and she was ready to live it again. She was ready to live life and share what she had inside of her with the man who deserved to be cherished.

A man who strong armed planks of wood, hammered nails, and secured a wrinkled blue tarp over the top of a greenhouse in the middle of a storm because it meant something to her.

The teakettle gave a sharp, commanding whistle and she turned off the burner without any interest in making tea.

Catching a glimpse of Ben as he made his way to the porch, she scooted quickly to the door and opened it in time to greet him.

"Hey," he said evenly, with swipes of mud across his face, his chest, his jeans. "It'll hold through the night, barring another tree falling on it. But it should be okay through the night and into tomorrow. I'll be back to take a look in the daylight."

"You're leaving?"

"I'm filthy. And, honestly, I don't want you to feel pressured. I'm here, I'm around. You know how I feel and where to find me. I think it's best if you decide how you feel too. Because I want you to be sure."

He used his forearm to swipe at the rain—and maybe sweat—from his forehead. "I'm not going to crowd my way in or compete with a man from your past. You've got to work out how you feel about me, Kara. Just me."

"Sounds like you worked out some things of your own while you were out there," she said, her breath uneasy, feeling like he was slipping away. Caught in the panic of wanting to honor Josh, and wanting to respect Ben, her mind reeled fast, searching for how to share what she felt inside.

"I did."

"Good," she told him, realizing that if she didn't know how to tell him what she was feeling, she would show him. "I worked some things out too." She took his hand, feeling his fingers that were icy to the touch. "Take your boots off?"

He hesitated, searching her face.

"Please?"

He heeled them off then peeled away his swampy socks, leaving all on the porch as he stepped inside. He handed off his jacket because she'd reached for it, and watched her disappear then return while he stood in the kitchen.

"Kara, I really am filthy. I don't feel comfortable in here. It's so..."

She watched as he glanced around, wondering what his view would be, what he would think of her home. Besides her family, no one else had seen it finished.

"You've done a great job restoring this place. Beckett and I used to sneak peeks in the window, daring each other to go inside. It was an old, vacant haunted house as far as we knew."

She'd given her soul to the place—resurfacing the wood floors, wood beams, painting the walls complementary shades of gray and white. She'd refinished and painted the cabinets, had replaced the old hardware, had hung floating shelves and installed hanging chandeliers for decorative fun and function. She'd had a contractor install a deep ceramic farm sink, and a tall bronze faucet that matched the hardware. And she'd decorated with bursts of green succulent plants—the low maintenance kind that took only weekly doses of watering.

"I want to ask you about the renovations, but that'll have to be another day. I need to get home and shower, and honestly, I'm not really in the mood for chitchat."

"Good, me either." Again she took his hand, led him through the dimly lit, sprawling house.

She pulled him upstairs, and after each of them stepped on the squeaky board she'd come to favor and anticipate, she led him through her bedroom to her en suite bathroom.

She let go of his hand to swivel the knobs on the shower, releasing the spray of warmth as he'd done for her earlier that day.

"You shower. Get warmed up. I'll pull together some food if you're hungry."

He scanned her face—his golden eyes looking like they'd had a hard, gritty day. He was a man on the verge of something.

And without warning, he pulled her closer, tugged off her sweater and tossed it away.

Kissing her with a hard rawness, her heart began pounding in deep beats that reverberated through her body. She yielded to the firmness, letting the pulse of him penetrate into her.

When he pulled back, they studied each other for one more of those beats, then each began tugging off clothes.

"You know what's starting to be my new favorite part of the day?" she asked, a little breathless as she stripped down with little fanfare. "Shower time."

He grinned—a sight that eased some of the knots inside of her—as he pulled her toward him, lifting her into the shower, into the heat.