Awkwardly, trying to his growing erection, Brad lowered himself to the bed beside her. His hip close to hers, he hitched his knee onto the bed, being careful not to let his jeans brush against her bare flesh. "See there. That wasn't hard," she teased. "Now pour a little of the oil on your hand—" She paused, watching him carefully as he followed her directions. "There. That's enough. Now rub your hands together to warm the oil. Then just rub it into my skin." Following her instructions, he brusquely rubbed his hands together. The minty scent of the oil wafted up to him and flooded his senses. Her fresh floral scent mixed with the peppermint and the simple combination seemed more erotic than any of Ginger's expensive perfumes. Closing his eyes, he drew in a deep breath and gave himself free rein to do what his body had been urging him to do ever since he saw Mattie wrapped in the lemon-yellow towel. He touched her. Trailing his hands across her naked flesh, he explored the velvety sk
"Miss Mattie?" Mattie cringed at the sound of Lucy's voice, then looked up to see the girl peeking sheepishly through the cracked door. "Just Mattie would be fine," she reminded her. Jeez, it had been bad enough when she'd been Lucy's teacher. Now it just made her feel like a castoff from Gone with the Wind. "Mi—Mattie, can I talk to you?" "Sure." She shoved aside the shipping manifest she'd been pretending to read and leaned back in her chair. "What's up?" Lucy slipped through the door, cast a nervous glance back down the hall, then pulled the door closed behind her. "It's about Mr. Sumners." "Yes." Mattie prodded. "I just...I mean...It—he makes me nervous. You're in here doing—" she waved her hand through the air "—whatever, instead of being out there where you'd normally be. And he'd out there watching everything everyone does. But he keeps looking back here. Waiting for you to come out." Lucy's hands fluttered in front of her face as if she was swatting away gnats. Or tears.
"Have you ever been alone, Mattie?" His gaze skittered away from hers and he rounded the coffee table and lowered himself to the sofa. He sagged against it, like a wounded man shifting his weight from a crutch. "Well, sure." "I mean really alone. Cut off from everyone you know. Powerless." As he assessed her, she could only shake her head. "No. I suppose not." He leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees and focusing on a spot on the floor between his shoes. "When I was a kid--maybe fifteen or sixteen--and my parents went out of town, they'd leave me alone. Jessica would always stay at your house--with you and your dad and your grandparents--but they'd leave me alone. In that crypt of a house." He laughed, but it was a bitter sound. "They thought it was a privilege." "Brad, you could have stayed with--" He held up a hand, effectively silencing her. "No, I couldn't. Not after my dad made such a deal out of letting me stay alone. He thought it was an honor. A sign I was a m
She didn't mean to kiss him. It just sort of happened. An accident. Like the time in college, she'd tripped, fallen partway down a flight of stairs and broken her foot. One minute the world was right-side up and her feet were firmly on the ground, the next she was tumbling, free-falling, helplessly headed for disaster. One minute she was gently stroking his arm, murmuring something reassuring. The next, he'd twisted to face her, and the temptation of having him so close was simply too much to resist. Her mind cut off and she leaned forward to press her lips to his. Instantly she pulled back, surprised by the warmth of his mouth. But one taste simply wasn't enough. She had to have more. Leaning forward for another kiss, she pulled her feet up under her, angling closer to him. His lips were warm and soft beneath her. Pliant. As if he hadn't yet decided whether or not to kiss her back. But he tasted wonderful, spicy and sweet. Like cinnamon sugar. And she simply couldn't get enough o
Brad never slept late. In fact he hadn't slept past nine in the morning since he'd gotten drunk his freshman year of college, slept till noon the next day, and missed his economics exam. So he was more than a little surprised to roll over, crack open his eyes, and see a tepid ray of late morning sun creeping through the gap in Mattie's curtains. He blinked sleepily before rubbing the grit from his eyes with the back of his hand. He knew without looking that Mattie no longer lay beside him in bed. She'd slept curled against him for most of the night, and he missed the warmth of having her near. Missed waking up beside her and making slow, sleepy love to her first thing in the morning. But the solitude did give him a chance to think. All this time, he'd been saying he didn't want another wife. Mattie hadn't believed him. Well, it turned out, she was right. He did want another wife. He wanted her. Why hadn’t he seen it before?All his life, he’d wanted a family like the one she’d gr
He’d never met a business he couldn’t fix. Sure, some places had more problems than others did. That was just the way of the world. The good news was, for him at least, solving A Stitch in Time’s problems was going to be relatively easy. And brief.That was the good news. The bad news was, when Mattie heard the changes he was suggesting, she wouldn’t like them. But she was a businesswoman. Surely she would be able to distance herself emotionally from the problems with the shop.And yet, as he settled into the chair facing her desk, he hesitated a moment. He realized that he wanted to be able to fix her problems. Not because to her owed it to her—though he did—but because he wanted to be the one who rescued her. He wanted her to once again look at him and see her hero. Maybe if he saved her business, she would.The tiny room, dimly lit by a single overhead fixture, radiated with the warmth of Mattie’s personality. the ancient wood, the kitschy, Depression-era wall clock, and the inviti
“You made her cry.”Brad looked up to see Lucy standing in the doorway to the office, flanked on either side by Edith and Abigail. Collectively, they looked ready to lynch him. The image of being hung by a quilted noose flashed through his mind. He laughed grimly at the visual.They didn’t see the humor he did. As one, they stepped into the room, fists propped on hips, narrowed in defensive anger.He held up his hands surrender. “Wait. I didn’t mean to. She’s just upset about the—“ He racked his brain for suitable lie, but couldn’t construct one. “About the books. She’s worried about the shop.”Infinitesimally the three women relaxed.“Well, hang it all,” Edith said. “We know that. But we don’t know what to do to help.”“No, we don’t,” added Lucy. “We offered to take pay cuts, but she wouldn’t listen.”“Oh, dear,” Abigail murmured. “We had hoped things were picking up. After all, a strong woman knows her own mind and her own limits.”Brad nodded as if he understood. He’d spent most of
“Tell me about Mike.”Mattie stilled, about chocolate chips poised above the mixing bowl. Her hand clenched on the package and a few chips tumbled in. Deliberately, she shook half the chips into the bowl before asking, “What do you want to know?”She had the tapping of Brad’s shoes as he crossed the tile floor to stand beside her. In her peripheral vision, she saw him against the counter and cross his arms over his chest. “Tell me about the money.”She squeezed her eyes shut. When she opened them, she dumped the rest of the bag in the bowl—the day she was having for double chocolate chips. then she flipped the mixer on and waited for the consolation only raw cookie dough could provide.She turned to face him, “They told you about the loan,” she surmised. He nodded. “They shouldn’t have said anything.”“I pressured them.”She almost laughed at that. “Right. You’re the last person I’d expect to hear a defending them.”“They only wanted to help.”“I know.” She flipped the mixer off, extr