Chapter Ten
A cold curl of wind pulled Conner out of his sated daze. Andie mumbled something as he levered himself back a few inches. Her eyes had slipped shut; her lips were swollen and pink from his kisses. He felt her skin brush against his chest and it caused a surge of want to roll through him again. But the cold breeze blew across his spine, making him shiver.
Conner looked over his shoulder and realized that one of his windows was open a sliver, the curtains billowing in the icy wind. He'd cracked it when he was vacuuming, to let the dust out, something his mom had always insisted on. He must have forgotten to close it. He cursed his stupidity silently as he rolled off Andie and levered himself from the bed.
"Where're you going?" she asked, her voice husky with sleep.
Conner smoothed her hair back from her face, dropped a kiss on her forehead. "The window's open. I'm shutting it. I'll be right back."
He yanked his boxers back on before he crossed to the window. He slammed it shut and clicked the lock, then cursed when he realized the windowsill was sopping wet. He grabbed his t-shirt off the floor and balled it up, using it to sop up the worst of the mess, then stood there, the wet, clammy fabric clenched in his hands as he stared outside. Or rather, attempted too.
It was pitch black out there, not a single light on anywhere. If he squinted hard, he thought he could make out the ghostly white curl of the waves, breaking against the rocks along the shoreline, but that was it. He could still hear the wind, moaning now as it hammered the windows, the building, the boats in the marina. He could hear the harsh tap of the rain against the window too, and knew the storm hadn't eased at all. His vision blurred for a moment before his focus shifted, and he found himself not looking out, but staring instead at the candlelit reflection of Andie, splashed across the dark glass.
She lay on the bed, the comforter pushed down around her ankles. Her eyes were still closed, her hair tousled around her face, one hand curled beneath her cheek. The flickering light from the candles slipped and slid over her, highlighting the curve of her hip, then the deep indent of her waist. There was a smile curved across her face and her body was limp. This was the Andie he remembered, free and spontaneous and relaxed. It was the only time he'd seen her like this since he'd returned home. He felt a burst of pure male pride at the thought that he'd done that, he'd put that smile there.
He touched his thumb to the icy glass, to the cold, reflection Andie. She put everyone before herself. She didn't do anywhere near as good of a job taking care of herself as she did everyone else. She was so alone, so closed off, so brittle. She was barely hanging on, and Conner didn't think she even knew it. He could only assume that it had something to do with her parents, with her being afraid of getting hurt, of losing someone. And that was a problem, a big, big problem. Because he wanted in. He wanted all of her. He wanted her to love him.
He turned and stared at her, watching as she shivered slightly in her sleep. He took a step toward her, and then another. And when reality plowed into him, as hard as one of those frigid waves battering the shore, it took all of his willpower not to drop to his knees.
He was in love with her. Somehow, some way, she'd stolen his heart, one little piece at a time, until she owned it, owned him.
He loved her. Totally and completely. And wasn't that a kick in the head? He'd fallen in love with a woman he could never have a future with, a woman who would eventually reject him, a woman who would never give him her heart in return.
Andie opened her eyes, gave him a sleepy satisfied smile. "Hey."
"Hey." He rubbed a hand across his heart, trying to shove away the sudden ache burning there.
"Come back to bed." And she held her arms out to him, her curves, her acres of bare skin an invitation so lush that it was like a punch in the gut.
And he took it. He slipped into her arms, covering her chilled body with his, claiming her lips with his. He shifted her, pressing into her, desperate to feel her against him. Even as she sighed while she road the soft currents of pleasure, Conner knew it wasn't enough, this wasn't enough. He wanted all of her, and he was desperately afraid that he'd never have it.
*
Andie woke slowly, her body utterly relaxed and so warm and cozy. She blinked open her eyes and found Conner's face inches from hers. His eyes were still closed, but his arms tightened around her, snuggling her closer. Every lamp in the room was blazing. The power must have come back on during the night.
She leaned forward and pressed her lips to his jaw, tasting the salt of his skin. His hips shifted against her and she smiled as she realized that a part of him was fully awake.
"Morning," he whispered into her hair. "Hungry?"
"No." She wasn't hungry. She was gloriously, beautifully alive. Every nerve in her body was singing, and she wanted to feel it again and again. She pushed him gently onto his back, then swung one leg over his hips to straddle him. He opened his eyes now as he looked up at her. His hands gripped her hips, then slid up to cover her breasts.
Andie paused. He wasn't smiling, and there was something there, something in his eyes when he looked at her, something that made a little sliver of fear shiver into her stomach. But then his hands were on her hips, pulling her down as he thrust up into her, and she forgot the spark of something she'd thought she'd seen, forgot the fear it had made her feel, and instead lost herself in him.
And, a long, long time later, when she was snuggled against his side, and he asked her again if she was hungry, her stomach rumbled, answering for her.
Conner laughed and rose from the bed, tugging her to her feet. "Come on." He pulled her down the hallway and turned on the shower, adjusting the temperature before stepping under the spray and pulling her in after him. He rubbed the bar of soap between his hands, working up a froth of lather, then slid his hands over her shoulders, her back, her neck, washing every inch of her. Andie smiled when his hands covered her breasts, paused to explore. She felt arousal tingle through her, even though a minute ago, she'd thought her body was exhausted. She stepped closer and waited for his hands to slide lower.
But they didn't. Instead, he turned her, tipped her head back into the spray of water. His hands slipped into her hair, working the shampoo he'd squirted onto his palm into her scalp. Something about the moment, about the unbearably tender way he took care of her, had Andie's throat clenching, had her shutting her eyes against the sudden sting of tears. Oh, God. Tears.
"Conner," she said. And her voice was harsh with an unspoken warning.
"Shh." Conner let his head tilt forward, pressed his lips to the exposed line of her throat, his arms still around her, his fingers rubbing soothing circles along the base of her skull. "Let me take care of you. For once, let someone take care of you."
The water was a warm cascade down her back, the heat of Conner's soap-slicked body pressed to her front. All she could hear was the thump of the spray against the plexi-glass door. The shower was so small that if she'd lifted both elbows at the same time, she'd probably have been wedged in so tightly it'd take a crowbar to get her out.
It shouldn't have been romantic. It shouldn't have meant anything to her, but it did. Conner had seen through the hard shell she'd surrounded herself with, the one she hadn't even been entirely aware of until a few weeks ago. Somehow, this man who she hadn't so much as talked to in eleven years, had cut through the shell to the core of her, the woman she'd forgotten, the woman she hadn't even thought existed anymore. He'd seen that she felt alone. Even though she was always with Shawn and Logan, she was alone. If you're always the giver, the provider, if you never have anyone to lean on, to help share the burden, you are always alone. He'd seen that. He'd seen her. And he'd washed her hair.
The warm water streamed down her face, and it pooled against her skin, in her pores, the heat and the warmth of it shimmering through her body to settle into her heart.
*
When Andie pulled her front door open, she felt the smile slide off her face. "What are you doing here?"
Kayla Anderson stood on the porch, her red hair tucked neatly back into a bun, her suit crisp and immaculate. But the fingers of her right hand kept twisting and untwisting themselves in the thin gold chain around her neck, until Andie wanted to reach forward and still Kayla's hand, for fear that she might snap it.
"I need to talk to you for a minute," Kayla said. When Andie stood there, staring at her, Kayla let out a huff of air. "Please. I know this is hard for you, but it's no walk through the park for me either. Please."
"All right." Andie stiffly stepped to the side to let her in. When she turned, she saw Conner leaning against the doorway to the kitchen, his arms crossed over his chest, a dark scowl twisting his face. He must have followed her out of the kitchen. She could only hope that Diana and Mrs. Brown stayed where they were, sipping their tea at the kitchen table. Kayla saw him too and froze mid-step.
Andie didn't blame her; with his dark hair, wide, well-muscled chest, and the stubble that was now more than a hint, he looked downright dangerous. A tiny little thrill skittered over Andie's skin at the thought, but she gave him the smallest of head shakes. He nodded, but didn't leave his post by the door.
"Come on," Andie said. "The living room's through here."
Kayla followed her, her eyes immediately going to the framed picture of Andie's parents on the mantel.
Andie stepped around her, blocking the photo with her body, not willing to let Kayla look at it, as if her gaze could sully it. "What do you want?"
Kayla stood inside the door, shifting from foot to foot. The gesture of unease made Andie realize that Kayla might look like an ice queen, but she actually couldn't be much older then twenty-four or twenty-five. The hard shell around Andie's heart softened a little.
"Look," Kayla said. "What my brother did was unbearably, horribly wrong. My parents are gone now. My brother might as well be. I'm all that's left of our family. So I wanted to come here today and say..." She took a long breath, to find Andie's eyes with her gaze. "I wanted to say I'm sorry. I've always felt that you were owed an apology. That someone from our family should be here, should look you in the eye, and say 'I'm sorry.' I'm all that's left. So here I am. I know that in no way will it help to bring your parents back, to heal the terrible hurt my brother caused. But for what it's worth, I'm sorry. So, so, sorry."
They shouldn't have meant anything, Kayla's words. It should have been her brother standing there, her brother apologizing. It shouldn't have meant anything coming from Kayla. Except that somehow, it did.
The room suddenly felt like it was closing in on Andie, like her own ribs were squeezing the air out of her chest. She dragged in a breath, trying to fix it, to make herself strong, but she felt weaker and weaker. She heard Kayla's voice calling for help, but it seemed like it was coming from far away. She fought for her breath, she fought the ache in her heart, and then suddenly, she was fighting to keep the hot rush of tears gathering in her throat from spilling out. To keep everything inside.
But then Conner was there, lifting her into his arms. Diana and Mrs. Brown were behind him, Diana's face a mask of anger, but Mrs. Brown's even worse; her eyes were filled with soft pity.
Andie hid her face in Conner's neck, closing out everything but him. She felt him moving, heard the voices getting farther and farther away, until he was laying her on her quilt, soft as feathers from almost a century of washes, until he was laying down beside her in the dark four-poster bed that had been first her great-grandmother's, then her grandmother's, then her mother's, and was now hers.
Something shivered in her soul. It shivered and shook so hard that it cracked, a bright, hot fissure that spilled pain, and sorrow, and hurt, and anger. Andie knew there would be no keeping it back, no keeping it in, anymore.
Conner nestled her against his side, kissing one eyelid, then the other. When the hot burn of tears slid down her cheeks, he kissed those too.
"I hate her," Andie managed to choke out. "I know it's not her fault. I know it's wrong, but I hate her. I hate all of them. What they did to my parents, what they did to Logan. What they did to me." The pain of it crested over her, swamping her, pulling her under. She didn't know if she'd ever be able to surface again.
"It's okay. Shh. It's okay. It's okay." Conner whispered the words softly as she sobbed on his chest, until her throat grew raw, until the sunlight faded in the sky and a soft veil of darkness slipped over them both. His voice seemed to come from farther and farther away, and then she was sliding, sliding into the deep dark pool of sleep.
*
Conner stepped out of Andie's room, closing the door softly behind him. He carried his shoes in one hand as he padded down the center of the faded Oriental rug and into the kitchen. Shawn sat at the dining table, his head in his hands, the overhead lamp casting a harsh circle of light over his body.
Shawn lifted his head and stared blearily at Conner. "She okay?"
"I think so." Conner snagged two beers out of the fridge and flopped down in the chair next to Shawn. "What about Logan? He get home from his friend's house okay?"
"Yeah. Mrs. Brown called me after Kayla showed up to let me know what was happening. She offered to pick him up. He's asleep now." Shawn twisted the cap off his beer, then suddenly chucked it across the room. "What the hell happened?"
Conner took a long pull of his beer, then sighed. "Kayla apologized. Said she felt like someone in her family should say the words, considering how they wronged you guys. It was like something broke in Andie. I've never seen anyone cry like that." Conner shook his head, remembering the rough sobs, the way she'd twisted her fingers in his shirt, holding on as if he was her anchor. Remembering the hot flood of joy he'd felt as she clung to him as if he meant everything to her. He shook his head at the stupid fantasy and took another slug of his beer.
Shawn's head swung up, his eyes widening. "She did? Andie cried?"
"For about four hours."
"Holy crap." Shawn stood up, started pacing from the table to the stove and then back again. "But she seemed all right?"
"Shook up, maybe, but not like she was going to fall apart or anything. Why?"
Shawn slumped back down in his chair. "She never cried. Andie never cried."
"What, never?"
Shawn shook his head. "No. Not when our parents were in the hospital, not when they died, not at the funeral, and, as far as I know, not a day after that. It was like all that shit that should have come out, the grief or whatever was locked inside of her, froze. She did all the right things, said all the right things, took care of us, especially Logan, but something wasn't right. It's never been right in her since that day."
He drained his beer and then his gaze lifted to study Conner. "Well, I shouldn't say that, 'cause it's not true, not totally. She's changed a little, come back a little since you two started dating." And then his eyes narrowed as he considered Conner's face.
Conner lifted his hands to ward him off. "I know what comes next. You're going to give me that whole bullshit line about how if I hurt her-"
"Well, are you? Going to hurt her?"
Conner took another swig of beer, then looked down at the long, twisty scar that ran through the table's finish right in front of him. "You know what, man? You'd be better off giving that speech to her." He looked up, looked Shawn right in the eye. He didn't say he loved Andie, he didn't say he didn't ever want to let her go. He didn't have to. He looked at Shawn and Shawn looked at him. And Conner knew that he knew.
Shawn shook his head. "So Kayla Anderson apologized for her brother?"
Conner pressed his thumb against the sharp ridges of the bottle cap he still held in his fingers, feeling the little tingle of pain, even through the thick calluses he'd developed renovating his building. "Yeah. Actually, it was pretty gutsy of her."
"Yeah. Maybe it was." Shawn stood up, set his empty bottle in the recycling bin near the back door. "You going to stay the night?"
"No. I don't think so. She might be a little embarrassed in the morning. It might be easier for her if I wasn't here when she woke up, but-"
"Don't worry. If she hasn't pulled herself together by morning, I'll give you a call." Shawn stepped toward the doorway, then paused. "Thanks for taking care of her, Conner. You're a decent guy. For awhile there..." Shawn shook his head. "I guess I wasn't so sure. But you're a good guy. I'm sorry I thought otherwise."
Conner couldn't keep the grin from slipping across his face. "Hey, don't sweat it. You've always been a real jerk when you get pissed. Not everybody can change for the better, like me."
Shawn laughed. "Yeah, well. I didn't say it before but... welcome home. Call me sometime. We'll get a drink or something. Take you're time with your beer. lock up when you go." Shawn gave Conner a sharp slap on the back before he disappeared down the hallway.
Conner sat there another fifteen minutes or so, watching the moon rise over the woods behind the house. The bare tree branches reached toward the shimmering silver circle, stretching toward the light, like if they pushed a little harder they might be able to snag it, to hold on, to save it forever.
Conner shoved back from the table and turned off the overhead lamp. The only light came from the moon as it moved relentlessly forward, its glowing, perfect beauty forever out of reach. Conner slid on his leather jacket and stepped out of the warm house and into the sharp, slashing cold.