The Vixen and the Vet (9 page)

She rocked against him as his hand slipped away from her breasts, reaching up to cup her cheek and mellow out their kiss, slow it down. He nipped at her lips, softer and lighter, murmuring softly, “Savannah, Savannah, Savannah.”

“Don’t stop,” she sighed.

“We should.”

“We shouldn’t.”

“I’ve never wanted anyone as much as I want you,” he said, kissing a trail down her neck.

“
Take me,” she said, whimpering as he licked a spot where her neck and shoulder met.

“You might regret it, baby,” he said, his voice thick with lust as he continued
kissing her neck, the exposed skin of her chest, his fingers grazing her jawline, his thumb a gentle pressure against her windpipe that made her feel vulnerable to him, at his mercy. She trusted him. She loved it.

“I won’t. No regrets, Asher. None.”

He laughed softly against the warm skin of her chest, before pulling back and gazing up at her face. “We’ve finished two bottles of wine.”

“I’m not drunk.”

“I know you’re not,” he said gently. “But you’re not exactly sober either. I wouldn’t be much of a gentleman if I pressed my advantage,”

He kissed her forehead, then helped ease her off his lap, breathing deeply
, then sighing as she nestled back up against his chest.

“
It’s not that I don’t want to,” he said. “You have no idea how much I want to.”

“I have an idea,” she answered, looking down at where his pants tented aggressively.

He shifted his hips uncomfortably. “Well, what can I say? You do things to me, Savannah Carmichael. I’m putty in your hands.”

“More like cement.”

“Savannah,” he warned.

“But you’re not in my hands.”

“Savannah!”

“Even though it would be nice if you were.”

“Christ.”

“Five
-year plan,” she reminded him saucily. “I want to know what it is. And no more of this crap about not being able to get what you want. I’m here, aren’t I?”

His voice was low and emotional when he responded. “You’re here, baby.”

She snuggled closer, and they talked until the sun came up and she fell asleep to the rhythm of his heart.

The first time you bring him home to meet the family

When Asher woke up the next morning, the first thing he felt was the wonderfully heavy weight of Savannah’s head against his chest. The first thing he saw, however, was the disapproving face of Miss Potts, who stood over them with her hands on her hips.

He blinked at her, his arm tightening around Savannah protectively.

“Her mother called.”

“Her mother?” he asked, half asleep.

“Wondering where she was since she didn’t come home last night.”

“She must have forgotten to call. We talked until dawn.”

“Her mother was
very
worried.”

“She’s an adult, Miss Potts.
She’s twenty-six.”

“Tell that to Judy Carmichael.” Miss Potts pursed her lips. “What about her reputation?”

“This isn’t the 1800s.”

“Lucky for you, or Frank Carmichael might be out here with a shotgun in the next little while. And she’d be the next Mrs. Lee.”

He refused to rise to that specific bait, regardless of how the very idea made his heart beat faster.

“Humph,” said Miss Potts. “Wake her up and come up to the house. I’ll make eggs and biscuits before she goes.”

She turned to go, and Asher called after her softly, careful not to wake up Sleeping Beauty. “Miss Potts.”

She turned, her expression still disapproving.

“I care about her. A lot.”

“Caring about someone means looking out for their best interest. Always. Without exception.” She put a finger to her chin, tapping thoughtfully. “I’ll have to make something special for Sunday. As a peace offering.”

Asher grinned. “Mama’s peach cobbler?”

“The very thing,” said Miss Potts nodding approvingly, before turning to head back into the woods.

Savannah stirred in her sleep, nestling closer to him, and he held her a little tighter, kissing the top of her head. She settled back against him, breathing slow and deep.

He rolled Miss Potts’s words around in his head:
Caring about someone means looking out for their best interest. Always. Without exception.

Savannah was
eight years younger than he, young and vibrant and beautiful. Whatever she wrote for the
Phoenix Times
would be a surefire hit, and she’d move on from Danvers, from him. It twisted his heart into knots to think about losing her after sharing a night like last night. And yet it’s what she wanted most in the world: to be the best reporter at a big-city newspaper.

And for him, leaving Danvers—leaving the sanctuary of his home—was
still unthinkable.

There was no future for them. He certainly couldn’t ask her to hide in the shadows with him, nor could he follow her to a city where people would gawk at him like the freak, the beast
, he was. It was a long shot that she’d even be interested in him somewhere other than the safety of his house in Danvers. No, there was no future for Asher Lee and Savannah Carmichael.

The
thing about surviving something truly tragic is that it changes your expectations forever. You make do with very little. You’re grateful for crumbs. You make the best of small mercies. You endure large trials. You understand that life owes you nothing. You expect nothing, and when something wonderful happens, you don’t trust it. You know it can’t possibly last.

He kissed the top of Savannah’s head again with quiet yearning. When the time came, he would let her go. But for now, for the next handful of weeks, she was his, and nothing—nothing—would compel him to walk away from her until it was time for him to let her go.

***

“I’ve decided,” said Scarlet at dinner on Thursday night. “Vegas! Won’t it be wild?! Las Vegas,
Vanna! For my bachelorette party!”

Savannah raised one eyebrow at her sister, counting down the moments when she could excuse herself from the table and crawl into bed. After sleeping for only a few hours beside Asher last night, she was cranky and overtired today. Not that she wouldn’t brighten up in an instant were he to suddenly walk into the room.

She sighed, a little disgusted with herself. She was in
that
stage. The pathetic stage when there’s only one person in the world who can make you happy and every moment without him feels like a waste of time. The desperate stage when you long for that person so completely, you can’t think straight from missing his touch, remembering the way his eyes softened when they looked at you or the groaning sound he makes in the back of his throat when he—

“Christ, Savannah! Are you listening to me?”

“Language, Katie Scarlet!” chastised their father, Frank, before tucking back into his baked beans.

“Well, cheese and rice, she’s my
goldarned maid of honor, and I’m plannin’ my own bachelorette party. Mama!” she whined, looking to Judy for solidarity.

Judy turned to her older daughter, speaking gently. “Button, what do you think of this idea to go to Las Vegas?”

“Scarlet hated New York. It’s tame compared to Vegas. That’s what I think.”

Scarlet got up and threw her balled-up napkin on the table in front of her sister. “Savannah Calhoun Carmichael, you’re the … the
worst
maid of honor … ever!” Then she ran from the dining room, and Savannah had a very strong notion that there would be tears and pillow throwing above their heads in the next few minutes.

Savannah sighed, feeling exhausted, feeling bad for how she’d just upset her sister, but she also felt sorry for herself—seeing Asher tomorrow wasn’t soon enough, and she missed him to aching even though he lived fifteen minutes away.

She reached for Scarlet’s napkin and folded it slowly, then folded her own. “I’ll go talk to her, Mama.”

Judy stopped Savannah by taking her hand. “Talk to me first.”

“It’s nothing. I’m just tired.”

Her father, who was an expert at sensing girl talk coming around the bend, cleared his throat and excused himself from the table to watch his programs.

“You were out awful late last night, Savannah. You getting serious about this boy?”

“Asher? Oh, I don’t know,” she said. “I like him. I know that. I haven’t known him long enough to figure out the rest.”

“He likes you too.”

“I know he does, Mama.”

“Then why do you look so miserable?”

“Honestly? I’d brighten like a button if he were here right now.”

“Ah,” her mother nodded. “It’s like that.”

“And I have to write this article, and I promised it would be about our friendship—the story of us becoming unlikely friends—but it feels like we’re becoming more than friends, and I’m not sure I have permission to write about that. But if I don’t, I lose my chance at this job. And I need this job, Mama. I’m out of options. I need to make this work.”

“Sounds like you need to talk to Asher. Make sure he’s okay with it.”

“Does it matter?” asked Savannah, feeling mercenary. “It won’t be printed anywhere locally, and he’ll never leave Danvers. And I need this story.” She cringed, shaking her head back and forth. “It matters. Of course it matters. I know it matters. It matters so much it’s eating me up.”

Judy patted her daughter’s hand. “You’ll do the right thing, button. I know you will.”

Savannah wished she had her mother’s confidence in her. “I’ll go talk to Scarlet.”

“She
is
gettin’ married,” her mother reminded her. “And I know our Scarlet’s been with Trent Hamilton forever, but she’s entitled to some nerves. She just wants her big sister there for her. It’s not so much to ask, Vanna.”

“I know, Mama. I’ll tell her I’m sorry.”

“But Vegas is a dreadful idea.”

Savannah smiled for the first time since she’d left Asher’s house this morning. “Myrtle Beach would suit her much better.”

“That’s my smart girl!” said Judy, beaming at Savannah and patting her hand again.

***

Savannah sent the next installment of “Asher Lee: An All-American Story” to Maddox by noon on Friday, and she waited, tense, to find out what he thought. Her phone rang by 12:30.

“Carmichael? Maddox McNabb here. I read your piece.”

“And?”

“Something’s missing. You’re holding something back.”

“How do you mean?”

“Your general descriptions are just fine. But the way you describe
him
—it’s half-assed. It’s like you’re afraid to say too much. This was a date, wasn’t it? This dinner in the grove?”

Savannah grimaced. She’d tried to write the piece as two friends having dinner together. Apparently it didn’t fly. “I guess so, sir.”

“Let me give you some advice, Carmichael. Give it heart, or give it up. You falling for this man? Asher?”

Savannah gritted her teeth. She’d promised a human interest story, not her personal business. It felt like whoring herself. Worse, it felt like whoring Asher.

“Your silence tells me all I need to know. That’s the story, Carmichael. How you went after an interview and fell in love instead. Like it or lump it, that’s the story I want. That’s the story I need. That’s the story my readers will ooh and aah about on the Fourth of July. The beautiful, hard-nosed reporter who fell for the mysterious, disfigured war vet. It’s
Beauty and the Beast
with ‘The Star-Spangled Banner’ playing in the background. Don’t like it? Don’t write it. We go our separate ways. You decide, kid.”

Her hackles rose. “But Mr. McNabb, I can do a fine piece on Asher Lee’s injuries, the way this town turned their backs on him, how he
reads any book he can get his hand on, and went to U.Va. and got into Johns Hopkins but decided to serve his country instead. His story is remarkable.
He’s
remarkable. I’m nobody. I’m nothing. No one wants to read a story about me.”

“Wrong!” bellowed Maddox McNabb. “I hate to tell you, Carmichael, but right here, right now?
You’re
the story. Name of the game is human interest. You’re human. I’m interested. Either rewrite it by tomorrow, or don’t contact me again.” And he hung up.

Savannah clenched her jaw, lowering the phone from her ear to her lap, her head spinning. Damn it, she was stuck. And damn it, she hated being stuck. There had to be another way: another person she could interview, another war vet who had a story to tell. But no, Maddox McNabb wouldn’t be interested in that story. He already had a humdinger on the line.

She took a deep breath, lying back on her bed and staring despondently at the ceiling. Whatever was happening between her and Asher felt too good, too fine, to be used as fodder for a news story. It felt low and cheap even to consider it. And yet she was a good writer, wasn’t she? All of her professors at NYU had told her so, and she’d been the fastest rising reporter at the
Sentinel
before her inglorious fall. Couldn’t she pull it off in a way that would appease McNabb but not expose the most private man she’d ever met?
There must be a way
, she thought.

And then it came to her: she occasionally used a pen name for articles she wrote at the
Sentinel
. She called herself Cassandra Calhoun after her mother, Judith Cassandra Calhoun Carmichael. Couldn’t she do that for this article too? Of course she could! She could be Cassandra and Asher could be … Adam. And as long as she didn’t mention Danvers, she could write whatever she liked, Asher’s privacy would be protected and no one would ever be the wiser.

***

Asher made sure to greet her, reaching for her hand and pulling her against his chest as soon as she walked through the door on Friday afternoon. The hours had crawled by without her stories and teasing and mind-bending kisses, and all he wanted was to spend as much time with her as possible before she left him again.

“I missed you,” she said softly, her breath against his cheek making his body harden everywhere.

“You too.”

“It’s terrible to be this infatuated.”

“I agree.”

“I haven’t felt this alive in years.”

“Me either.”

“Screw the interview,” she said breathlessly. “Let’s make out.”

He saw stars. Literally. Stars. How was this possibly his life? Beautiful women did not show up on the doorsteps of disabled vets and proposition them.

“Are you an alien?” he asked.

“Not that I know of.”

“Are we on
Candid Camera
?”

She took a quick look around the room. “You never know, but my guess is no.”

“Is someone paying you a vast sum of money to make me feel like this?”

She bit her lower lip, as if deep in thought. “Not that I recall, but if a million dollars suddenly hits my account, I’ll give you half.”

“You must be for real. Fine. You win. Let’s go make out.”

He turned toward the stairs, but this time they didn’t go left at the split, they went right down the west side of the gallery, past door after walnut door until they came to the sixth and final door on the right. Then he stopped. He dropped her hand and stood back, seizing her eyes with his. “My bedroom. Your decision.”