What Were You Expecting? (30 page)

“Not me. The movie,” she scolded.

He took a deep breath, unable to keep the frustrated expression off his face. When he exhaled through his nose, he felt like a rutting bull, like Maggie was a female in heat and he had to have her or some critical law of nature would be violated. Swallowing, and slightly petulant, he looked at her legs again before turning back to the screen.
Shorts that short should be illegal and people in fake relationships should practice making out more.

“Nils?” she whispered.

“Hmm?”

“You’re doin’ that thing where you clench your jaw.”

“Leave it alone, Maggie.”

“Why do you do that? What does it mean?”

“Nothing.”

“Tell me. We’re supposed to get to know each oth—”

He whipped his face to her, his self-control at its bitter end. “It means I’m sitting next to you watching a movie and every time you move I smell your hair which makes me look over and check out your legs which are ridiculously long for such a short person and make me remember what it felt like to have them around my waist, which makes me remember you sucking on my tongue while your body fell apart against my hand on Monday night. Damn it, Maggie, I want you! All the time. Every minute. This is torture. Christ, can’t you see that?”

Her smile had faded halfway through his diatribe and her eyes were wide as she stared back at him. Then—if her goal was to keep him at arm’s length—she made a mistake. A big mistake. She dropped her glance to his lips and licked her own.

Watching her do that was like being shocked by a live wire. His blood raced, hot as lava, to one place and his breath was short and furious as he stared back at her. He needed to leave. Now. Right now. If he didn’t, he was pretty sure she’d be on her back beneath him in the space of a hot minute.

“I’m sorry. I’m—I’m gonna go. I’ll read what happens in the movie online. I’ll be back tomorrow.”

As he started to stand, she reached out and placed a hand on his thigh keeping him seated. With her other hand, she picked up the remote from the arm rest beside her and turned off the TV. She stood up in front of him, her body silhouetted by the ambient light from outside, and held out her hand to him.

“Dinna go,” she whispered.

He looked at her hand in desperation. “What are you asking me?”

“To stay.”

“Overnight?”

“Overnight,” she confirmed softly, but he listened carefully to the word and—
damn it all to hell!
—her voice wavered.

He was grateful for the darkness which concealed his disappointment. Before this moment, he knew he
wanted
to have sex with Maggie, of course, but the reality had never felt as
possible
as it did right then. And yet, that waver said more than her actions. That waver told him that while she
might
be ready to sleep with him, chances were, she
wasn’t
. And in that instant, he knew, in his heart and aching groin it would be a mistake for them to add the possible confusion of sex to their relationship.

When they finally did sleep together, he wanted them both to be sure.

He took her hand and stood up, but as she turned toward her bedroom, tugging his hand lightly, he pulled her back toward him and brought her hand to his lips. He let them rest softly over the warm skin on the back of her hand, breathing her in, hating what he had to do. He closed his eyes, cursing himself for the biggest fool that ever walked the earth…the woman he loved, the woman he wanted, the woman who was, in fact, his wife, was asking him to lie down beside her, and he was about to say…

“No, Maggie May. Not tonight.”

“What
?” she asked, confusion making her delivery high and sharp.

“There is nothing I want more than to wake up next to you. Nothing. But nothing about the way we’ve gone about this has been in order. We went from friends to married, and now we’re learning about each other and it’s—”

“Stop talkin’. Stop…talkin’. Are you sayin’ no?”

“I’m saying that I don’t want you to regret it.”

She pulled her hand away with more force than needed, stepping back from him and putting her hands on her hips.

Daaaaaaaamn. Her angry stance.

“You need to go home. Right. Bloody. Now.”

“Maggie,” he started, “you have to know—”

“You
have to know
I want you out of here. Now.”

“I just don’t—”

“…want to sleep with me. I know. I heard. Let’s not rehash it.”

She marched to the door, throwing it open so hard it banged loudly into the vestibule wall, making a small dent. She stood there, furious, with her hands still on her hips while she waited for him to leave.

“I’m trying to do the right thing,” he gritted out, stalking to the door. He stopped inches from her and turned. “You actually think I don’t want you?”

He put his hands through her arms, pulling her roughly against his body, running his hands down to her ass, which he shoved forward roughly so her pelvis was forced up against his crotch. Her eyes widened as she made contact with the rigid thickness of his erection. “This isn’t about me
not
wanting you. You can go ahead and assume I want you every passing second, every millisecond, every nanosecond, and every little space in between. There is literally no moment left when I am not dying. Of want. For you.”

Her mouth was lightly open in surprise as she stared up at him. “Then why…?”

“Your voice wavered.”

“W-wavered?”

He loosened his grip on her, sliding his hands up under the flimsy material of her low-cut sweatshirt. Just as he had suspected all night long, she wasn’t wearing a bra, and his body tensed, remembering the way her nipples had beaded under his thumbs when he’d kissed her last month. His hands splayed out over her skin and he stared longingly into her eyes.

“When you said ‘overnight.’ Your voice wavered.”

“Oh,” she breathed, leaning into him. “It did, didn’t it?”

“Mm-hm,” he said, feeling drunk from the sensation of her body pressed up against his as his fingers kneaded her back and her hands skimmed over his t-shirt, meeting at the back of his neck.

He leaned down, letting his forehead touch hers, roll softly against hers, breathing deeply and loving the closeness of her, the sweetness of this woman in his arms who he loved more than anything. His eyes fluttered closed and he nuzzled her nose with his, touching his cheek to hers, before feeling her breath, warm and ragged, on his lips. He tilted his head slightly to capture her lips with his.

Like every other time they kissed, it was like an explosion, a chemical reaction, a force of nature. He backed her up against the open door behind her, sliding his hands to her hips to lift her and groaning into her mouth as she wrapped her legs around him. She wound her hands through his hair, frantically sucking on his tongue, small, breathy moans of pleasure making him rock hard as he stroked his tongue against hers again and again.

Knowing he had to leave, he gentled their kiss, feathering kisses down her neck and finally resting, panting, in the hollow he’d been so taken with before as he sat beside her on the couch. He savored the feeling of her much smaller body pressed intimately against his, knowing the memory would haunt his dreams all night long. He closed his eyes and rested his lips on her skin, against her pulse, the relentless throbbing of her heart.

After four years of wanting her and watching her and wishing for her, here she was—
finally, finally, finally, thank you, God
—in his arms, wanting just as much from him as he wanted from her. And like a geyser, bubbling with heat and demanding release, he felt the words rise up from the depths of his soul:

“My wife,” he murmured against her neck. “Mine.”

She stiffened slightly in his arms and he leaned back, releasing her gently. Her feet slid down his thighs to hit the floor and she looked up at him with heaving breasts, searching his eyes warily.

“Truce,” she whispered, low and deliberate. A reminder.

He took a deep breath, staring back at her. He shouldn’t have said it, shouldn’t have called her his wife in such an intimate way, but it’s not like he’d planned it. It came from a place deep inside, far stronger and more pure than his conscious mind. And in spite of the caution in her eyes, he didn’t want to apologize for saying what was true, or cheapen it by saying he’d only gotten carried away.

He forced himself to smile lightly at her in a way he hoped was reassuring and kissed her tenderly on the forehead. “Pick you up tomorrow? Noon? Pack for camping, Miss Maggie.”

Her face was inscrutable as she nodded once, backing into her apartment and closing the door between them.

***

Maggie looked at the Roosevelt Arch in the side-view mirror as it got smaller and smaller. She’d just had one of the most surreal experiences of her life.

Nils had picked her up at the Prairie half an hour ago, and they’d headed directly to the Best Western to pick up his clients, a family of five, the Skinners. While Nils called their room from the hotel courtesy phone, Maggie had waited beside the van, letting the sun bathe her face while she tried not to freak out about tonight’s sleeping arrangements, which included her. In a tent. With Nils. She opened her eyes when she heard his footfalls striding toward her. He leaned beside her against the van.

“They’ll be here in a second,” he said quietly. “Hey, um, Maggie…”

Shielding her eyes with her hand, she turned her neck to look at him. He held up his left hand, which sported a simple gold band on the fourth finger. “It was my grandfather’s. My father gave it to me years ago because I’m the oldest, and I thought, well, as long as you don’t mind, maybe I should wear it this weekend…”

She stared at the gold ring, the way it caught the sun, glowing as he held it out before her eyes…and found she didn’t know what to say. Over the last few days, things between them were feeling a little too real for comfort. How was she supposed to protect her heart if she started to believe that their truce was actually making way for a real marriage between them? How would she go on living in Gardiner if he wanted to go back to friends—as was his right—the day after the interview?

Smiling lightly, she shrugged. “It certainly fits you. Your grandfather must have been a big man, like you.”

His eyes lingered over her lips for a moment and she could feel the sudden flare of heat between them. It made her suck in a breath wondering if he’d suddenly reach for her as he had last night, but something over his head captured his attention and he stepped away from her.

“Welcome, folks!”

She watched his tall, muscular body cross the parking lot gracefully, purposefully, reaching out his hand to take the backpack on the mother’s back and tousling the hair of school-aged boy. Her heart swelled with sudden, unexpected pride, watching him go to work. She’d never seen this side of him before.

The Skinner family consisted of Mrs. Skinner, Mr. Skinner, and three sons, aged nine, twelve, and sixteen. Maggie straightened as they approached the van, pasting a nervous smile on her face.

“Folks, this is my wife, Maggie. She’s coming along for the ride this weekend.”

Before Maggie could process the jolt of confused pleasure she got from his words, Mrs. Skinner stepped forward, offering her hand to Maggie. “How nice not to be the only girl with all of these boys.”

Maggie chuckled softly, shaking hands. “Sure you dinna mind, Mrs. Skinner? Havin’ the ol’ ball and chain along for the ride?”

She cringed inwardly at her awkwardness, but the older woman grinned at her, dropping her hand. “It’s Danielle. Dany. And of course not. Not at all. Nils tells us you’re newlyweds?”

“Aye. We were married in May, Dany.”

“Still in that period of adjustment, huh?”

“You have no idea,” Maggie answered, catching Nils’s eyes over Mrs. Skinner’s head. “I should give my, my, er—that is, Nils might need a hand. You’ll pardon me?”

Nils ushered the Skinner’s into the air-conditioned van, then slid the door shut and turned to Maggie. “Weird?”

“Pretty surreal,” she agreed.

“Think we’ll manage by September?” he asked. “To own it?”

“We’ve got three more weeks to get it right.” She shrugged and tugged at the bag he held by his side, which had five bottles of water for the Skinners ride. “Let me be useful. I’ll hand these out. You get their stuff packed in.”

“Bossy little missus I’ve got.”

She’d grinned at him, then, and winked. Only later she realized it was the first time he’d ever made reference to their marriage without ruffling her feathers. It felt strange that she was getting used to it, getting used to the circumstance of being called “wife.” And good. It felt really good,
too good
, even…until she remembered the words he’d whispered against her neck last night right before leaving:
My wife. Mine.