“Jason,” I respond mildly.
“Just letting you know I’m here to get the truck. Brought some gas to put in the tank. I’m pretty sure that’s the problem.” I say nothing because I’m aggravated. If it’s not the problem then his vehicle is going to be stuck here until he gets someone who knows what the hell they’re doing to come and fix it or pick it up. “I would’ve come sooner, but I had to wait on Jep to bring me. Jordan’s over at Cole’s, drinking. Don’t know how long she’s been over there. Maybe since yesterday.”
My heart stutters in my chest. Almost like it stopped completely for a few seconds while I digested his words. Jordan is at Cole’s? Drinking? Together? Since last night?
I don’t know why, but I wouldn’t have pegged Cole as much of a drinker. Then again, I thought he wasn’t interested in Jordan either. It appears that I was wrong on both counts.
Sickeningly wrong.
“Oh, uh, okay. Well, I just hope it starts.”
“Me, too. I don’t like being without a vehicle. I can’t bring my favorite girls soup.” His smile is so presumptuous I want to slap him. That might be a bit of a drastic overreaction, but I’m not in the mood for his audacity.
“We’re doing fine, but I’m sure you need it to get around.”
“I was thinking that if you and Emmy would like to, I’d–”
“Sorry, Jason, you’ll have to excuse me.” And I shut the door in his face.
Suddenly, his unwanted attention is just too much. On top of my rising distress over Cole and Jordan being together, and the swimmy feeling in my stomach, my patience is at an end.
Inexplicably, I feel near tears. I thought Cole and I had a connection, something real. Something that was as rare for him as it has been for me. But if he’s drinking and playing with Jordan, he’s not the man I thought he was.
And the disappointment is crushing.
I didn’t realize I had put so much hope, so much emotion into the brief and innocent run-ins I’ve had with Cole. I mean, why would I? Why am I so desperate to get to know him? Why him?
I’ve gone my whole life without the need–or really the desire–to have a man around. I’ve taken care of myself, taken care of Emmy. What is it about Cole that has changed all that? Why, all of a sudden, does it make me so happy to think of Emmy having his hands to help her build sandcastles on the beach? To hold her when she’s afraid, to comfort her when she has one of her nightmares? Why now? Why him?
I don’t know. I have no answers. No way of getting answers either. I only know that some part of me was hoping, wishing. Wanting. But it seems I’m better off without hoping, wishing and wanting.
????
The house is getting chillier by the hour. Without Emmy asleep in my arms, I’d be cold. Colder than usual in here. I glare at the empty fireplace. The cottage has oil heat, so I didn’t give the fireplace much thought, knowing that we’d have heat as long as I kept the oil tank out back full. Which it is. According to the guy who came to check it right after we moved in, there was still twenty-one inches of oil in it. I guess that’s his non-technical way of checking–measuring the contents with a long dip-stick–rather than doing some complicated math.
It’s almost eleven when I finally carry Emmy to her bed. I turned on her electric blanket earlier to make sure it was nice and warm for her. She doesn’t even move when I lay her down and pull the heated covers up over her. She sleeps like a baby. Most of the time.
I’m going through the cottage, turning off lights, when I hear a knock at the door. It’s loud and heavy, almost thump-like. My first thought is that it might be Jason. His persistence seems to know no bounds.
I creep to the window beside the door, prepared to peek through one corner to determine who it is before I answer it, when I hear a voice. It’s deep and familiar, and it sends a tingle of awareness down my spine.
“Eden?”
It’s Cole.
My heart lurches. It’s late. Something must be wrong.
I wrench open the door to find him leaning against the doorjamb with his head hanging down. My first thought is that he’s hurt.
“Cole, are you okay? What’s wrong?”
I look him over, using the light coming from my open bedroom door to check for blood on his clothing. I see none, which only calms me minimally.
“You,” he says quietly.
“Pardon?”
He raises his head and pins me with his potent stare. “You. You’re what’s wrong. I can’t stop thinking about you.”
I don’t know what to say to that and he doesn’t give me much time to think before he slides his hands into the hair at my nape, his thumbs holding my face still, and crushes my mouth with his.
I welcome it, welcome him. I’m not even going to deny it. I crave him like I crave sunshine and air and water and love. His scent, his taste, they weave a sensual spell around me, flooding my blood with heat and need.
He tilts his head and deepens the kiss, his tongue playing alongside mine, promising delights that I’ve never known and never had much interest in.
Until now.
Until Cole.
When he pushes inside, I don’t resist. I’m lost in all that he’s making me feel and my brain is turned completely off. I hear the slam of the door as he kicks it shut and that’s the last thought to register until I feel his hands at my breast.
My nipples are painful points and I moan into Cole’s mouth when he pinches one between his fingers, rolling it through the material of my lacy bra and single-knit sweater.
“I need to be inside you,” he groans, his other hand falling to my butt and squeezing, pulling my lower body into his. I feel the long, hard ridge of his erection and moisture floods my panties. “I can’t think. I can’t eat. I can’t even grieve anymore. It’s all about you. Everything is about you.”
It’s as he speaks that I smell the alcohol. It serves as a bucket of cold water in my face. Apparently Jason was right. He’s been with Jordan. Drinking.
I push at his chest. “Cole, wait.”
His hands are everywhere, teasing and taunting, awakening feelings I doubted I’d ever feel at the hands of a man. But I have to ask him about Jordan. I have to know before this can go any further.
“Cole, please.”
“Please what? Please take off my clothes?” he says in his throaty voice, his hands tugging at the hem of my sweater. I push them away, but they come right back. “Please touch me? Please taste me? Because I will. I’ll touch you until you can’t think. I’ll taste you until you beg me to let you come.”
Part of me thrills at his words, but part of me needs room, needs time. Needs him to stop for just a minute. Another man and another voice is standing between us, touching me in the same ways, but scaring me rather than pleasuring me.
“Cole, stop. I need to talk to you.”
“I don’t want to talk. I want to feel. I need to feel.”