Standing in front of him, I reached up almost on tiptoe because he was so very tall, and brushed back a lock of hair that had fallen across his forehead. “Clark,” I whispered, and he closed his eyes. But not before the sweetest smile I’d ever seen crossed his face.
“Vivian,” he breathed, leaning into my touch. His hands slowly came up to my face. His eyes still closed, his strong hands approached my skin, every nerve in my body reaching out to wherever his touch would land first. His hands were so big they touched everything at once. Cradling my face, he closed the distance, breathing me in. And he looked down at me with the deepest and warmest dark chocolate eyes I’d ever seen, swirling with molten caramel and flashes of firelight.
Now he would carry me up to my bed, lay me down across the quilt, take me into his arms, and make love to me on a cloud of angel songs.
But then his expression changed. He looked slightly confused; one hand moved into my hair, pushing through the curls toward the back of my head, and bringing forth . . . a piece of hay.
He looked at it curiously, and then his gaze was drawn suddenly to the picture window behind me. And I heard the rumbling of Hank’s truck roaring out of the driveway.
I saw Clark put the pieces together and come up with a roll in the hay. And the fury and agony in his face brought tears to my eyes.
He backed away from me, his face shuttered and his body absolutely rigid. “So stupid,” he muttered, and the look on his face crushed me.
“No, Clark—it’s not what you think. Nothing—”
“Save it, Viv. I don’t need this one spelled out for me,” he spat.
I gasped, my hand flying to my mouth at the sound of my name. “No,” I whispered, horrified.
“You’ve got that right.” He spun so quickly I barely saw him go. I heard his angry, hollow footsteps as he hurried through the house and out the back door.
I crumpled onto the antique rug. All I could feel was emptiness, a hollow at the pit of my stomach that I’d hurt Clark so deeply. It didn’t matter that nothing happened with Hank. That he thought it had, that my actions could cause such pain to such a dear, sweet, wonderful man, was sickening.
Tears ran down my face, which his beautiful hands had just held.
The hands that I was lucky to have felt. The hands that any woman would be proud to hold, to feel, to writhe beneath, and to clasp tightly. And I wanted those hands.
What would a heroine do in this situation? Cry and wail and scream?
Maybe. But not crumpled into a ball on the floor. She’d do it while going toe-to-toe with her hero, making him hear, and making him see.
Fighting for her man.
I was on my feet in a flash, flying through the house, grabbing blindly for the back door and stumbling out into the rain. I made it down three steps before I saw him.
Standing by his car. Not getting in. Just standing.
In the rain, the thunder and the lightning, the tumult and the wind. Up to his loafers in the mud. Not getting in.
Holding his keys in a tightly clenched fist. One hand on the top of the car. Letting the rain pour down on him. Soaked. Angry. Not getting in.
“Clark!” I yelled. He turned. I ran across the yard. Soaked. Angry.
“Go back inside,” he warned, his voice raised over the raucous rain.
“No,” I said, and his fist shot out to pound on the roof of his car. “Not until you hear what I have to say.”
“Go. Back. Inside,” he said again, taking one step forward. He tore his glasses from his face, shoving them into his jacket pocket. His eyes were dangerous. His hair was plastered against his face, his tweed and his white button-down rain soaked. Absolutely magnificent.
I took a step forward myself. “Make me.”
I could see the anger boiling off his skin. We both stepped forward at the same time. He opened his mouth, and my hand shot out to cover it before he could tell me to go back inside again.
I knew I only had seconds before he shut me down once more and actually left. So I took a deep breath, and spoke from my heart.
“I fucking love you, you goddamned librarian.”
His eyes narrowed, so I went on.
“And it’s not just because you’re incredibly sweet and kind, or incredibly gorgeous and stunning, or incredibly smart and well read, or incredibly sexy and hot as all fuck, or incredibly impatient and smart-alecky, or incredibly strong and tan, or incredibly thoughtful and chivalrous, or have an incredibly substantial penis. Which I’m banking on, because I’ve seen you in running shorts, and holy shit, Clark.”
His eyes widened, so I went on.
“I love you because you are all those things, but most important, because you’re Clark. You’re him—the one I’ve been dreaming about and lusting after, and wishing and waiting for. So you can leave here tonight if you want to, but I’ll be outside your house tomorrow morning with scones, Clark—and I will be there every morning until you see me again. Until I can be your Vivian once more,” I said, my hand still over his mouth.
“Or you can stay here, tonight and every night, and let me love you.” I leaned in. “And for the record, I am so turned on by your elbow patches, I’m coming out of my skin over here.”