So beautiful, he thought, and without thinking started to serenade Vanna by merely mouthing the words, slowly seguing into a soft croon, singing along with Vale about how Christmas felt. She stared up at him, lips slightly parted, still tipped in that gentle smile. He tugged her a little closer as they slowly stepped in a measured square around her living room, rising and falling in time with the music.
Time felt suspended in that instant, a beautiful woman in his arms, chin tilted so she could smile up at him. Their bodies moving together, synchronized, as if they danced together every Christmas Eve like this. I wish…
The song slowly faded away and he tightened his arms, wanting to hold onto this for another moment. Then the next song began playing and she pulled in a breath that hitched in the middle, shaking herself slightly, clearly putting off the shared spell they had been under for too short a time.
Stepping back and pulling away, she gently forced his arms to release their hold. Her expression was solemn as she told him, “Thank you, Truck. That will a beautiful memory for many Christmases to come.” She leaned forward, flattening one palm in the center of his chest and he felt her touch like a brand on his skin. For one moment thinking she intended to kiss him, the idea heating him to his core. This meant something to her, and he found himself willing to expend any energy needed to discover what that was. Vanna was an intriguing woman, sweet and unassuming. Highlighting his thoughts, sincerity scored through her features as she fervently repeated, “Thank you.”
Vanna
What in the hell am I thinking? Thoughts were flying fast and furious through her head as she turned to the kitchen. She was suddenly hell bent on making large platters of sandwiches and getting a counter—or better yet, an entire state—between her and this man before she embarrassed herself further. First I invite him in for a quick bite—she shivered as her mind turned to his teeth scraping along her neck—Stop it, Savannah.
She opened the refrigerator; the cool air welcome as it caressed her heated cheeks. Quickly pulling out packages of meat and cheese, as well as condiment selections, she twisted to place them on the countertop only to run into Truck’s broad—hard, and so much of him—chest. Containers flew from her arms, and she gave a small cry of dismay, quickly cut short when the jars were caught in midair by his hands—large, and oh so manly hands. Hands I’d like to feel in more places than the small of my back. Stop it!
“Easy, darlin’,” he said, setting down the jars and reaching to pluck the rest of the items from her hands. “Where’s the bread?” Settling in as if he had been in her kitchen a million times before, he unerringly opened the silverware drawer and pulled out a knife. Twisting his neck, he looked at her, one eyebrow lifted as his lips slowly curled into a—sexy, oh God, is that grin ever sexy—grin. “Vanna, the bread?”
The dance had thrown her off balance. The sweet, tender, incredibly beautiful dance. A dance she would hold close to her heart for years, because it wasn’t like any experience she’d ever had before. So it threw her terribly off balance, because he was a Rebel Wayfarer. She’d seen his patch. Well known to her, she recognized the emblem because Gunny was in the same club. She had been to Indiana several times over the past two years, meeting most of the local members as well as many from other chapters, but she’d never seen or heard of Truck. His bottom patch said ‘Nomad,’ but he held an officer’s title. Confusing. Filled with a sudden urgency to know how this man fit into her friends’ lives, she blurted, “Truck, you’re a Rebel. Where’s your bike?”
He set the knife down and turned to lean against the counter, standing close beside her. “Left it parked at the house”—gesturing to the south—“since it was a short walk from there to here.” He lifted one shoulder and let it fall. “Saw there were lights on here when I went past. When I got there and saw the state of things, I hoped whoever lived here would still be up.” That shoulder lifted again, the motion easy, he was comfortable in his body. “Bike’s a little noisy, figured the wrong way to make a good first impression would be to wake the whole damn house when shoe leather would work just fine.”
Ducking her chin, she kept her gaze directed to the floor so he wouldn’t see the disappointment on her face when she moved away. “Lucky I’m a nightowl,” she murmured. Not fate, she thought, just a convenient neighbor.
Retrieving a loaf of bread from the box in the corner of the cabinet, she grabbed two plates from the shelf and a bag of chips from the snack drawer, moving back to stand beside him. Close, but not too close. Working in what she hoped was a companionable silence, they assembled sandwiches, one for her and two for him. Then, still wordless, she led him back to the living room where Christmas music was still softly playing.