“I need to touch you.”
“You will,” she murmured. “I want you to. Soon.” But she kept her fingers twined with his as she glided those lips over his chest, and slowly, torturously, down to his belly.
It was a gift, she thought, this lazy feast of his body. A gift for both of them. How good it was to have him under her, to know the shape of his body, the scent of him, the feel and taste of his skin.
To indulge herself, to gorge if she pleased, as long as she pleased. The more she consumed, the more her appetite sharpened.
Strong hands, strong arms, strong back, she thought, yet he trembled for her. His breath quickened; his workingman muscles tensed. For her. That, too, was a gift.
She took him to the edge, held him there until every labored breath burned. Then she rose up, bringing his hands with hers to breasts thinly covered with midnight lace.
She arched back at last, at last letting him touch. Sighing out her pleasure as the candlelight bathed her.
His fingers found hooks. He willed himself not to rush, not to tear and tug but to release each one carefully. And to watch the midnight shift over her skin, slide down to reveal more.
She drew him in when he bowed up to sample and to relish, pressed him to her, urging him to feast.
The air pulsed, heady with candle wax and flowers, and in the fragile light once more she eased him back, braced her hands on his shoulders. Watching him, she took him into her.
Her breath released, something like a sob. Again she laced her fingers with his, and she began to move.
Rocking, almost gently at first, her eyes on his until he saw nothing but her, felt nothing but her. Only Clare.
Time spun out, long, slow beats. Once more she took him to the edge, held him there. Held him, then drove him over into shattered dark.
In the morning, he turned the tables and brought her breakfast in bed. It wasn’t pot roast with all the trimmings, but he knew how to put together a fairly decent omelette.
Her stunned surprise made him wish he could have offered her more than a couple of eggs with cheese.
“You’re eating pie for breakfast?”
“It’s fruit.” He sat across from her so he could watch her eat. “Danishes are an accepted form of breakfast. Why not pie?”
“Don’t pass that logic on to the kids. God, I’m sitting in bed drinking coffee and eating eggs. This must be an alternate universe.”
“If it includes this pie, I want to live here. What have you got going today?”
“Full slate. Helping my father harvest herbs—which means I’ll get some. Quick swing by the market on the way home. Some paperwork, a few things to do around the house. And so on. You?”
“I have paperwork and shop work I should get to. I’d rather spend the day with you.”
“You could meet us for dinner tomorrow. We’re going to grab something at Vesta before we hit the streets to beg for candy.”
“I’m in. I could pick you guys up.”
She shook her head as she finished the eggs. “After I pick them up from school, get them home and into costume, we’re going to my parents so they can trick-or-treat them. We’re Skyping Clint’s parents from there, so they can see the boys in full gear. I’m hoping to get to Avery’s around five, get some actual food in them.”
“Okay then, I’ll meet you.”
He didn’t want to let her go, but didn’t feel right about horning in on her time with her parents. And he had told Owen he’d try to get into the shop around noon.
So he thought about her after she’d gone, and all along the drive.
She heard the three-part harmony version of the sleepover from her boys before they raced back outside to burn off yet more energy with the puppies.
“Did they behave?” Clare asked her mother.
“They always do.” At Clare’s arch look, she shrugged. “Grandparents have different scales for good behavior than parents. It’s our due. Those dogs are adorable, and make those kids so damn happy. Beckett’s a sweetheart.”
“Yes, he is.”
“How did your date go?”
“Absolutely perfect. Pot roast never fails. He brought me breakfast in bed this morning.”
“He sounds like a keeper.” She got another look. “Don’t tell me you’re not thinking about it.”
“We’ve only been seeing each other like this since the summer, and I don’t want to—I’m so in love with him. Mom.”
“Sweetie.” Rosie stepped over to hug Clare, to hold and sway. “That’s a good thing.”
“It is. It feels good. I’m happy. We’re happy, but that doesn’t mean . . . I’m not making plans. A new approach for me—just take it a day at a time and enjoy it without thinking about . . . all the rest. I love being with him, the kids are crazy about him—and it’s mutual. So I’m happy, and I don’t need to make plans.”
“Hey.” Her father opened the door, poked his head in. “Are you going to help me out here, or what?”
“On my way,” Clare promised.
“Farmer Murphy out there’s got more basil and tomatoes than the two of us could use in three seasons. You’re going home loaded,” her mother warned.
“Then I’d better get going.”
“I’ll be right along.”
But Rosie watched out the window for a few minutes first while her husband handed her daughter garden gloves and clippers, while her grandchildren tumbled over the yard with big brown puppies.
Her daughter was happy, she could see it. And in love. She could see that, too. She knew her girl well. Well enough to know that her Clare would always need to make plans, whether she admitted it or not.
On Monday Beckett praised God he didn’t have to haul anything heavy up the stairs again, even if he spent most of the day with a paintbrush and the rest of it sawing trim.
By the time he packed up, it was already five.
“Are you guys staying for trick-or-treat?” he asked his brothers.
“I am,” Owen told him. “Hope’s going to pass out candy in front of the inn.”
“We’re not open yet.”
Owen spared the grousing Ryder a glance. “She got Milk Duds and Butterfingers.”
“Butterfingers?” Ryder had a weakness for them. “I might stick around, see how it goes. What the hell are you doing?”
“Putting on my cape,” Beckett said as he tied the bright red cloth around his shoulders. He pulled on safety goggles, work gloves before handing Owen a roll of duct tape. “Use this, put a big X on my shirt. Center it up.”
“Who the hell are you supposed to be?” Ryder demanded.
Beckett dipped his chin, checked Owen’s work. “I’m Carpenter X. Faster than a skill saw, more powerful than a nail gun. I fight for truth, justice, and plumb corners.”
“That’s so lame.”
“I bet the kids don’t think so. And I bet I get more candy than you.”
“Out of pity,” Ryder called out as Beckett walked out.
“Pretty good for costume on the fly,” Owen commented.
“Yeah, not bad, but I’m not telling him that.”
Vesta buzzed. A lot of people, Beckett noted, had the same idea. Get some pizza before hitting Main Street. He saw Avery, long blond wig tied back, tossing dough to the delight of her audience of pint-sized superheroes, fairy princesses, and ghouls.
“Hannah Montana?” he called out.
She tapped the plastic wood-grained stake in her belt before she caught the dough. “Buffy the Vampire Slayer.”
“Cute.”
“Not if you’re a vampire.”
Amused, he walked over to the booth of superheroes, checked out Clare. She made one hell of a Storm of the X-Men, he decided, in a white punk-style wig and snug black skirt and thigh-high boots.
“Excuse me, ma’am, I’m looking for three boys. They’re about this high.” He used his hand to measure like steps. “They go by Harry, Liam, and Murphy.”