“Well, hell.”
Carly snickered. “I guess it wasn’t only cows I shook up.”
He shot her a burning look. “I fail to see the humor.”
She clamped a hand over her mouth to stifle a giggle. This time, it was Carly who laughed until she was weak.
After dinner that night, Hank got out the checkers game that he’d sneaked into the house when he came in from evening chores.
“You ever played?” he asked Carly.
She approached the table, staring curiously at the box. “Played what?”
Hank hadn’t stopped to think that she’d never seen a checkerboard. “It’s checkers—a board game.”
“Checkers?” She jerked out a chair to sit down, planted her pointy elbows on the table, and watched in fascination as he opened the board and began setting out the chips. “Bess and Cricket used to play. All I could do was listen.”
“Well, tonight, darlin’, you get to play.”
“Is it complicated?”
It was so easy it bored Hank to tears, but he didn’t tell her that. “Not too complicated.” He held up two chips. “What color do you want, red or black?”
“Red.” She wiggled on the chair and sat straighter. “What are the rules?”
Hank explained the game. Minutes later, Carly was playing in earnest, growing so excited at times that she’d come clear off her chair. “I nailed you that time!” she’d cry. “I’m good at this, aren’t I?”
As skilled as she became at the game over the course of the evening, she frequently got her colors confused and jumped Hank with his own pieces. The first time it happened, he was about to call her on it when he looked up and saw the proud smile on her face. Damned if he could bring himself to say a single word.
All his life, Hank had played everything to win. He’d been told, more than once by family members, that he was far too competitive. Winning wasn’t everything, they said. What truly counted was how well you played the game. He’d never understood that philosophy. Why bother to play if you weren’t out to win?
That was a question no one had ever answered to his satisfaction. Now Carly had without even trying. Watching her, hearing her laughter, he understood that winning really wasn’t the important thing. Sometimes, it was far more rewarding to get trounced and be warmed by the victor’s radiant smile.
At evening’s end, Hank waited to grab a shower and brush his teeth until he heard Carly emerge from the shower. Then, wearing only his jeans, he padded barefoot through the house. Just as he reached the bathroom, the door flew wide open and Carly, wrapped in only a towel, came barreling out.
“Oh!” she squeaked, colliding with his chest.
“Oops.” Hank grasped her bare shoulders to catch her from falling. “Sorry. I thought you were all finished.”
“No, I—”
She broke off and looked up. Their gazes locked. Hank tried to release his hold on her, but somehow his hands didn’t seem connected to his brain. She looked adorable with her hair caught up in a tousled knot at the crown of her head, and she felt even better—all soft and clean and moist from her shower. A faint scent of roses clung to her that made him want to bend closer to get a better whiff. And, oh, God, how badly he wanted to kiss her.
She stared for a seemingly endless moment at his chest. When she finally drew her gaze to his face, Hank saw the flutter of her pulse at the base of her throat, a telltale sign that she was as attracted to him as he was to her. Her thick, honey-tipped lashes swept low to veil her eyes, and whether she meant it so or not, her soft lips parted in invitation.
It seemed to him the very air went thick and electrical. He was aware of her in every pore of his skin. The towel provided precious little barrier between their bodies. He imagined it slipping to the floor, imagined running his hands over her silken flesh.
Perhaps he bent closer. Or maybe she read his intent in his eyes. Hank only knew she tried to twist away, her eyes sparking with recrimination. “Don’t,” she whispered. “Please, don’t.”
Beneath his hands, he felt her trembling. That was all the impetus he needed to release her. “Carly, I—”
She clutched the towel to her breasts and backed from the doorway. “Never again. You made a fool of me once. Wasn’t that enough?”
She ducked into her room and slammed the door. Hank’s heart was pounding. He went limp against the doorframe, not caring that the sharp edge of wood dug into his spine. He’d made a fool of her? Where in blue blazes had she come up with that?
Hank went to the closed bedroom door and curled his hand over the knob. There was no lock. He steeled himself against the urge to barge in.
“Carly, can we discuss this?” he asked.
“No! There’s nothing to discuss. And if you ever start to kiss me again, I’m moving out.”
He splayed a hand on the thick panel of wood that separated them. “As I recall, you enjoyed kissing me that night. I may be foggy on what followed, but I remember that, clear as rain.” No response. “Am I wrong? Did you or did you not enjoy that part?”
“I enjoyed it. Satisfied? Stupid me. Just go away! Leave me alone.”
He rested his forehead against the door. “If you enjoyed it, Carly, why does the thought of kissing me again upset you so?”
“Because!”
Because? That was an evasive reply if ever he’d heard one. “That doesn’t tell me much.”
“Too bad. It’s all you’re getting.”
“Honey, please, can’t we—?”
“No, we cannot! If you want a convenient body, go find one in town. Been there, done that. I told you up front, no sex. I meant it.”
He’d gotten that message, loud and clear. He was also starting to suspect that her abhorrence of him stemmed from a hell of a lot more than the physical pain she’d endured at his hands. A convenient body? Hank started to argue the point—to tell her their encounter had meant more to him than that—but the words just wouldn’t come. If he hadn’t hooked up with Carly, he would have found someone else. Meaningless intimacy had been his weekend entertainment.
Don’t tell me I’m beautiful, she’d pleaded on their wedding night. You don’t mean it. He’d been bewildered then. Now he understood too well. She knew that their encounter had meant nothing to him and, by extension, that she’d meant nothing. The knowledge had wounded her in ways that might never heal.
Hank turned from the door to stand with his back against the wall. Now what? He was losing his heart to that girl in there—falling Stetson over boot heels in love with her. And she shuddered at the thought of letting him touch her.
He carried that knowledge with him to bed, and it remained at the forefront of his mind for a good part of the night, making him toss, turn, and get little if any rest. Along toward dawn, he finally went still to watch the first streaks of daylight touch the sky. A new beginning, he thought, wishing he and Carly could start over in much the same way, the darkness behind them, only blue skies ahead.
Only how? He couldn’t undo what had happened that night. Life wasn’t a blackboard. Mistakes couldn’t be erased. All he could do was say he was sorry and beg her forgiveness.
As that thought slipped into Hank’s mind, he stiffened. In the letter he’d written to Carly, he had expressed his heartfelt regret and asked her to forgive him. But what if she hadn’t read the damned thing?
He sat bolt upright in bed. Even if she’d tried to read it, his handwriting wasn’t the best. She had trouble enough deciphering printed letters, let alone sloppy cursive. Of course she hadn’t read it. He was an idiot for thinking she had.
Hank swung out of bed and grabbed his pants. No apology. Oh, God. He remembered telling her he was sorry over the phone one night, but not at length or from the bottom of his heart. The only time since then that he’d even come close had been on their wedding night when he’d teasingly referred to himself as a jackass.
Truer words had never been spoken. He was a jackass.
Chapter Sixteen
r /> “Wake up, sunshine. I’ve got a surprise for you.” Carly fought her way up from sleep and tried to focus on the dark face hovering over hers—sky-blue eyes, a chiseled jaw line, a firm yet mobile mouth that tipped slowly into a grin that flashed strong, white teeth. Hank. She stiffened and came fully awake in a rush, recalling their encounter the previous night with an unpleasant rush of resentment.
Pushing up on one elbow, she said, “Is it lunchtime already?”
“Not quite.” His grin broadening, he held up a plastic shopping bag with red lettering emblazoned on the front. “I hit every office supply store in town this morning and found a present for you.”
She tried to see through the semitransparent sack. “What is it?”
“A surprise.” He plopped the bag on the old coffee table. “You feelin’ puny this morning, sweetheart?”
“Better now. I overslept, ate late, and felt sick when I first woke up.”
“Did you have your morning sickness cure?”
She nodded.
“I’ll get you some Seven-Up and crackers,” he told her as he moved toward the kitchen.
Carly was sitting up by the time he returned. After what had happened last night, she felt self-conscious in only her nightgown.
As if he guessed her thoughts, he said, “You’re fine.” His lips thinned with derisive humor. “If ever I’ve seen modest sleeping apparel, that’s it. You’re covered from chin to toe.”
He lowered himself onto a cushion beside her, set the glass of soda down, handed her the sleeve of crackers, and reached for the sack. “It’s not a very exciting present, I’m afraid. But I thought it might help with your letter recognition.” He drew two boxes from the folds of plastic. “I got two different styles, one a modified script of sorts, the other a more standard font.” He winked at her. “Flashcards, darlin’, one set with curlicues, the other without.”
When he opened the first box, Carly was amazed. Without leaning close, she could see the bold black letter on top.
“Oh.” A stinging sensation washed over her eyes. “What a thoughtful gift.”
He glanced over, saw her tears, and said, “Damn, honey, don’t cry. It’s flashcards, not a diamond necklace.”
It was the thought behind them that touched her—knowing he’d come up with the idea and spent half his day driving from store to store.
He dumped the stack of cards onto a large, tanned palm. Holding one up, he said, “Cool, huh? No more squinting. We’ll have you recognizing letters in no time.”
Carly nodded, her throat suddenly so tight that she doubted she could speak. Last night, she’d wanted to slug him for almost kissing her. Now she wanted to hug him for being so sweet. Her yo-yoing emotions worried her. When Hank set his mind to it, he could be a difficult man to resist.
She laid aside the crackers and reached for the Seven-Up.
“We’ll keep them in alphabetical order at first,” he told her as he held up the first card. “That’ll give you a reference point as you learn to recognize the letters.” He arched his thick, dark brows. “And the first one is?”
“I can study with them on my own, Hank.” She had a four-year degree, and he meant to teach her the alphabet? “This is humiliating. I feel like a five-year-old.”
He laughed. “Your visual cortex isn’t very old, and flashcards work best when someone else does the flashing. I’ll make the lesson X-rated for a grown-up lady. How’s that?”
Flashing the A, he pushed to his feet, jerked his shirttails loose, and exposed his belly. “A, for abs,” he said, tightening his stomach muscles to make ridges appear. Carly was fascinated. His dark chest hair began narrowing just below his ribs, becoming a thin line at the waistband of his jeans.
When he held up the next card, he winked and said, “B, for biceps.”
He promptly stripped off the shirt to display his arms. Carly had felt the strength in them. She wasn’t surprised to see bulges and ripples. She’d been so focused on his chest last night that she’d barely noticed his arms.
“You okay with this?”
Afraid that he might stop, she nodded stupidly.
“C, for chest.”
He tensed and made his chest muscles flex. She yearned to lay a hand over a mound and feel it move under her fingers. His skin was as burnished as the old oak kitchen table—a deep, brown color, much darker than hers. Her stomach felt funny. She wondered if she was going to get sick after all.
He soon had her laughing at his Popeye imitation, but despite the hilarity, Carly still found herself staring. His upper body was beautifully sculpted. Until now, she’d never seen a well-muscled chest or arms that rippled with strength. It was an unsettling experience, to say the least.
All too soon to suit Carly, he held up one of the last cards. “X, for X-rated,” he said with a lazy smile. “Not exactly beefcake, but I’m all that’s available.”
Hank Coulter was X-rated without even trying. Carly’s gaze fell to his silver belt buckle. Then she realized where she was looking and blushed to the roots of her hair. His blue eyes darkened, the twinkle of laughter becoming a smoldering heat. For what seemed an endless moment, their gazes locked. Then he quickly flashed the remaining cards, laid them on the coffee table, and put his shirt back on.
Carly stifled a sigh. “Thank you, Hank. Your version of the alphabet is a lot more fun than mine.”
“Don’t take off,” he said as he resumed his seat. “I’m not done with you yet. We’ll go through them a second time.”
Carly wasn’t sure her heart could take the excitement. His smile faded as he readied the cards for another round. When he held up the A, his expression went utterly solemn. His beautiful eyes turned a dark gray blue, reminding her of how the sky had looked one evening a few weeks ago right before a storm.
In a low, husky voice, he said, “A, for ass. Would you like to brand it on my forehead? It occurred to me last night that I’ve never told you how ashamed I am of my behavior toward you that night at Chaps. No two ways around it, I was a world-class jerk.”
Caught off guard, Carly didn’t know what to say.
He held up another card. “B, for bastard. I’ll have it engraved on my belt buckle if you’d like, and I’ll wear the damned thing every day for the rest of my life. I’ve cheated you out of an entire year or more of sightedness.” The shine in his eyes became a swimming wetness. His voice dipped even lower, the tendons in his lean cheeks bunching with each clench of his teeth. “I can’t undo that—or even start to make up for it. When you go blind, it’ll be my fault. I’d give my right arm to make amends, but there’s no going back, no fixing it.”
Carly had once believed this man was a self-centered playboy in a Stetson and Wranglers who cared about no one but himself. Now he had tears in his eyes.
She didn’t want this. In his own way, he had made amends, and over the next couple of years, he would continue to do so. “Oh, Hank, don’t. Please.”
“C is for Casanova, creep, carouser,” he went on relentlessly. “My weekend pastime, chasing women. You happened onto my hunting grounds, and I sighted in on you without a thought.” He flashed the next card. “D, for dickhead, if you’ll pardon my French. And it can stand for a number of other things as well, a dirty, rotten, lowdown skunk at the top of the list.”
He tossed the cards on the table. When he looked at her, his expression conveyed far more than he seemed able to articulate with words. Finally he said, “I told you how sorry I was in that letter I wrote. It occurred to me last night that you probably never read it.”
Carly wished now that she had at least tried.
“I won’t say I’m sorry about the baby,” he went on. “It doesn’t seem right for any father to ever say that. But I am sorrier than you’ll ever know about how it happened.” He touched her hair, the weight of his hand so light and careful that she knew he truly did ache with regret. “You deserved better, and if I’d been sober, I would have made damned sure you got it.”
“Oh,
Hank, what point is there in this?”
“Just let me get this said.” His throat worked as he swallowed. “I’ve hurt you in ways I never realized until last night. Now you’re afraid to be intimate with a man again.” He pressed his hand more firmly to her hair, his long fingers sifting through the strands to feather over her scalp. “I wouldn’t mind quite so much if it were only me you wanted to avoid, but I’ve got a bad feeling that isn’t the case. Knowing I’ve ruined it for you with anyone else makes me heartsick.”
Carly squeezed her eyes closed.
“It’s not always awful, sweetheart. When you’re with the right person, sex can be beautiful. Magical, glorious, and sweet beyond your wildest imaginings.”
Carly lifted her lashes. She still couldn’t think what to say. She only knew she couldn’t bear to see that awful look in his eyes.
“I also need you to know that you are beautiful. I was drunk that night, I admit. But I still know beautiful when I see it. I was on the dance floor with another woman when I spotted you. That was it for me. I didn’t see anyone else in the whole damned bar from that moment on.”
She’d never really expected him to apologize, and certainly never this way. No excuses, no attempts to cast himself in a better light. These words came from his heart—and they came hard for him. Even she could tell that.
“Someday, some guy’s going to take one look at you and fall crazy in love.” He cupped her chin in his hand, trailing his thumb over the hollow of her cheek. “When it happens, don’t let your memories of what I did ruin that for you. Take a leap of faith. Trust him. Grab hold of the magic with both fists. If you don’t, I’ll be standing at the pearly gates someday with the blame on my head.”
“Hank, I—”
“Just listen. Please.” He released her chin and passed a hand over his eyes. “I can’t remember all of what I did. I only know I screwed up and hurt you, and I’m sorrier than I can say.” He took a ragged breath. “Don’t take every man’s measure by me. If you make that mistake, you’ll miss out on all the best things life has to offer.”