“Not any more than anyone else.” Keats reached down for bites on his other leg. “I’ll be fine. Just let me throw on some clothes, and I’ll meet you outside.”
“No, if you come back out in the sun, they’re going to itch even more. Why don’t you take some antihistamines—there should be some in the hall closet—and then go soak your legs in cool water. I can finish up the rest.”
“But you’re paying me—”
“You’ve earned your keep. Consider it hazard pay for the ant bites.” Reluctantly, he added, “And I’ll be back in a while to bring you home.”
But when Colby checked on him later to make sure the reaction hadn’t gotten worse, Keats was sprawled across the bed in the guest room, sound asleep. The bites didn’t look too bad, so Colby closed the curtains, threw a blanket over him, and let him sleep.
He lingered in the doorway for a moment more than necessary. Only a few more hours and Keats would be gone.
Colby didn’t know whether to be relieved or damn disappointed.
Fuck.
NINE
It’s only a few steps. That was what Georgia repeated in her mind as she crossed the invisible barrier from her yard into Colby’s, but nerves crackled through her like static anyway. After the incident from earlier, they had never really gone away. Beyond the residual effects of the panic attack, she’d been unable to stop wondering whether Colby had seen the binoculars in the guest room. He hadn’t said anything or acted any differently than normal, but he was a counselor. Part of that job was keeping a poker face when you heard or saw outrageous things. That he might’ve discovered her secret had freaked her out to the point of nausea. So she’d given in and taken an anxiety pill, which combined with the drained adrenaline from the panic attack had promptly put her to sleep. When she’d woken up, her yard had been perfectly restored and Colby and Keats were gone.
She’d put in an emergency call to Leesha to offload everything that had happened that day. It was the benefit of having a best friend who was also a therapist. She could tell her things she’d be way too embarrassed to tell a stranger. But even so, it’d been a hell of a hard thing to admit aloud that she’d been spying on her neighbor. Leesha had hardly flinched and had assured her that, considering her isolated situation, it wasn’t completely bizarre that she had resorted to that kind of behavior. Plus, she’d added that considering Phillip had watched Georgia without her permission, this was a subconscious way for her to feel in control—by being the one doing the watching. Whatever. Georgia had rolled her eyes and demanded that Leesha drop the therapist hat and be the girl she’d known since grade school. This wasn’t a session.
At that, Leesha had broken into a conspiratorial grin, called her a dirty bird, and asked for a full description of how hot her neighbor actually was. Georgia had growled into the webcam. “Leesh, pay attention. He. May. Know. Did you hear that part? What the hell am I supposed to do? He probably thinks I’m some pervy stalker girl.”
She’d shrugged. “Feel him out. Maybe he didn’t see anything. And if you find out he knows, do the right thing and apologize.”
So now it was time to do the right thing. And that thing involved moving out of her barricaded comfort zone and womaning up. She was trying to channel some alternative version of herself with each step. I am strong. I am in control. I own this moment. Goddamn, she sounded like that guy Stuart Smalley from the old episodes of Saturday Night Live. Pitiful. She clutched the casserole dish in her hands like it’d save her from some impending doom and kept putting one foot in front of the other. Only a few more steps.
The porch light was on and Colby’s truck was still in the driveway, so she knew he was home. She had no idea if Keats was still there. Maybe Colby had taken him back home. She hoped not. She had a feeling Keats wasn’t going back to a happy situation, and he’d been so kind helping her earlier today. She didn’t want to think about him struggling to keep afloat. Plus, she’d never had a chance to ask him that question she’d started when the ants had attacked. Maybe she could help.
Her heart began to pound harder as she walked up Colby’s sidewalk, but she managed to keep her breathing even. She pictured an aerial view of her house in her mind—one of Leesha’s visualization exercises—and imagined her house was a green zone, the safe zone, that stretched to the edges of her property. With some effort, she pictured that circle expanding, the green creeping wider and enveloping Colby’s yard and house. This was just an extension of her space, nothing to get freaked-out about. She prayed that the image would convince her faulty wiring that all was good in the ’hood.
When she reached the door without drama, she wanted to do a victory dance. But the harder part was yet to come. She balanced the dish in one hand and raised the other to knock. Here we go. Be cool.
Colby answered a few seconds later, barefoot in track pants and a snug white T-shirt, obviously fresh from the shower. He didn’t bother hiding the surprise on his face. “Oh, hey. Everything all right?”
She stared at him for a few seconds, nerves stealing her voice, but she made herself swallow and speak. Unfortunately, everything came out at once. “Yes, everything’s fine. I fell asleep and when I woke up, I saw the yard, and it’s . . . beautiful. And I wanted to tell you that I really appreciate everything. Not just the yard but earlier. And I thought you might be hungry since you probably worked through lunch and so I made enchiladas. They’re chicken, and you like burgers, so I’m assuming you’re not vegetarian and—”
The slow, broad smile that crept onto his face stopped her mid-ramble. He leaned against his door frame, arms crossed over his chest. “You’re on my porch, Ms. Delaune.”
She pressed her lips together and inhaled a breath, trying to slow her heartbeat. “I needed to talk to you, and I wanted to thank you.”
“I can’t think of a better thank-you.” He reached out and pushed his door open wider. “Want to come inside to do the talking?”
Her gaze darted past his shoulder, taking in the spacious living room behind him, all done in soft browns and tans. The TV played ESPN but the volume was all the way down and a half-full beer sat on the coffee table. It looked comfortable and welcoming. So much of her wanted to go inside. But she hadn’t been inside another person’s house in over a year, and it felt a little like standing on the edge of a cliff with shifting soil. “I’m not sure.”
He reached out and took the casserole dish from her and set it on a table by the door. Then he held out both his palms to her. “Here, let’s try this. I won’t ask questions because it gives your mind too much time to analyze. Just listen and follow my instructions. If any of it becomes too much, you say stop and I’ll shut up. Deal?”
She nodded, not giving herself time to think about it. “Okay.”
“Now take my hands and step inside. It’s getting cold outside and it’s warm in here. I don’t want you to be cold.”
She placed her hands in his large ones, and he tugged her gently, easing her forward like a parent teaching a toddler to walk.
“Plus, I have no idea what temperature to cook this in the oven, so I need your help,” he continued.
Another step.
“And God knows we don’t want Mrs. Benson across the street gossiping about us, so we need to get where she can’t see us.” His dimple appeared.
Another step. She was inside. He bumped the door with his foot to shut it behind her. The click of it closing sounded as loud as a thunderclap in her head. Her fingers curled into his palms. “Keep talking.”
“And for the record, I’m about as far from a vegetarian as one can get. I put meat on top of my meat.”
She snorted.
“Right, good point, probably shouldn’t talk about my meat.”
Now she couldn’t stop a laugh from bubbling up. She took another step. And another. She kept her gaze on Colby and that reassuring smile of his. Wood floorboards sounded beneath
her shoes, then the soft hush of an area rug.
Soon, Colby stopped moving, but her momentum carried her forward another step into his personal space. He bent and put his lips close to her ear. “Congratulations, neighbor, you’ve made it all the way to the couch without a scratch.”
She straightened and turned her head, surprised to see she was already in the middle of the living room and far from the front door. She’d only been watching him, focusing on his eyes and voice, and somehow he’d coaxed her all the way inside without her panic switch being triggered. She was in someone else’s house.
And she was okay.
“Holy shit. We did it!” Her voice was way too loud but she didn’t care.
“You did it.”
“I can’t even believe—thank you.” Victory surged in her, and without thinking, she put her hands on his shoulders and kissed him right on the lips. Smack!
He stiffened for a half second, obviously caught off guard, and she hopped back, putting her hand to her mouth. “Oh crap, I didn’t—I’m sorry.”
He smiled and tilted his head in challenge. “Are you?”
She blinked. An auto-response jumped to her lips. Retreat, retreat, retreat. But she didn’t let the cowardly words come out. She steeled herself, reaching deep for the old seeds of confidence, and held his gaze. “Okay, no, not really. I’ve kind of been wanting to do that for a while.”
“Yeah?”
She rolled her lips inward, feeling giddy for some reason—probably some combination of residual anxiety and the rush of breaking that boundary and kissing him. “Yeah.”
“Want to do it again?”
She laughed, but nerves were trying to push in. “I don’t know, I mean—”
He reached for her belt loop and tugged her gently forward, his affable expression morphing into something far more intent as he looked down at her. “Because I’d like to kiss you again. Really kiss you. But I’m not going to until you tell me it’s okay.”
She nodded, trying to swallow past the fear bubbling up. “It’s okay.”
His hazel eyes searched hers. “Remember how I told you on the walk over here that you could say stop?”
She breathed through the butterflies trying to overtake her insides. “Yes.”
He moved his hand to cup her jaw, his fingertips brushing gentle lines along her neck. The soft, simple touch had her ready to melt on contact. God. Every part of her felt so starved for touch it was as if her neurons couldn’t make sense of it. Everything firing off in all directions—want, need, fear, anticipation. His eyes traced the curves of her face. “That applies to this, too.”
With that, he lowered his head. The moment his lips touched hers she could tell that this was not going to be a quick peck like she’d given him. This was going to be so much better. Her eyelids fell shut as his mouth met hers with a gentleness that belied the intensity she’d seen in his eyes. The kiss was so tender, so softly sensual, that she thought she would die from the slow burn of the connection. Colby Wilkes, a man in no hurry. He teased her bottom lip with a playful tug and then took it between his. The tip of his tongue grazed the line of her lips, but he didn’t push or deepen the kiss yet. It was a taste, a sip of what he could give her.
Her hands went to his chest, feeling the solid muscle and a quickly beating heart beneath her palms. His T-shirt curled in her fingers and a soft sound escaped her—her starved libido begging on her behalf. Please, sir, may I have some more?
He continued to kiss her, and the hand against her hip tightened as he guided her against him, bringing her body flush with his. That was when she opened her mouth to him, inviting a deeper, more all-encompassing kiss. Like walking into a bakery after a juice fast, she wanted to gorge on all the things, taste everything he could give her. Not just a sample. But after a gentle twining of their tongues, he eased back. “I can’t tell you how long I’ve wanted to do that.”
She blinked, off balance for a second, already missing the feel of his lips, the brush of his beard against her skin. Please don’t stop. She feared if she paused, her broken brain would take over and ruin it. “You don’t have to stop.”
He smiled, that dimple flashing again, and squeezed her hip. “I do.”
“Why?” she asked, her frustration flaring.
“Because you came here to talk to me,” he said, lines of strain appearing around his eyes, proving that it wasn’t exactly easy for him to dial back either. He pushed a stray hair off her forehead. “And I know it was a difficult challenge for you to come here. So if I push you too far too fast, the panic might catch up, and we’ll do more harm than good.”
“Sounds way too logical and smart,” she declared. “I hate that.”
He chuckled and put his hands over hers, which were still clinging to his shirt. He lifted them and kissed her knuckles. “How about you tell me what I need to do with those enchiladas, then we’ll talk? If you still want me to not stop later, I promise to throw all logic out the window.”
“Deal,” she said with a smile. “And it’s twenty minutes in a three-hundred-and-fifty-degree oven, then a minute or two under the broiler at the end to brown the cheese.”
“I can handle that.” He released her and guided her down to the couch. “Sit and relax. I’ll be right back. What do you want to drink? I’ve got beer, red wine, and soda.”
“A beer would be great.”
“You got it.” He changed the station on the TV to one that played mellow contemporary music, then grabbed the dish of enchiladas and disappeared into the kitchen. The fact that he hadn’t put on the country station made her smile because it was obviously for her benefit. She knew that was his drug of choice—old-school country. It was what he played at the bar—not that she’d ever gotten to hear him play live. But they’d talked about it one day when they’d both been outside in their yards. He’d rattled off a few names of his favorite singers and bands, and she’d only heard of one or two.
Afterward, she’d gone to her computer and Googled him, finding a few YouTube videos of performances, most of them old footage, a few recent. Apparently, he’d been a bit of a big deal when he was younger—a guy on the brink of breaking out. But he’d disappeared from the scene for some unknown reason. She’d played those videos, transfixed, watching them more than once in true stalker style. He had a singing voice so deep, she’d wanted to roll around in it. Even when he sang songs about things she had no personal connection to—growing up in a small town, falling in love with a girl, and stirring up trouble—the music had resonated with her in a way no other kind had because of the way Colby had sung the lyrics. Honesty bled into his performances, and he had a voice that could make the most frigid chick go liquid. She’d become quite a fan. But, of course, he had no idea. Just as he had no idea about her other stalker-like activities . . .
She sighed. With him gone, her mind kicked into gear again, dimming some of the heady high of the kiss. She was in Colby’s living room. And had kissed him. The reality was hard to believe. On her list of small steps she hoped to move through to get herself healthy for the trial, she’d just jumped from number two to like number six hundred. She glanced out the side window to find her house staring back at her like a sentinel awaiting her return. That was the extent of her whole world sitting next door. Sure, she managed to go out once a week and get her groceries and take care of necessities, but it was always a white-knuckle day made possible by her medication. That house was the only place she could exist without the crushing anxiety. Both a sanctuary and a prison.
But here she was, finally sitting outside it. Exhilarated. Terrified. Leesha was going to shoot a confetti gun when she found out. Georgia clasped her hands in her lap, her thumb rubbing her palm in a slow, methodical motion—up and down, up and down—an unconscious habit that soothed her. As long as she didn’t think about this too hard, she wouldn’t lose it. Colby had been right about that part. As soon
as he’d started giving her instructions, she’d been able to focus on simply following and shutting down the racing part of her brain. She’d never thought she’d be able to hear commands from a man without thinking of Phillip, but with Colby it felt different—less of an affront to her free will and more an act of caring direction. It’d been a little like the yoga she did some mornings. Shut the mind down and listen to the teacher on the video tell you how to breathe and move.
Except yoga didn’t involve a big, sexy man and a kiss that’d been hotter than sin on Sunday.
Colby returned to the living room a few minutes later and handed her a Heineken before sitting next to her on the couch. “All right, dinner’s in the oven. Thanks for putting that together. It was going to be a PB&J night.”
“No problem. I like to cook.” Well, she’d learned to like it. Back in Chicago, it had been all about eating out. The food was to die for in the city, and she’d taken full advantage of it. But now she didn’t have that option. After moving here, she’d missed going out to restaurants and had gotten tired of microwave meals and delivery, so she’d decided if she couldn’t manage to go out anymore, she’d learn how to make her favorites at home via her friend the Food Network.
Colby shifted on the couch so that he was facing her and leaning back on the arm of it. “So what did you want to talk to me about?”
Hell. Talking. That was what she’d come over here for. But she certainly wasn’t ready to tell him her secret now. Not after that kiss. It’d ruin it all. She scrambled for a different subject and took a long sip of her beer. Then she toed off her shoes so she wouldn’t be tempted to bolt. “Is Keats still here?”
He cocked a thumb toward the hallway behind him. “Yeah, in the guest bedroom. I think he took the nighttime allergy medicine instead of the regular. He’s been out for a few hours.”
“I’m glad he’s still around. That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”