"Are you worried about the birth, about the hospital?"
"No. Not yet."
"But you will be?"
"Probably."
"I'll be there." His eyes scanned her face.
"You will be?"
"Yes." There was no hesitation in his response, and still that green gaze was trained on her. Waiting.
"But do you want me there?"
Callie turned back to the computer screen. "Yes." She couldn't think of anyone she'd rather have there than Nick, with his quiet strength. She just didn't want him to see quite how much she wanted it.
They looked at a few more sites, but when Callie stifled a yawn Nick stood.
"You need to go to bed. Now."
Callie stood too. "As soon as I've washed my hair."
"I'll help you."
"It's okay. I'll manage."
"I'll help you." He strode to the bathroom, and soon the sound of the shower running reached her.
Callie followed him. Steam billowed from the shower and splashes of water dampened his pale shirt.
"You wet it. I'll do the shampoo."
"Nick."
"What?" he asked, as though he really couldn't see why she'd have a problem with him washing her hair. And maybe he was right. She was pregnant with his child. Having his hands in her hair could do no further harm.
"Nothing. Just turn away for a second, would you?"
He turned his back. "I have seen you naked before."
Callie ignored his words as she peeled off her clothes and stepped into the shower, grateful that, from knee to chin height, the glass was smoky and opaque. "This is different."
He turned back and leaned against the far wall, arms folded across his chest as she sluiced water over her hair. "Pass me a towel please?" she asked once it was thoroughly wet.
Nick held one of the thick, cream towels out to her. Callie shut off the water and reached a hand through the door, took the towel and wrapped it around herself before stepping out of the shower. She pushed her shampoo bottle into his hand, folded her arms across her chest, anchoring the towel under her armpits, and closed her eyes.
And waited.
She opened one eye. Nick stood close. He wasn't smiling, but she could see the dimple in his left cheek as he studied her.
"It's not going to hurt."
She closed her eye again. "Just get on with it, would you," she snapped.
And now she was sure he was smiling. Her own lips twitched. And then those strong, capable hands were on her head, massaging shampoo through her hair. And suddenly there was nothing remotely funny about her situation. He surrounded her, his arms either side of her face. And if she opened her eyes, she'd see his chest inches in front of her. She closed her eyes tighter. Beneath the fragrance of her shampoo she caught the faintest trace of his cologne.
"Rinse." He turned her back to face the shower.
Callie dropped the towel and stepped in.
Please let him not know how hard her heart was pounding when, a few minutes later, she reached a second time for the towel and passed him her conditioner. His hands were slower this time, fingertips sliding across her scalp. The strength threatened to flee from her knees. His hands moved to the back of her head, massaging, the pressure of his touch exquisite. Callie kept her eyes closed as a desire that she couldn't let him see built low within her. Her breath grew shallower, and suddenly his hands paused as they cupped her head.
Her eyes flew open in time to see him hesitate before he lowered his head. And then he was kissing her, his mouth hard and hungry. And she was most definitely kissing him back. Greedily. Her towel forgotten, her arms slid around him, even as a part of her brain whispered feebly, don't do this. That part of her brain was effortlessly overpowered and ignored by the demands of her body. The need for his touch, for this closeness. It was everything she feared because it was everything she wanted.
Strong hands held her head as he deepened the kiss. His tongue swept her mouth, learning anew her taste. Joining them. In primal response, she pressed her hips into his and felt the evidence of his need. His hands slid over dampened skin to grip her shoulders. He kissed her jaw, her neck, inflaming her. He was all she remembered. And more. Being with him, she could forget everything.
Just as she had that night.
That night that had gotten her pregnant.
Callie broke the kiss. "Nick," she gasped his name, shaking her head. "No." She wanted him fiercely, desperately, but also she wanted more than just this.
He stepped back, regret etched into his face. "Rinse." He turned and left.
Nick came out of the winery building, where he'd been talking with Michael about this year's vintage and the likely effect of the summer's weather patterns. With only one day till the festival, the grounds were alive with hurrying people and shouted communications, as marquees were set up, tables and chairs delivered and a myriad of other jobs commenced or finished. He scanned the activity, found what he sought as he caught sight of Callie in a summery skirt and sleeveless blouse, looking as fresh as new leaves on the vines in springtime.
She'd kept her distance from him today. Undoubtedly a good thing. She had sensed the driving need that had slammed into him last night. He had wanted her. Wanted to back her up against the bathroom cabinet and claim her.
But she wasn't his.
She had her own life, her own dreams. Dreams of love and happy families. She'd told him that when she'd explained why she wouldn't want to marry him.
And he had his life too.
If only he could stop the desire that ambushed him every time he saw her.
They shared a baby; and because of that child they had to have a relationship that worked and that lasted. Sex, as desperately tempting as it was, would only confuse matters and quite probably destroy that something else, that tentative bond-the one that should terrify him but didn't-that was building between them.
He liked knowing she was near, it had a sense of rightness. And at mealtimes, when everyone gathered around the outdoor table, she blended in-a natural part, giving as good as she got from his cousins. His family liked her.
And she liked them.
An idea was beginning to percolate, a plan that capitalized on her emotions and that would meet both of their needs. He would tell her tomorrow, after the festival.
She looked his way, then quickly looked away again. She was in professional mode, elegant, efficient, but a little repressed. Her secrets and dreams hidden. And she was still working too hard, accepting the demands placed on her from all directions.
He wanted to take her away from all this, he wanted to make her laugh, he wanted to see her again in that enormous paint-splattered shirt. That was the Callie who fascinated him; that was the Callie who for one night had danced in his arms and who had trusted herself. And him.
And look where that had got them.
She stood talking to Noah, the glass artist whose blue heron in flight hung suspended in a window alcove of the winery's reception area. An artist, just as she was at heart. Did his devil-may-care appearance, his carved jade necklace, appeal to her? It was hard to tell from this distance whether or not Noah was standing too close. Callie pointed to her left, describing something with her hands.
Nick would make her his. He didn't want anyone else to know the scent of her hair. He knew it. It had enveloped him in the steamy bathroom. It had lingered on his fingers through the night. And he would never catch that scent again without thinking of her. The sun shone on her dark curls now. They would capture and hold that heat. If he plunged his fingers-
Snap out of it.
The turning away got harder each time, but he managed it again. It would be too easy to be swept up in her. To think of nothing and no one else. The battle within was constant.
His previous relationships had been easy, possibly superficial. That was how he liked them. There was nothing easy about what he felt for Callie. He'd seen the mirror of wanting in her eyes. But she was the one who'd had the strength to end their kiss. She was looking for happiness, for forever. He couldn't give her those things, but he could and would provide for and protect her.