“Who doesn’t?”
He paused. “I’ve planted trees,” he told her. There was a bizarre note to his voice, one she couldn’t quite discern.
“What?” For reasons she couldn’t begin to explain, her heartbeat quickened and her mouth went dry.
“You asked about family traditions. We never really had what you would call a tradition, but my dad loved chestnuts. He’d roast them and turn on Bing Crosby. A couple of years ago I planted a small grove of trees on my farm. It’ll be three to five more years before I can harvest, but I have to admit that I’m looking forward to it.”
She felt faint. “You’ve got a farm? You’re a farmer?”
He laughed. “Well, I wouldn’t say that. I haven’t planted a damned thing besides those chestnut trees and the odd tomato plant when I’m not touring.”
She grunted. She couldn’t do anything else. Artist’s soul, farmer’s tendency. He’d planted something he didn’t expect to harvest for several years. He was committed to his home, to his land.
He just couldn’t commit to a woman.
Nothing could have made her sadder.
ONCE AGAIN HE WAS PRESENTED with an opportunity to tell her where he lived, that he was her neighbor. Or he would be very soon anyway.
And he didn’t.
What the hell was wrong with him? Why didn’t he want to tell her? What was making him hesitate? Was he afraid she’d change her mind about the property? Decide to plant her sweet peas somewhere else? Or was it the mere significance of her choosing property next to his own? She’d reluctantly shown him her scrapbook this afternoon on the bus. He knew how important building her house was to her, that she equated having her own bit of land as permanence. And had he grown up with her childhood, moving about on the bus over and over, he would have likely felt the same way. In a sense, he suspected he did, just for a slightly different reason. It had certainly made her aversion to the bus make sense, that was for damned sure.
Looking at that scrapbook, seeing every detail of what she wanted for her home, down to the last flower, shrub and tree, really put everything into perspective for him. She’d spent years planning this, hours upon hours scanning house plans and plant catalogues to find just what she was looking for. Every room had been laid out, every decoration, the placement of furniture, even the rugs on the floor. She’d left nothing out, hadn’t forgotten a single thing.
She was not the type of woman who would abandon a child.
“I’m about to ask you the most intensely personal question in the history of the world,” she warned.
Oh, hell. What would she want to know? Why hadn’t he ever married? Had he ever been in love? How many children did he want? He chuckled darkly. “Thanks for the warning.”
She paused dramatically. “What are you thinking?”
He laughed again and relief swept through him. “That is the most intensely personal question in the history of the world,” he said, surprised to realize that it was true.
“Well?”
“I was thinking about you, actually, and how you hate the tour bus.” He had been thinking about that earlier, so it wasn’t technically a lie.
She slid her foot against his calf. “Ah, yes,” she groaned. “I loathe the bus. Even listening to the road noise makes me nauseous. I can’t tell you how glad I am that we’re flying home.”
“Oh, I think you can,” he said, laughing. “I can hear it in your voice.”
She rolled on top of him, settling her sex over the ridge of his arousal. She bent forward and licked a path up the side of his neck. “Can you hear anything else?” she asked huskily.
Soft womanly skin, moist heat against his dick. He was five seconds away from saying to hell with a condom.
“Suit up,” she whispered against his ear. “I want you inside of me.”
In a flash he’d done as she instructed, and a moment later, she was lowering herself, inch by precious inch, down on him. Her heat slowly enveloped him and he set his teeth so hard he was afraid he’d ground the enamel off.
She was killing him. And, judging from that cat-in-the-cream-pot smile drifting over her lips, she was enjoying it.
Damp blond curls, smooth concave belly, the flare of her womanly hips, pink nipples resting like little tinted puffs of whipped cream upon her breasts.
She was quite possibly the most beautiful creature he’d ever seen in his life. His chest ached from looking at her, tightened and squeezed until he was breathless and dizzy.
She rose up, lowered herself once more, and the exquisite action between their joined bodies startled his respiration into action.