He blinked twice, three times, before his mouth settled into a grim line. "Yeah, that didn't work out."
"No. It didn't."
"You could've told me. You could've trusted me."
"We were a spring shower, Will. Warm and sweet and short. I'm sorry-I'm so sorry for how I ended things. I was then, and I am now. But it doesn't change that we wouldn't have made it."
"And now? What are we now?"
He was warm breezes and roses and beach sunrises with Kimmie and Pepper and Nat and all those women he'd taken pictures with last Sunday night. And he was everything with Lindsey. The good and the bad. The sweet and the ugly. The hope and the doom.
Because she wanted him badly enough that she couldn't judge?
Or because they would be the biggest train wreck of the century?
"Why are you here?" She hated the cracked punctuation of her voice. "What do you want from me? What are you looking for?"
"You make me hear the music." His voice was as steady as her pulse. He hunched forward and thrust his fingers through his hair. "You do. Just you. Like nobody else ever has. I want-I need to know if there's anything of the girl I fell for left under there."
Her hands shook. The TV flashed images of the fireplace-the same fireplace in the same ski lodge with the same buffalo head over the fireplace.
He'd gone back. He'd walked where they'd met. And he'd let his people tape it and show it to the world, set to the tune of a song about her underwear.
He wanted to know if there was anything of the girl he'd known under there?
She gripped the bottom of her ivory cashmere sweater, and she lifted it over her head and tossed it aside. "Is that what you wanted to know?" she said, vulnerability-damn vulnerability-making her voice squeaky.
His gaze was so intense, so focused, so determined, she couldn't have looked away if she'd wanted to.
"Could we make it now?" he said. "Are you supposed to inspire my songs forever?"
Lindsey's heart ached so hard it almost stopped. Could they? Or couldn't they? "I have a rule. Three weeks or three dates, whichever comes first. That's it. I don't do commitment. I don't do long-term. I don't do love. Those are my terms. You can take them, or you can leave."
He stretched on the couch, his eyes making a slow perusal of her body. Her skin quivered. He may as well have been licking her body for all the yes, pleases coming from her smiley face panties.
And she couldn't deny her own yes, please.
This was a bad, bad idea. It wouldn't be a normal three dates or three weeks. He'd changed her world once before.
If he stayed, he would change her life again. Even knowing what she was offering, even knowing what she'd sacrifice when it was over, she offered it anyway.
Because she wanted him. Plain and simple, even though she knew it couldn't last. She wanted Will Truitt. Again.
"Kissing part of this deal?" His voice-raw, throaty, unsteady-inspired a pull of longing between her thighs as much as the words themselves did.
"Yes."
His eyes went dark. "Touching?"
"Yes."
"Lights on or off?"
"Yes."
His scorching gaze slid down her body once again. "Clothes on or off?"
She popped the button on her jeans and hooked her thumbs under the waistband.
He leaned forward, his breathing audibly quickening. Her core pulsed in time, hot and needy and ready.
This was a bad, bad idea. Even with boundaries.
Because he was the one man who could make her break her own rules. And she would still have to let him go.
She took her time, sliding her jeans off first one hip, then shifting to push them down the other, enough to show him that the smileys on her bra matched the smileys on her panties.
And that permanent smiley on her hip.
"Yes," she said, her voice as unsteady as his. "Clothes on or off."
He swiped a hand over his mouth, but she heard his murmured Christ almighty. He lifted his hooded eyes to hers. "Three weeks," he said.
"Or three dates. Whichever-"
He stood. "Three weeks." He stepped into her space, brushed his thumbs over her ribs, his hands on her back, his mouth moments from hers. "Three weeks. Say it."
Three weeks.
Three weeks with Will. Her raw heart was working up a sweat. She licked her lips. She should outline option clauses, early termination terms, fidelity boundaries.
But this was Will. Her Will.
"Three weeks," she whispered.
"Starting now." He wasn't looking at her eyes anymore. Nope, he was staring at her lips.
His head dipped close.
His jaw brushed hers.
A jolt of pleasure danced across her skin.
She remembered this. God, she remembered this.
She closed her eyes, inhaled his scent-cotton and soap and guitar-and took a leap of faith that she could put herself together again when they were over.
She touched the soft hair on his face. His hands drifted lower until they settled at her waist, his fingers squeezing into her rear, his body molding against hers as though he'd been born to fit her, and his lips touched hers.
Her breath caught, and she leaned into his kiss. Lips, tongue, teeth, everything. She kissed him, and he kissed her back, his mouth playing hers with the same skill as his fingers played his guitar.
Kissing Will made something inside her burst free, something innately her-a dance, a smile, a laugh. His touch, his lips, his very essence settled an irritation she'd felt so long she hadn't realized it could be soothed, like a small part of her soul coming home.
A kiss this right shouldn't have been so terrifying.
She had one hand at his neck, holding him right where she wanted him, the other exploring the hot skin beneath his T-shirt. Her breath came in short pleasured whimpers, and she desperately wanted to wrap her legs around his hips to soothe the ache growing between them. Will's hands were decidedly less steady, his breathing more ragged, but his body still solid against hers.
A shiver raced through her body, and she felt it pass through him too. He eased out of the kiss, pulled his hands back. He pressed his lips to her forehead. "It's a deal then," he said, and he turned away, walking out of the living room while she stood there with her shirt off, her jeans half-down, and an aching pulse beneath her smileys.
"Whaa … ?" she stuttered.
He'd been turned on too. She knew it. She'd felt it.
He was already halfway through the kitchen. "Gotta write a song," he said.
"A song?"
Her only answer was the sound of guitar strings.
Chapter Twelve
WILL WASN'T SURE how long he was buried in the music, but when he looked up, his neck was stiff and his fingers sore, darkness had fallen, and a plate of food had magically appeared on the end table beside him.
Smooth?
Probably not.
But holy sweet Jesus. He'd liked Lindsey's kisses when he was nineteen. Three weeks of them now might near kill him. He grinned to himself, a masochistic, you idiot kind of grin, but still a grin.
Three weeks.
He had a notion to mess with her on that idea. But he had a promise of three more weeks of inspiration, and he didn't plan on wasting it or jacking it up by getting attached again.
Still, he probably needed to make nice with his muse.
He stood and stretched, felt blood coming back to his hind end. The food smelled good. Not down-home cookin' good, but still good. There were definitely mashed potatoes and green beans on that plate beside him. The meat, he wasn't sure about. Pork chops, maybe, or chicken. A light was on in the living room, so he grabbed the plate and the silverware Lindsey had left him, and he went in search of her.
Never much did like eating alone.
She was curled in the corner of the couch under her blanket again, reading something on her iPad. Wrigley was snoozing away on the floor. Will took a seat in the center of the couch, close enough that his leg sat against her toes, and settled the food on his lap. "Heard a rumor you can't cook," he said.
She didn't look away from her reading. "You know rumors. They're always true."
She had him there. According to some of the tabloids, he had fourteen love children, two with aliens and one with the sister of Bigfoot.
He eyed his plate, half-suspecting he was about to get a mouthful of some super-hot-sauced dinner meat, maybe with a side of habanero peppers inside, but when he took a bite, all he tasted was gravy-slathered pork chop. Not bad. "You a secret chef, lawyer lady?" he said after he swallowed.
"I'm a woman of many secrets," she said, still not looking up.
That, he believed.
He ate another three bites, watching her read. There were subtle dark smudges under her eyes, and she occasionally tucked her hair behind her ear as if she didn't realize she was doing it. He caught himself reaching for Vera's strap.
Funny. Lindsey had been his world for less than a week fifteen years ago. Barely any time at all. And he still didn't know her. Not well, anyway. But sitting here with her was still cozy and homey and comfortable.
If he ignored her three weeks edict. He was good with having three weeks of inspiration.