Читать книгу Take My Breath Away - Christie Ridgway - Страница 13

CHAPTER FIVE

FROM YOU SEND ME, a screenplay by Linus Hamilton:

FADE IN:

EXT. STREET—DAY

A luxury convertible pulls into a parking space in front of the log cabin-style post office in a tiny, isolated Southern California mountain town. Twenty-nine-year-old LINUS HAMILTON’s head turns from side to side, taking in the flanking businesses: a minuscule grocery and an even smaller real estate office. A summer breeze plays with LINUS’s wealth of dirty-blond hair.

A woman in shorts and hiking boots exits the post office, catching his attention. She shades her eyes with her hand, as LINUS, in slacks and T-shirt, steps from the vehicle.

WOMAN

Are you lost?

LINUS

Nope.

He grins, an easy smile that is boyish and charming.

LINUS

Just exploring the area. Do you happen to know how many post offices there are in these mountains?

Bemused, the woman shakes her head.

LINUS

Only slightly fewer than the number of rodent-size dogs you can spy on a stroll down Rodeo Drive. In other words, a lot. I’ve made it my goal to mail my brother a postcard from each and every one.

He ambles past the woman, who turns to watch him as he reaches for the door handle.

INT. POST OFFICE—DAY

Inside the narrow space, a short wooden counter is directly ahead. The left and right walls are covered with old-fashioned post office boxes, their glass faces painted with gold numbers edged in black that look Western in design. Behind the counter is twenty-four-year-old CHARLOTTE “CHARLIE” WALKER, her head with its pixie-cut of flaxen hair lowered as she organizes something on the shelf below. When the door opens, she looks up with a smile. It fades as LINUS crosses the threshold.

CHARLIE

Are you lost?

Staring at CHARLIE, LINUS’s hand creeps up to his chest. Then he shakes himself a little, pulls in a breath and beams out another trademark grin.

LINUS

I think I just found exactly what this summer’s been lacking.

* * *

THE COLD BROOK, California, post office provided counter service for its small community from 3:00 p.m. until 5:00 p.m. in the afternoon, Monday through Friday. Charlotte Walker passed a book of stamps over the scarred wooden surface and flashed a farewell smile for her friend Janelle, who clerked in the deli/grocery next door. It was Monday, which meant Charlie hoped to be seeing the other woman again a couple of evenings from now in Blue Arrow Lake. The two of them and some other girlfriends had a standing date in the bigger town twelve winding miles down the highway—weather permitting. A fierce March storm had been raging on and off but if it let up, then Charlie was going to have a relaxing couple of glasses of wine with her friends later this week.

A girl, even a born-and-bred mountain girl, had to get out and see a little more of the world sometimes.

Charlie took a peek at the wall clock. Fifteen more minutes then she’d slide and lock the metal grille that secured the counter area and back room. She expected one or two of Cold Brook’s eight hundred residents would rush through at 4:58 p.m. with the urgent need to get a package weighed or a letter sent off, so she occupied herself by tidying the carousel of postcards that sat next to her station. Hardly anyone ever gave them a glance, so it was a bit anal of her to double-check they were properly organized, but she was studying online for a degree in accounting and details mattered to Charlie.

The customary squeak of the front door came at 4:57 p.m. A bit early, she thought, glancing up to see Walt Eustace bustle through, a box of pamphlets in his arms. Brochure-mailing day, she guessed. It was the time of year when he sent out reminders to previous renters of Cold Brook properties in anticipation of the summer season. We wish you were here!

Walt’s big belly had yet to make it halfway to her when the door swung open again and twelve-year-old Erin Frye walked through, a letter clutched in her hand. She had a pen pal across the country, someone she’d linked up with through Scouting, and Erin enjoyed perusing the binder of stamp choices to pick just the right one to paste in the right-hand corner of the envelope intended for her buddy in Woods Hole, Massachusetts. Charlie stifled a little sigh. Stamp-shopping could take the middle-schooler past closing time.

Oh, well. Given that Erin’s pen pal was a Boy Scout, Charlie got a little kick out of imagining an innocent romance was blooming in the mailbags that crossed the country. It spiced up the mundane routine of her days as the winter doldrums had yet to be replaced by spring fancies.

She was reaching for Walt’s carton of glossy leaflets when the door squeaked a third time, bringing with it another cool draft of moist air. The small hairs on Charlie’s exposed nape stood up, an instant before her gaze lifted to take in the newcomer.

Her palms went damp.

Charlie’s rite of passage had returned.

In haste, she refocused on the pamphlets and pasted on a smile for Walt. “Hey, you just made it in under the wire,” she said, raising her voice. “Don’t know that I’ll be able to take care of all the customers before closing time.”

Behind Walt, Erin let out a little bleat of distress. Feeling guilty, Charlie looked around Walt’s rotund form to meet the girl’s eyes. “Don’t worry,” she said softly. “Your letter will go out today.”

The man still loitering by the entrance didn’t get any of her attention. Why, oh, why, was Linus here? She’d never expected to see him again; had made it clear that theirs had been a short-term summer romance. No way was she onboard with a replay.

Walt was his usual jovial self. She would have chatted him up longer, hoping that Linus might get bored and leave, but Erin was shuffling her feet and appearing anxious. So Charlie finished business with her current customer, then dragged out the fat binder of loose stamps as Erin stepped up to the counter. From the periphery of her vision, she saw Linus hold open the door and say “Good day” to Walt.

Why couldn’t he follow the other man out?

Her gaze returned to the plastic sleeves that displayed the available offerings. The young girl studied them with deep concentration. “Can I choose more than one—as many as I like as long as it adds up to first class postage?”

“No problem,” Charlie assured the girl. “I’ll hand-cancel them myself.”

Erin turned the page to inspect the next sleeve’s contents. Her fingernails were painted a glittery purple and she had a unicorn-embossed elastic bandage wound around one knuckle—both accessories seemed at odds with her almost-grown-up demeanor.

Had she been so serious at twelve? Charlie wondered. Maybe it took a love interest from far away to turn a girl solemn. Though Charlie’s out-of-towner hadn’t shown up for over a decade, the instant the tall, charming flatlander had strolled into her post office last August she’d recognized the momentous occasion.

Many young mountain women went through the ritual event of a summer fling with one of the area’s wealthy visitors. Opposite attraction was clearly a potent force. By the age of nineteen or twenty, females who grew up in the small, insular communities surrounded by peaks and pines had usually dated all the local guys they found attractive. Working as waitresses or shop clerks, in the high tourist season they often came in contact with So-Cal men who came from a higher social strata. Dates were made, fun was had.

Sometimes hearts were irrevocably lost.

But she’d been clear with him, with herself, that hers wouldn’t be one of them.

“These,” Erin said, stabbing at two different stamps. Her coins clacked on the countertop.

Aware of Linus leaning against a row of post office boxes six feet away, Charlie slowly completed the transaction. With Erin just turning from the counter, Charlie reached high and grabbed the grilled security screen. As Linus stepped up, she slammed it into place.

His head jerked back at the loud clang. Through the metal bars he peered at her. “Uh, Charlie?”

Last summer, he’d often called her “Sal,” in a tone of casual affection. Sure, the Peanuts characters Linus and Charlie Brown had been buds, he’d told her early on, but it was Charlie’s little sister, Sally, who’d carried a torch for her brother’s striped-shirted best friend. When she’d inquired where was his blanket and why wasn’t he sucking a thumb, Linus had grabbed her hand and—

“Charlie?”

His voice broke through her reverie. Stepping back, she crossed her arms over her crisp blue uniform shirt and tried quelling the sense of panic that was squeezing her lungs. “Sorry, we’re closed for the day.”

Linus frowned at her. The expression didn’t mar the absolute even perfection of his features. So, her imagination hadn’t exaggerated how great-looking he was in those dreams she’d had the past six months. They were what she’d had to rely on, because she’d made herself delete from her phone every picture she’d snapped of him during their brief interlude as a couple.

“I’m not here to buy stamps,” he said now, moving closer to curl his fingers over the metal rails separating them.

She stared at his hands, remembering them stroking flesh that was heated by mountain sun—and her body’s fiery reaction to that touch, this man. Just a fingertip tracing the vein in her throat could make her mad with desire. Her lungs squeezed again and she dropped her gaze to her black Oxfords. They were unsexy but comfortable, all that she’d felt about her life since Linus had gone back to L.A.

Missing him, wanting him once more by her side, hadn’t been an option since it was she who had laid out the rules of their short-lived affair. Coming from such different places, she’d known the magic between them couldn’t last.

Her head came up and she forced herself to meet his eyes. “Why are you here?” she asked, trying to keep her tone civil. “Why have you come back?”

He shrugged one shoulder in that elegant way of his. “You know my brother has the house at Blue Arrow Lake—”

“Why are you here, Linus?” She lifted her arms to indicate the post office.

“Let me tell you about that,” he began, leaning against the counter and beaming that sunny, seductive smile of his.

“I don’t have time for the tale,” Charlie responded, her voice firm. “I have to lock the front door, finish my duties.”

“Then dinner—”

“Absolutely not.”

He frowned. “Why?”

“I can’t do this twice, Linus. Go away.” She kept her gaze steady on his face. “Please go away.”

“Charlie—”

“I can’t do this to...” She couldn’t catch her breath.

Linus’s expression hardened and his brown eyes turned to polished stone. “To who?” he demanded.

To myself. But instead of revealing any inner turmoil, Charlie forced her chin to lift. “Goodbye, Linus.”

It wasn’t regret coursing through her, or anything close to it, she promised herself as Linus stomped out. The tears stinging the corners of her eyes were from mere relief.

Right?

* * *

TWENTY-FOUR HOURS AFTER the first leak had sprung, the storm had at last subsided to a soft, intermittent drizzle and the pots and bowls set out to catch the dozen unexpected overflows needed emptying much less often. Ryan poured the contents of a coffee mug into a bucket and walked the half-full container into the kitchen.

The contents gurgled down the drain’s sink as Poppy entered the room. She held up her cell phone when he glanced over. “Good news,” she said.

Any minute I’ll go blind? Lose my sense of smell? Develop amnesia? Because twenty-four hours hadn’t been long enough for him to forget how she’d felt in his arms, hot and pliant and eager. And in twenty-four hours he hadn’t been able to escape her fresh face and her sweet, signature scent...or the way both tugged at his dick. It seemed as if he’d been hard for her since the moment he’d taken her hand and lied about his name.

Her brows came together and she took a step back.

God, he probably looked as if he was about to close in for a bite. Half-turning, he set the bucket on the counter. “Good news?” he prompted.

He heard her swallow. “My buddy Bob says he’ll be out here tomorrow to take care of the tree across the road. We should be able to leave for town by late afternoon.”

“One last night, then,” Ryan said, grateful that the torture had an end point. It had been hell, not knowing how long he was supposed to repress his urges. His fingers itched to sift through her silky hair as he held her still for his kiss. His palm clamored to cup the curve of her naked bottom. He wanted to be inside her, inside her wet, snug space, where he would move over and over and over, while she moaned and pleaded and clutched at him, begging for release.

The image was so real he felt the sting of her fingernails in his bare shoulders.

Jesus. Ryan cleared his throat, tried clearing the fantasy out of his head. “One last night. That’s good.”

“Yes.” Poppy’s mouth turned up. “Though the couch in your living room is likely more comfortable than anything my brother has to offer.”

He grimaced. She’d refused to take the bed, making do with a couple of blankets on the sofa. They’d both gotten up in the night to check on the leaks, and Poppy Walker in sweats and with a pillow crease on her rosy cheek was more turn-on than any porn star in her birthday suit. “You don’t have to stay there again tonight.”

“I can’t,” she answered quickly. “I can’t be in your bed.” A flush crawled up her cheeks. “I mean, not that you were suggesting we would share...”

They stared at each other and he saw her face take on that dazed look he figured might be on his if he looked in the mirror. It had never happened to him like this, an attraction so powerful that it made him stupid. Lust poured into his bloodstream and he curled his fingers into fists so he couldn’t reach for Poppy and bring her close.

She jumped, breaking their shared gaze. “I’m going to make cookies,” she said.

Ryan glanced at the plastic-wrapped plates already sitting on the counter. While he’d taken a shower that morning, Poppy had dashed back to her place—he wouldn’t have let her go if he’d known—and returned with a box of supplies from her kitchen: flour, sugar, various other baking ingredients.

When she’d said, “Do you like chocolate chip?” his admonitions about going into a compromised dwelling had died on his lips.

But the delectable butter, brown sugar and chocolate confections hadn’t eased his true hunger. He’d still been feeling a bit nauseous from overindulging when she’d flopped down on the opposite end of the couch in front of the fire. They’d tried the parallel-reading thing again.

But then he’d caught her staring at his hands and she’d leaped from the cushions like she’d been scalded and headed back to the kitchen. Though he told himself that he didn’t need to eat another thing, and then he told himself that at least oatmeal cookies were a healthy option, once again he’d eaten too many with the end result being the same—he’d been left still dissatisfied.

As he watched her set out more ingredients, he sighed. “Poppy,” he said, his voice gentle. “Poppy.”

When she didn’t respond, he came up behind her and cupped her shoulders with his hands. Her body trembled beneath his touch, and she clutched the open bag of flour. “You need to stop,” he said.

“You like my cookies,” she replied, not looking at him.

He rolled his eyes. “I think we both know I like everything sweet about you.”

“Well, then...”

Such an innocent. “Poppy,” he bent his head toward hers so his mouth was against her temple. “You do understand, right? Nothing that you bake can assuage this particular appetite.” He punctuated the sentence with an almost-chaste kiss to her ear.

Still, she jolted at the touch of his lips. Her fingers must have spasmed, too, because a little cloud of white powder poofed upward from the bag she held. At her choked sound he turned her, taking in the dusted features, the flour barely obscuring the blush that he found so damn appealing. He smiled at the sight—smiled! in March!—as she raised now-white eyebrows in a rueful grimace.

His dark, withered heart shifted in his chest, inching higher. Lifting his hands from her shoulders, he brushed her face with his thumbs, tracing the arch of those brows, the straight line of her nose, the softness of her cheeks. She stood still under his ministrations, once more in her wild-bunny, don’t-hurt-me pose.

Quivering, quivering while hoping, hoping, the predator wouldn’t dive for the kill.

Taking the bag of flour from her unresisting hold, he placed it on the counter behind her. Then he ducked his head to catch her gaze. “I’m not going to bite.”

She was silent a long moment. Then she heaved in a breath. “What if I wished you would?”

* * *

ONE LAST NIGHT, Poppy thought.

One last opportunity to surrender to this overwhelming...thing that Ryan brought out in her. He called it an “appetite” and maybe he was right because she’d never felt so greedy, even when she’d been in the thick of whatever she’d had with Mason’s father.

Mason.

Her boy would be back with her, back in her arms again the next day. She’d be “Mommy” once more, with all its attendant joys and obligations. She loved her little boy and couldn’t wait to see him, but there was still tonight to get through...as Poppy.

Poppy Walker, who hadn’t been touched like a woman in five-plus years.

Ryan was staring at her, the light from his blue eyes burning, mesmerizing her, making her not responsible for what she did—but that wasn’t true. In this moment in time she didn’t want to be responsible. Just for a while she wanted to leave behind all that she’d have to tackle tomorrow: where she was going to live, how she was going to fix the damaged cabins, what she was going to do about her car. How any of that might be paid for.