Page 28 of Fast Currents
“If you want to,” she said cautiously.
Even if her answer was evasive, something about that sign of trust eased the thunderheads threatening to take control.
“Oh, honey, I want to. But there’s no rush.”
She slumped against the couch, gathering her hair up as if reasserting control over that tiny aspect of her life would be enough to drive out the lingering lust that echoed between us. The faint tremor in her hands signaled that, as cool as she looked on the outside, our kiss had shaken her.
She spotted the hairband I’d tossed away earlier and tied her hair back. Returning to the more controlled version of Lucy I’d become familiar with over the last few months. Part of me mourned the loss of the wild side I’d caught a glimpse of while we were kissing.
As much as I wanted to argue that we should live in the moment, wring every orgasm out of life that we could, she wasn’t ready. And I wouldn’t rush her. When we got together, I wanted her wholly with me… not reliving any part of her past.
Chapter 13 – Lucy
Facing Clay after nearly mauling him last night wasn’t my idea of a good time. Unfortunately, our schedule leading up to the show didn’t leave room for embarrassment. Telling myself I should be proud for calling a stop to something I wasn’t ready for lost power around two in the morning.
That was when the panic crept in. That I’d ruined something. That he’d leave. But Clay wasn’t like that. Not last night. He’d made no arguments and no complaints. There was no mention of hurting his feelings or making me feel like crap for being a bad date. Just easy acceptance.
He was nothing like Christopher. I actually believed him when he said “no rush.” It was me who kept giving mixed signals, charging ahead and then screeching to a stop.
My body kept getting ahead of my brain. Every time I tried to think clearly, the rest of me shut down, worried about how he’d react when he saw all of me.
I spotted Clay’s truck pulling up and bolted out to his truck before he could come to my door. He didn’t need to revisit the scene of our almost-crime.
He’d accepted my pause on our sextivities last night with grace. And today was no different. He kept up a steady stream of chatter about the island, seeming unfazed by the unfinished business between us. But the memories of last night, how good he’d made me feel, left me unable to focus on small talk. I couldn’t ignore his big body next to mine.
The subtle scent of his soap filled the truck, drowning me in him. He flicked the turn signal. Even that casual gesture struck me as erotic. Strong. Sure. Confident.
Was it better to warn him in advance, or just dive into sex and steel myself for his response to my body? Tell my mind to shut up and give him a chance? I’d lived with my birthmark forever, but the fear of unveiling it never seemed to fade. It covered most of my chest in a purple-red shape vaguely reminiscent of the Eurasian continent. Christopher urged me to cover it up. He couldn’t quite hide his disgust. Over time, it had colored our relationship, leaving me feeling self-conscious about showing it to anyone new.
My worries made it difficult to focus on his easy patter as he drove.
The Island Muse Gallery was in Roche Harbor, about a fifteen-minute drive from Friday Harbor. The chic resort community was ninety-nine percent housing rentals or permanent homes, with the remaining one percent made up of high-end shops and restaurants.
Parking was almost always a pain, but we snagged a space in front of the gallery. Clay backed expertly into the spot and dropped his tailgate. We carried stacks of canvases inside, propping them against Chaz’s counter. Today, the display nearthe register was filled with delicate jewelry crafted from shells and bits of stone.
Chaz himself appeared from the back room with a toothy smile. His silver-blond hair was expertly cut and styled. He tugged his shirt, straightening it beneath the cuffs of his jacket before smoothing down his lapel. “Lucy. Good to see you.”
I tipped my chin. “Chaz.”
Chaz extended his hand. “Chaz Underwood.”
He and Clay shook. “Clay Robertson. We spoke on the phone – I’m one of the park rangers.”
“Yes, yes. I’m happy to support the volunteers at the National Historical Park. I’ve started working with my graphic designer on posters for the Halloween event. My assistant, Janine, handled ticket sales. She made a deal with Harlow at the bakery and other vendors across the island.”
“Where is Janine?” I asked.
His use of past tense bothered me. The benefit was still weeks away. Janine should behandlingticket sales. My gaze flicked to the black curtain that marked the entrance to the gallery’s back room.
“She’s not in today,” Chaz said smoothly.
“Where would you like the canvases?” I asked, letting it drop. For now.
He rubbed his hands together. “Let’s take a look first.” He tapped the counter. “Show me what we’re working with.”
“We’ve got a range of ages participating. Our youngest artist is eight.” I spread the kids’ canvases across the counter. One rainbow lighthouse with unicorns caught Chaz’s eye, and he chuckled. “The parents are going to love these. What else do you have for me?”
Slowly, I spread the senior canvases, careful to tuck Gran’s nude masterpiece beneath a more innocuous lighthouse that had executed an improbable sunset well.
