Rockies Retreat: Destination: Desire, Book 5 Page 10

  “No, ma’am.” Neil put on the same solemn mien as his daughter. Hey, she’d learned it from someone.

  Laurel ducked away, and he could hear her smothering giggles as she scurried to the board where assignments were listed. They were both slated to work on different side dishes, so they went to one table in the kitchen to prep the ingredients.

  It had been nice to find that they were on the same kitchen shift. Then again, he wasn’t entirely certain Gloria hadn’t shuffled things around a little to make that happen. She’d never confess it if she had though. But she was a lot nicer than she’d ever admit, cleavers notwithstanding.

  Laurel secured her long hair in a bun—one of the chef’s many rules. Then she checked the card for the recipe she was working on. “Hey, I haven’t burned a thing and it’s been—what?—three weeks now? Despite the death threats, The Woman of Many Knives is a really good teacher. I’ve made macaroni salad, au gratin potatoes, rice pilaf, and peach cobbler. Seriously, I made peach cobbler. All by myself. If she’ll let me make a main dish, I might be able to invite people over for more than a potluck or catered dinner.”

  “Catering, huh?” Though Neil was stuck on her first sentence. Three weeks. They were almost a third of the way through the program. Time flew when you were having fun. And on deadline.

  “Yeah, catering. I grew up with a silver spoon in my mouth, Graves.” She shrugged and started peeling a small mountain of apples. “I know how to manage the help—Mother made certain.”

  “Trust fund baby,” he teased with a mock-sneer, moving to a sink to rinse a boatload of cherry tomatoes. Cooking for crowds was a whole different way of thinking about food preparation.

  Her smile faded a little. “People will say the same about Violet, so don’t be a reverse snob about people like us. We don’t choose to be born to parents with money.”

  “Point taken.” He thought about that as he washed, how parental income affected kids. He’d grown up lower middle class—never quite enough money to go around, but he’d had everything he needed. And he’d been loved, which was more important than any amount of money. It hurt his heart to know that a young Laurel had had a life so lacking in love and acceptance. “Vi wanting to be an author with two parents who were successful novelists is going to result in comments too, huh?”

  “Riding the coattails.” Laurel made a sympathetic face. “But she’ll prove them wrong, because she’s awesome.”

  “Thanks.” Pride suffused him, and also gratitude that this woman was so encouraging of his daughter. He didn’t know what he’d done to deserve her, but he wasn’t about to question his good fortune. Everything seemed a little better, a little easier to deal with when Laurel was around. Violet and he had laughed more in the last month than they had in the last twelve months combined, and part of that was Laurel’s influence. She was funny and sarcastic and didn’t take herself or anyone else too seriously. Not that she was a flake, but she didn’t have an aneurysm over every little thing either.

  There was a lesson in that for him, he knew. He’d tended to take everything too seriously.

  “Don’t thank me for the truth.” She carefully cored and sliced the apples, her brow creased as she concentrated. Cooking didn’t come naturally to her, but she made a real effort because it was part of the program. She’d signed on with The Enclave, so she didn’t shirk the responsibilities that came with it. He liked that about her, the dichotomy of carefree and conscientious.

  He brought his tomatoes back to the cutting board and started slicing them in half. After this he had to cut up some basil and feta cheese. This was going to be a pretty tasty salad. He glanced over to see Laurel cleaning up the apple cores. “I’ve been meaning to ask. How’s your apprentice? I haven’t even seen him, and he wasn’t that late for the start of the program.”

  “Anti-social is too mild a word for him.” She shrugged. “He’s basically a hermit. He spent thirty years in IT, retired, and decided to pursue his secret passion for painting. His work is good, but I’m pretty sure he’s subsisting on Cheetos in his cabin so he doesn’t have to mingle with others in the dining room.”

  “He has to do his stint in the kitchen with other people.” He motioned to the half-dozen other artists in the room.

  She shook her head. “He has so many food allergies and sensitivities, he got a doctor’s note saying he can’t even be in an area where about fifty kinds of foods are present.”

  “Dang. A doctor’s note.” Neil snapped his fingers. “I should have thought of that.”

  Her eyes widened. “But then you’d get to spend less time with me.”

  “True.” He bent to kiss the tip of her nose. “That would be tragic.”

  “Good answer.” Her gaze dropped to his lips, as if daring him to do more, despite their audience. He resisted. Barely.

  His voice was rougher than he intended when he replied, “I do what I can.”

  “I like what you can do.”

  She gave him a bright smile, and it warmed a place deep inside him that had been cold and barren for far too long. But he didn’t like to think about what had turned him into an overly-serious ulcer candidate. It hadn’t just been his divorce, or losing his parents, or even his ex dying. No, there was one moment, one day that had ripped the joy out of him for years. He’d done his best to put it behind him, for Violet and Cara’s sakes, but some wounds never really healed, did they? He shook off the memories. It was a long time ago, and he was tired of dwelling on the past. Doing so never helped.

  Laurel and he settled into companionable silence, working side by side. He liked how her arm or hip would bump into his occasionally. There was the thrill of sexual awareness, of course, but it was more than that. It felt like a real relationship, a partnership, or the start of one. But that wasn’t quite true, was it? Sure, they were “dating,” but she’d never spent the night in his cabin when Vi was there.

  It was ironic. Laurel was the first thing to make him feel like the weight he carried wasn’t going to crush him. She reminded him what it was like to want someone so intensely it burned. She reminded him that he was not only a father, novelist, or screenplay writer—he was a man, and it had been a very long while since he let himself be just a man. The fame and fortune he’d built meant he’d had more than his fair share of starlets and groupies wanting to scratch any carnal itches he might have had, and he enjoyed the short flings they offered, but that was all they were. Short-term and complication-free. That’d been his specialty since his divorce. He hadn’t had energy or time for more.

  Laurel offered him the same kind of uncomplicated arrangement for the summer, but with her…the feelings were more intense, the desire raged hotter, and he wasn’t entirely sure he wanted this fling to be short-lived. Sadly, there was absolutely no way his stressed, insane existence would ever meld with her free-spirited, rootless lifestyle. He had a kid, so he could never bounce from coast to coast—or continent to continent—the way Laurel did. It was cringe-worthy to admit it, but he didn’t have much to offer a woman like her. Great sex, sure, but what else? She didn’t need his money, didn’t give a damn about his fame, and wouldn’t enjoy the constant juggling act he had to do to manage his competing priorities.

  Where did that leave him? Nowhere. So he’d better enjoy whatever she was willing to give him. He had a feeling it was going to suck to lose her when their stay in Colorado ended. But he was a big boy. He’d suffered through all kinds of loss before, and he could do it again.

  He hoped.

  But he had to brace himself for when that finale came, and be careful to protect his daughter as best he could. Because it looked like Vi might be falling in love with Laurel as much as Neil was.

  Chapter Seven

  He was in hell.

  That was all Neil could think. Hell. Somehow, someway, he’d pissed off the universe and now he was being punished. He sat on the couch and stared at the le
tter from his editor, feeling his gut churn. Just reading it again made sweat pop out along his hairline. He swiped at it roughly, wanting nothing more than to burn the offending piece of paper and pretend he’d never seen it. He couldn’t do this. He could not write any of this. Just thinking about how to rip his book apart the way his editor wanted made his mind gibber with panic. And made memories he wished he didn’t have resurface to mock him.

  “You look stressed.” Laurel stood just inside the screen door, her head cocked as she studied him. Somehow he hadn’t even noticed that she’d come in. “More stressed than usual, I mean. What’s wrong?”

  Yeah, as if he wanted to tell her about this. “Nothing, just busy.”

  “You’re lying.” Her tone was deceptively mild, but he knew her well enough now to understand when she was annoyed with him. She folded her arms. “If you don’t want to talk to me, that’s fine, but don’t lie.”

  “You’re right, I’m sorry.” And he meant it. His shit day shouldn’t roll downhill onto her.

  “Forgiven.” A little smile tilted up one corner of her lips. She nodded to the coffee table that held his laptop and papers. “I’ll leave you to it.”

  Leave him alone with this horrible letter? This thing that might actually drive him mad? Nausea roiled in his belly. He held out a hand before she could turn away. “Wait.”

  Her grin widened, and she came over to perch on the arm of the sofa. “So. What’s wrong?”

  “I’m blocked.” There. That was a simple way to put it, without going into details that would give him nightmares.

  She looked puzzled for a moment. “Uh…like you need a laxative?”

  He snorted. “That would actually be easier to deal with. No, I have writer’s block.”

  “Got it.” Her look was sympathetic, her tone gentle. “Well, it happens to a lot of artists. You must have dealt with it before.”

  “Not like this.”

  She nodded as if she understood, but she didn’t. She couldn’t. “So, the screenplay isn’t going well?”

  “Not the screenplay.”

  “Then what?” She ticked off his projects on her fingers. “You turned in the story Violet was doing copy edits on, you turned in the novel. Do you have another project you’re working on?”

  “My editor sent back revisions on the novel.” He pressed his thumbs against his temples and massaged, but it didn’t relieve his tension.

  “Oh. What does he—or she—want you to do that’s blocking you?”

  And relive the worst day of his life? Fuck. He swallowed and closed his eyes. “It’s just wrapped up in some seriously bad memories.”

  “Okay.” Her expression went from kind to concerned. “Something to do with your parents, your ex-wife, other traumatic experiences that you haven’t told me about yet?”

  “The second two.”

  “Talking about it might help.” She reached over and caught his hand, squeezing tight. “With the block and with making this something that doesn’t block you anymore.”

  Yeah, right. His laugh was an ugly sound, even to his own ears. “I wish that was true, but some things will mess you up so badly that you never really get over them.”

  “And this is one of those things.”

  It wasn’t a question, but he answered it anyway.

  “Yeah,” he sighed. “This is one of those things.”

  “How can I help?” She leaned closer, her dark eyes reflecting how much she cared about him. So sweet, so giving.

  And he still couldn’t tell her. Or rather, he didn’t want to. So, it was time to change the subject. He used her hold on his hand to reel her in and tumble her into his lap. “Kiss it and make it better?”

  She shifted to straddle his thighs and smirked down at him. “You want distraction rather than actual help?”

  “Sometimes a distraction does help.” He offered what he hoped was a convincing smile. “Your subconscious can work on the problem while you’re busy with something else.”

  “Uh-huh.” Skepticism oozed from her tone. “How many girls have gone for that line?”

  Ha. As if he would fall into that trap. He let his smile widen. “You’re the first I’ve tried it on, so I’m hoping I get one hundred percent response rate.”

  “Right answer.” She brushed her lips over his. “Condom?”

  “In my nightstand.” Because he shared the medicine cabinet with his teenage daughter. Yeah, he wanted to have that discussion.

  She shimmied backward and pushed to her feet. “Well, come on.”

  Thank God. He felt the kind of intense relief that should be reserved for a man given a reprieve from the gallows. He rose and took her hand, bringing it to his lips to kiss. Then he led her into the bedroom, leaving the damn letter behind.

  She turned toward him, her mouth open to speak, but he didn’t let her get a word out, too afraid that she’d change her mind. So he hauled her against him, smothering whatever she might have said with his mouth. He plunged his tongue between her lips, kissing her hard, demanding a response. She moaned, clutching at his shoulders, her ardor quickly rising to match his. He loved the way she always reacted for him, and he needed that now more than ever, needed to forget, needed the bliss he found when he lost himself in her body.

  He slid his hands down her back, grabbing the edge of her shirt. He broke the kiss just long enough to yank the garment over her head. “I want you, Laurel. I want you naked, I want to fuck you until I can’t even remember my own name.”

  “I—”

  His lips met hers again, cutting off her words. He honed in on her chest, stroking her through the soft lace of her bra, stimulating her nipples with the fabric. She whimpered and reached for the front of his jeans, fighting with the zipper while he toyed with her breasts. She opened his fly, then tugged at his tucked-in polo. They struggled to undress each other between kisses, their breathing harsh, their movements rushed.

  God, he needed to be inside her. He dragged her over to the night stand, scrambled for the condom, donning the rubber in record time. Then he had her in his arms again, his mouth on hers, backing her against the nearest wall. She wrapped her legs around his waist and he shoved deep in one sharp, swift thrust.

  Oh, yeah.

  Nothing, nothing ever felt as good as sliding deep into a wet, willing woman. Her hot sex clenching tight around his cock. It was, hands down, the most visceral experience in the world.

  And with Laurel, it was better than it had been…maybe ever.

  Clamping his hands on her perfect ass, he rode her into the wall. It was hard and wild and rough and he couldn’t stop if someone had a gun to his head. Her fingers gripped his hair so tightly it stung, and her other hand was busy raking down his arm. “Yes, Neil. Yes. Right there, right there. Just like that.”

  “You’re killing me.” His hips pistoned, driving his dick into her as fast as he possibly could, trying to forge their bodies into one.

  Her chuckling was throaty, her voice hitching each time he pounded into her. “Can you think of a better way to go?”

  “Not one.”

  Sweat made their flesh glide, and he felt his orgasm begin to boil up from his balls. He thrust deep, over and over and over again. Heat simmered in his blood, a fever he could never quench.

  “I’m going to—” Her sentence ended in a long, low moan.

  The feel of her pussy fisting around his dick was more than enough to catapult him over into climax. Hot jets of come spurted out of him, draining him of all thought, all emotion, all past and present. There was only this moment of exquisite ecstasy while he pumped into her sex.

  And it was fucking perfect.

  Her little sighs as she came down from the high made a smile curve his lips. Her fingers relaxed and she petted him. He held her close and eased them away from the wall. He took a few steps to the right and settle
d her on the mattress, slipping in behind her. He buried his face in the crook of her neck, breathing in the feminine scent of her, and let his mind drift. He let the air out of his lungs, and it took a moment to identify the sudden quiet well-being that enveloped him.

  Even in the middle of madness, he found peace in her arms.

  “So, did your block work itself out subconsciously?” Laurel propped herself up on her elbow and looked down at him. While the sex had been as marvelous as ever—if perhaps a little more frantic—now that she’d come down off the high, she couldn’t put the stricken look on his face when she’d walked into the cabin out of her mind. “I know I’m good, but if it’s something that scarred you for life, I may not be that good.”

  His eyes crinkled at the corners, and he ran a fingertip along her collarbone. “I feel like any response I make to that is going to come out wrong and piss you off.”

  “I’ll take it that you’d still have problems doing your revisions.” She kept her voice light. “That still leaves my suggestion.”

  “Talking it out.” He appeared more than a little skeptical.

  “I know, it’s such a chick thing to say.” She settled against him and rested her chin on his chest, but still held his gaze. “You said it had to do with your ex-wife and other trauma. Something related to the divorce?”

  He was quiet long enough that she thought he might not answer. “It’s what led to the divorce, more or less.”

  A memory tickled at the back of her mind, and she almost winced, but forced herself not to chicken out of this conversation. She had a feeling this was something he needed to talk about, whether he wanted to or not. She cleared her throat. “I seem to recall there was some scandal surrounding your break up, but that was years ago and I don’t really keep up with Hollywood gossip.”

  “Scandal.” He snorted and shook his head. “The only scandal was one created by the paparazzi and a fame-hungry bitch.”

  That was probably the most unforgiving statement she’d ever heard him make. Not good. “The actress who starred in your first film, right? They turned your zombie apocalypse slasher trilogy into movies.” She managed a smile. “Those scared me so bad I almost peed my pants. It was awesome.”