The Road to Rose Bend, Naima Simone [jenna bush book club .TXT] 📗

seemed just as...intimate. And that’s what he hungered for with her. Intimacy. Damn, this craving for a woman he barely knew, and who, for all intents and purposes, rejected him, should’ve shot up a neon red flag of caution in his brain. And maybe it did.

Maybe he just didn’t care.

He didn’t flinch under Cherrie’s narrow-eyed perusal. No, he welcomed it. Welcomed any part of her touching him, even if it was only her gaze. And as she roamed from his face, to his leather jacket and down his body to his jeans and boots, his fingers curled into fists. A necessary prevention to keep from reaching out, circling her wrist and dragging her hand to stroke all the places her eyes had brushed over.

“Fine,” she murmured, swinging off the bike and avoiding looking at him. But it was too late. Before she’d turned away, he’d caught the flicker of desire in her almond eyes. Satisfaction burned inside him, and he clenched his jaw to contain the grin that would most likely appear feral. “Let me check my levels, gauge and the gas, and then I’ll come find you.”

Nodding, he slowly turned, indulging in one last lingering sweep over her curves, before he strode back to his Ducati. Excitement sped through his veins. Excitement and something sharper, brighter. And imperative.

Again, not analyzing it.

CHAPTER THREE

“THIS IS ABSOLUTELY BEAUTIFUL.”

Maddox released his chin strap and slid off his matte black helmet. He glanced from the view to Cherrie as she also removed her helmet. His fingers tingled with the need to fluff her curls, spread them out in a gorgeous dark brown and red halo. But she beat him to it, and he didn’t deny his disappointment.

Determined to resist temptation, he tore his gaze away from her and fixed it on the vista spread out before them, removing his leather jacket. Peace settled in his chest like a guest walking in and making himself at home. He’d debated whether or not to bring her here. But at their last stop, to gas up, he’d asked her to follow him here instead of returning to town with everyone else. And witnessing her reaction, he didn’t regret his spontaneous decision.

Dragging his fingers through his hair, he shoved the strands away from his face and walked over to stand next to her. Together they silently drank in the view of Rose Bend from the top of a grassy knoll beneath huge trees that provided a canopy of cool shade.

“It’s like a postcard,” she whispered, wonder coloring her voice. “A vintage, perfect postcard.” Tipping her head back, she squinted up at him. “How did you find this place?” She stripped out of her jacket and laid it over the seat of her bike, leaving her clothed in a thin white tank top that bared her toned arms and clung to her full breasts and rounded stomach.

Fuck.

Grinding his teeth, he forced his scrutiny back to the scenery. But he no longer saw the picturesque town. No, he could only see smooth, soft-looking flesh rising above a scoop neckline and the peek of black silk through white cotton.

“Purely by accident,” he said, slipping his hands into the front pockets of his jeans. His hands he could control. The lust roughening his voice? Not so much. “Eight years ago, I was on one of my random road trips, traveling from Vermont down to Massachusetts. I ended up on this stretch and the sight of that—” he hitched his chin toward the view “—stole my breath. I pulled over right here, sat down and stayed for hours. And it’s here I promised myself that if the town turned out to be anything like the view, I was making my home there. It was. Not just the place, but the people. After a week, I returned to my place, packed my stuff and came back. I’ve never left.”

She frowned. “All this time I thought you were born here. Where’s home, originally?”

He softly snorted, shaking his head. “Mostly, a tour bus.” Shock parted her lips and widened her eyes, and he chuckled. “I kid you not. My mom is an Irish woman with a voice like Aretha Franklin and was—still is—a backup singer for major music acts. My first memory is playing in a dressing room while she was on stage. I traveled with her when I was younger. As I grew older, she’d leave me with different relatives during the school year, but my summers were with her, back on the road. At times it could be exciting, visiting different cities and countries, but always leaving family, friends... That grew tiresome. Painful even. I’ve always just wanted a home to settle down in, to call my own. And Rose Bend is that for me. I found my real home.”

He glanced down at her, rueful. An apology for his long ramble was on his tongue when he caught a flash of hurt in her expression. It was there and gone in a flicker, but he’d seen it. Recognized it.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, turning fully toward her. Before he could question the wisdom of touching her, he shifted closer and cupped the back of her neck. She didn’t stiffen or step away, and a contentment that should’ve been another red flare of warning swelled within him. “Don’t try to tell me ‘nothing.’ For an entire school year, I lived with four teenage girl cousins. I know ‘nothing’ means everything.”

She didn’t laugh as he’d intended, and his concern deepened.

“Tell me, Cherrie.”

She hesitated, glancing away from him. But then, voice halting, she said, “You must resent your mother. Either always dragging you along with her or leaving you behind. No stability. She must’ve seemed selfish to you.”

He couldn’t help it—he laughed. And her eyes jerked back to his face, surprise darkening them. “Sorry,” he said, but still smiling. “My mother is one of the most selfless, loving and kind women I know. She raised me by herself, my father long gone before I could talk. Instead