Slow Dance at Rose Bend, Naima Simone [ebook reader computer .TXT] 📗

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 of pawning me off on others, she chose to keep me with her even if it meant living on tour buses. Only when the tutors weren’t cutting it and she believed I should be around kids my age did I stay with relatives. And even then, we talked every day. Everything she did was for me. Out of her love for me. Every penny she didn’t spend on my upkeep, she saved for my college education or for whatever I decided to do in life. She gifted me with the down payment on my bar and my house. So no, I can’t resent her. I love her. And I’ve never doubted that love. Not for a second. Especially when she visits and takes over my kitchen, just having to try a new recipe from whatever country she visited last. Which, believe me, is not as awesome as it sounds.”

There was the smile he’d missed last time.

“I’m glad for you. For both of you.”

“Hold on a second.” He walked over to his bike, removed the blanket he always kept in his saddlebag, and strode over to a patch of grass. Snapping it open, he spread it out. Extending his hand to her, he patiently waited until she won whatever internal battle she waged and finally approached him. Sliding her palm across his, she allowed him to guide her down, and then he sank beside her. “Now tell me what that was about.” He held up a hand, palm out. “And yeah, you just met me last night, but I spilled about my childhood to you. From how I see it, you owe me.”

The corner of her mouth lifted, but her bottom lip trembled. Just as he couldn’t stop breathing, he couldn’t stop himself from touching his thumb to it, soothing it.

“Why do you keep doing that?” she whispered. “Touching me?”

He shrugged a shoulder, giving her mouth one last tender brush, then dropping his arm. “I don’t know. I just need to,” he confessed. “Should I stop?”

Her lashes lowered. “No,” she said, her admission as soft as the breeze rustling the leaves above.

“Good. Now don’t change the subject. Tell me.”

Inhaling a breath, she drew her knees up and propped her crossed arms on them. “I guess I’m like your mother. I travel a lot for my job. Which means there’s not a lot of time spent at home, which my boyfriend objected to. And I suppose he had a right to object, even though this was my life before we