The Substitute Wife Page 10

  It made him want to spank her all over again for being ignorant enough to decide to come up here after him in such dangerous weather.

  Knowing he didn't have to because she'd texted him at the one and only stoplight in town that it was unnecessary, he still followed her all the way home.

  When she tried to just grab her stuff, wave at him and go in, she found him crooking his fingers at her and wearing that look—the one that she already knew promised retribution if she didn't do as he wanted her to.

  Even though she highly doubted that the retribution was going to be forthcoming, considering that she thought that, as soon as reality really set in between them, she wasn't likely to see him any more, she still felt pulled to obey him. Leaving left her stuff on her doorstep, she made her way back to his truck.

  He was there, around the driver's side, leaning up against it, looking every inch a man as he did so, and that called to everything in her that was female.

  "C'mere," he growled, settling her over him as if she weighed nothing and kissing the breath out of her, then pulling back to see the tears cascading down her cheeks. "I know what you're thinking, Andi, and this is not over."

  She tried to wrench her chin out of his fingers, but he was much too strong. "You don't have to say that, Rory—"

  "Dammit, I know I don't." He sighed, feeling impotent for one of the few times in his life, especially when someone who obviously knew him—or her—or the both of them, most likely—drove by and yelled at him to "Go get

  'er, Rory!"

  Andi wasn't in favor of dragging out what she considered to be the inevitable. "I'd best get inside," she began, pulling away from him.

  Although she didn't let on, she was heartsick when his arms fell away from her and he let her go, however reluctantly.

  "We have a date this Friday night, remember," he yelled at her just after she'd turned to wave at him for the last time, then ducked into her house with her things, to collapse into her favorite chair and bawl as if—

  Well, as if she'd just spent the weekend fucking her best friend's husband.

  *****

  He'd said it wouldn't change. Said that they would continue as they had, that he didn't want to lose what they'd found together. They'd made that date for the end of the week, but mid-week, she got a text from him. It was the only one she'd gotten all week and it said that he couldn't make it, that he had to cover a shift on the rescue squad and he was the only one who could do it.

  She wasn't surprised about that as he didn't have any other commitments. Guys who had wives and families were more likely to call out, and she knew he would do his best never to let the town down. He'd been the same with Liz, much to her occasional consternation.

  But she very carefully refrained from checking up on him at all as she'd been doing since Liz had gone. Not just doing it less frequently than she had, but quitting it cold turkey just to see what happened.

  And what she'd known was going to happen—what she'd tried to keep herself from wishing wouldn't but apparently had done a terrible job of—

  happened.

  He didn't call her or text her again.

  She didn't see him again for over a month, and then it was just in passing when they were both at the transfer station, offloading stuff. He was driving out as she was driving in, and he waved at her.

  That was it.

  She knew he was busy at work and that he was covering a lot of shifts at the squad. Everyone in town seemed to delight in telling her that, as if they were all making excuses for him, for why they didn't see them around town together when they had come to expect to see them as an item, she was sure,

  once the guys who had rescued them opened their big, fat mouths.

  At night, she wallowed in self-pity, ate Ben and Jerry's by the pint, and cried herself to sleep.

  During the day, she did her best not to think about it. Andi buried herself in her work, went out with friends and did her best to make a few more by taking advanced knitting and other craft classes at the craft store in the next town over. She generally tried to get on with her life without her best friend or the man she had obsessed about until just recently. The man about whom her head was now full of detailed intimate memories of him pinching and fondling and rubbing and licking her—

  And she was just as alone as she had been before that had all happened between them.

  So when one of her new friends had a brother who she thought might be a match for her, she said yes, although her first impulse was to say no.

  He was a nice enough guy, she guessed, but he was no Rory—which she did her best to stop herself from saying. She was never going to find anyone if, indeed, that was her goal, by comparing them unfavorably to a man who was, not to anyone's surprise, obviously still in love with his dead wife.

  Ted was smart and funny and sweet as could be, but there was no dominant edge to him. He was polite, but he didn't go out of his way to look after her. He didn't let her go through doors first. He didn't call her just to check up on her. There was no feeling of a watchful eye on her while she was with him.

  He was, in essence, a normal, average guy.

  And that, apparently, was not going to satisfy her any more.

  But what, or rather who, was?

  She was in the middle of spring cleaning one Saturday afternoon when she heard her text tone.

  My place. Eight o'clock. Dress comfortably.

  She knew exactly who it was from just by the tone, but preferred to return sassily, Excuse me, but do I know you?

  It didn't take him but a second to reply in a manner that had her entire lower body contracting involuntarily.

  You know me because if you aren't here when I expect you to be, I'm going to come over and get you, and I can promise you that your bottom isn't

  going to be happy when I arrive there.

  She huffed and puffed and railed against his high handedness, especially since it had been months since that fateful weekend.

  But it wasn't as if she had anything else to do this evening, and she had to admit to being curious as to why she was being summoned to his presence.

  So she went. Her loins girded, her heart steeled against anything he might say to her—and she damned well wasn't going to let him touch her.

  Not for anything.

  Nuh uh.

  He opened the door before she got there and wrapped his arms around her, plastering them to each other from shoulder to, well, his shins.

  So much for not letting him touch her.

  Damn he felt good. She'd forgotten just how good it was to be held tight against him.

  But she managed to grab a hold of her bruised and battered heart just long enough to say, "Put me down," inordinately proud of just how polite and austere and businesslike it sounded.

  He scowled fiercely, having been in the midst of bending down to kiss her as if nothing had happened between them—as if he had made quite sure that nothing had happened between them—but she didn’t back down.

  And he did, eventually, put her down, grabbing her hand as if he thought she would bolt away from him if he didn't, and tugging her into the house.

  And it might as well have not been the house she had known while Liz was alive. Furniture had been rearranged or was gone all together.

  Pictures that had been on the wall the last time she was there weren't any longer, and new ones were up in their places. Liz had been a fan of a bit of clutter, but Rory obviously wasn't. Everything was scrupulously neat.

  Everything had its place and was in it.

  Including her.

  Once he had closed the door behind them, she found herself scooped up in his arms and carried over to the couch, where he sat down with her on his lap and refused to allow her up.

  "How's your ankle?"

  "Fine, thank you," she replied primly, refusing to look at him.

  "I'm glad." His tone, unlike hers, was completely without rancor, soft and warm. "I guess you're wondering why I didn't contact
you except that once—"

  "No," she interrupted to correct him, picking nonexistent schmutz off her shirt as if her life depended on it. "I stopped doing that about three days after your last text."

  "You never texted me, either," he pointed out gently, watching her jaw set angrily.

  It was interesting. She wasn't the angry type, and he didn't think he could remember a time when he'd seen her truly pissed.

  Except, of course, now.

  And not, he understood, without reason.

  Still facing deliberately away from him, she answered icily, "I'm the one who always texts… or calls. Or emails."

  Rory reached out to run his hand up the familiar curve of her back, but she arched away from his touch, and he had to keep himself from grabbing and kissing her the way he wanted to. It was as if they were back to square one and she was shying away from him at every turn, holding herself stiff as a board. Only now he knew what it was like to have her in his arms, beneath him, rocking her body into his heavy thrusts and crying out as he brought her to the ultimate ecstasy.

  "I'm sorry that I've been uncommunicative for a little while."

  "A little while?" That got her to look at him with incredulity. "It's been three months!"

  He had the grace to flush at that. "I know, and I'm sorry. When I got home to this house, with all those memories of her flooding back to me, and the guilt—I know it's stupid, but I felt very guilty —"

  "You weren't alone in that," she had to admit.

  He sighed, reaching out to touch her but letting his hand fall onto his own thigh rather than feel her pull away from him again. "I'm sorry you did, but it's very unnecessary, and it took me a while to come to that. I felt paralyzed by it for a long time, which is why I stayed away from you." His voice dropped so low it was rough and husky. "It hasn't been easy. You don't know how much I wanted to be with you, but I was beating myself up so badly about it… I knew I'd make you miserable, too, if I continued down that path.

  "So I took some time to get my head on straight. I should have told

  you what I was doing and I know I hurt you and I'm terribly sorry that I did, but I wanted to do it and get it done. I wanted to be whole for you and not be someone who was constantly thinking about his dead wife while he had a wonderful woman right in front of him."

  Rory ran his hands through his hair. "I had kept everything exactly the same after she left, as if doing so was going to make it true—what I wanted to keep thinking—that she had just gone out to see you, or was at work, or whatever and would be right home to me. I wanted things to be the same for her.

  "Then I got to thinking that that was kind of stupid, that I had to start living my life for myself. She's—" he stumbled, but stiffened his lip. "She's not coming back. She was a wonderful, amazing, blessing in my life, but I'll never have that again.

  "And that's okay." He did reach out and put his arms around her, very gently but inexorably pulling her into them so that she had to relax back against him. "Because now I have something—someone—else in my life, who is different, but who is just as wonderful and just as special and just as much of a blessing to me, if she'll forgive me for being such a knucklehead for the past couple of months and excluding her from my life. I promise I'll spend the rest of mine trying to make it up to you, Andi."

  He took it as a good sign that she wasn't actively fighting him, and that she had actually relaxed a bit against him.

  Rory remained quiet, being patient, wanting to give her a safe place where she could say and feel whatever she needed to.

  "You hurt me. I felt abandoned. I'd lost Liz and I lost you."

  He leaned forward, looping his arms around her waist and pressing his forehead into her arm. "I know. I'm sorry. All I can ask is that you forgive me, and let me show you just how much you mean to me."

  "Well..." she began, swayed by his heartfelt, unhesitating apologies, and his explanation. Although she thought he might have gone a bit overboard in the redecorating, but that wasn't her call to make, she was glad that he had gotten to a better place about what she knew was a loss that had left a huge hole in his heart.

  At that first sign that she might be softening, he stood with her in his arms and carried her into the dining room, seating her in the chair to his right, which had always been where Liz sat, as the lady of the house. She tried to get up, but his scolding sound had her sitting back down quickly.

  "I put you there because that's where I want you to be. Now, give me just a second. Dinner is served."

  It was, to her great surprise, all of her favorites—steaks he had seared on the grill after marinating them in a special spice blend that he swore he would take to the grave, candied carrots in a brown sugar glaze, garlic whipped potatoes with plenty of butter and enough garlic to ensure that any neighborhood vampires would pass this house by, and fresh hot rolls that he confessed his mother had made for them, because he didn't bake.

  Dessert was also something he didn't make. It was, instead, a Napoleon, purchased from the horrendously expensive bakery that he knew she and Liz frequented on their girls' weekends when they'd wanted to treat themselves.

  "There's a raspberry puff pastry in the kitchen, too, but I thought we might save that for later," he said, tucking into his own giant éclair.

  It was her favorite dessert, hands down, but it was also very messy to eat. She ended up with custard on her nose and very sticky fingers before it was all through. She had a personal tradition of always eating them with her fingers which he knew about and found quite charming.

  When she was done, he had to laugh at her chocolate frosted nose and the way she was holding up her sticky hands like a child. As he stood, he ducked down to lick the icing from her nose, stole a quick kiss, and headed to the kitchen, where he got a damp paper towel and proceeded to wipe her hands clean himself.

  Then he stood again, offering her his arm, and guided her into the formal living room where Liz had never allowed anyone to go except during special events or holidays. He tucked the both of them onto the couch, put on smooth jazz and offered her a glass of what looked like that horrible, familiar rotgut.

  So much so that, when he handed her the glass, she wrinkled her nose at it, and that got him to chuckle.

  "No, it's the good stuff, oak aged, single malt, and pricey."

  Andi made as if to take a sip, but he tutted loudly, holding up his glass.

  "At the risk of sounding oxymoronic, to the establishment of new traditions," then he turned even further towards her to finish it while staring into her eyes, "with you, my dear Andrea, if you'll let me."

  How could she possibly not drink to such a touching toast?

  He held his breath until she smiled and nodded, raising her glass to clink it loudly with his. "To new traditions with you," she returned shyly.

  He could hardly believe his luck, but when he took the glass from her and cuddled himself around her, feeling at ease again for the first time since they'd parted, she was no longer stiff but relaxed within them, and he felt he could fully relax as well.

  After a while of sipping and talking, he changed the music to something more romantic and contemporary, standing to sweep her into his arms and dance her around the room, surprisingly light on his feet for such a big guy.

  She, on the other hand, landed on his feet much more often than she did her own, not that he seemed to notice or even care. The more they drank, the more relaxed she became, and, to her surprise, the better she danced, because she wasn't trying to think about where her feet were or even where they were supposed to be. She just let him worry about that and guide her around the room. Once she'd given up trying to control everything about what she was doing, she never stepped on him again.

  She was already in his arms, during a sexy slow dance, when he lifted her again and carried her into his bedroom. The low lamplight revealed that he had made a lot of changes here, too. In fact, everything was different from the color scheme, the furniture, and even the bed, itsel
f, she would have bet as he put her down next to it.

  It was another enormous one, not unlike the one in the cabin he'd built for his comfort. She was going to get lost in it, although she knew he'd never allow that to happen.

  He kept too close tabs on her for that.

  For his part, Rory needed something to do. She was looking a bit shy, a bit flustered now that they were in his room, whereas he would have been on her immediately if he hadn't seen that bit of apprehension in her eye.

  So he went down on one knee before her and began to undress her.

  Dinner had been somewhat formal, but he knew she hated to dress, so he'd told her to come casual, and she had. She was wearing a nice pair of jeans, a pretty floral shirt and a sweater, with leather ballerina style flats to complete her outfit.

  They were the first to be removed, then her pants—but not her panties. He didn't want to make her feel any more uneasy than she already did. He stood, trying not to tower over her too much but failing miserably

  because he couldn't help it. Trying to make himself smaller had never worked. He undid the buttons of her sweater, his big hands brushing over her breasts as he did so, then the same for her shirt, his breath catching as she stood there in the soft glow in just her panties and bra.

  He wanted to lift her onto the part of him that craved to be enveloped within her right then and there, but managed to restrain himself. Unhooking her bra with practiced ease, he then got back down on one knee to pull her panties down those exquisite legs of hers, and realizing, as he did, that he could smell her scent.

  She might be hesitant. She might understandably be a bit shy of him, but she wanted him!

  If he didn't think it would make her think he was crazy, he would have punched his fist into the air with pure glee.

  But again, he managed to restrain himself, at least until he got her onto the bed with him. Then he wasn't at all sure he could manage to control himself in the least, but it didn't seem to matter to her. Everything he did and everywhere he touched had her sighing blissfully. She opened herself to him fully, touching him tentatively at first, but then with more courage and confidence as he responded to her every impulse.