Back Where She Belongs(25)

They were breathing slowly and noisily now, like the air scraped their lungs on the way out.

“Yeah. All that.” Dylan’s hands slid toward her across the table, moved in. Was he going to kiss her? Did she want that?

With every beat of her unchanged heart.

What if they had stayed together? What if they were soul mates? What kind of life might they have built together?

That poem about the two roads in a yellow wood and the one not taken came into her head, and she heard herself say, “Do you ever wonder what might have happened with us?”

“All the time,” he said hoarsely.

And that was that. Like someone had shot a starting gun, they lunged for each other and kissed. Dylan’s lips tasted smoky from the chicken, sweet from the drink, and like Dylan, the way he used to taste. He rose and so did she. Their chairs hit the tile with twin bangs and they slammed their bodies together, arms wrapped tight.

The kiss seemed to touch off a bonfire that roared through her. Everything faded except Dylan’s mouth, his arms, his chest pressed against hers, his hips, too, his erection insistent against her belly. She ached for more.

She never wanted to stop. She didn’t dare stop. Reality would land like an avalanche, dousing the fire, making them see how foolish they were acting.

But what if it was great? What if it was healing?

Dylan broke off the kiss, leaving Tara rocking forward. “This is not a good idea. It’s late. We’ve been drinking.” Neither of them had touched the second high-test drinks she’d made. Dylan had spilled half of hers on her blouse.

“Right. Good.” Better to stop now, before it got heavy. Before they went too far and there would be consequences. And there would be consequences. Good or bad, she didn’t care to risk it, no matter what her body screamed.

She looked around, saw the dishes and picked up a plate. “I’ll clean up,” she forced out.

Dylan took the plate from her. “I’ve got it. You should go. Get some rest.”

She nodded. They practically ran inside, as if they both feared if she stayed one more second they’d tear off each other’s clothes in some wrongheaded grab for the best of their past.

She snatched her purse from the floor and patted Duster, who whined piteously for her to stay. Backing toward the door, she said, “The dinner was great. Beer-butt chicken...who knew?” she babbled.

Dylan gripped the edge of the door, as if to keep himself from going after her as she backed onto the terrace. “Glad you liked it.” His eyes glowed, the pupils huge.

“When the insurance adjuster calls me back about where the Tesla is, we can get your mechanic out there.”

“Sounds good.”

“As soon as I hear, I’ll call.”

“Do that,” he said hoarsely. “Night.” He shut the door.

She stood there, staring at the door, her heart pounding. What the hell was wrong with her?

She turned, grateful for the cool October breeze on her overheated face. She looked up at the sky, the stars white pinpricks in black velvet. They’d forgotten to look at the stars.

The door flew open. “The telescope,” Dylan blurted. “Venus will be bright tonight and the moon is so...” They both looked up. The moon was a huge orange ball overhead. “Big and...”

“Beautiful,” she finished. She saw the same yearning in his face that she knew was plastered over hers.

She did not need this. She had a plan for her life and it did not include this man or the town that had claimed him forever. She wouldn’t waste time wanting what could never be.

Even if they wanted to try, it wouldn’t work. They were too different. They’d hurt each other too deeply. She would never come first with him. And he would never rest easy with her. That was that.

“We don’t need a telescope to see that, do we?” she said softly.

“Guess not.” He was disappointed, but also relieved, she could tell. He knew it would be a mistake, too. That made her more certain than ever.

Until she sat in her car and noticed she could smell Dylan on her skin, that heady and arousing scent that made her crave him more than ever.

It took every ounce of willpower she had to drive away.

* * *

DYLAN STARED AT the door he’d just shut against the sight of Tara beneath a golden moon. Venus will be bright. What an idiot.

Duster whined, his eyes full of accusation.

“How do you think I feel?” he said. He’d wanted her with everything in him. Kissing her had been heaven...her sweet lips soft and giving and knowing. The electricity had been the same, the rush of heat and need.

And that was bad. He didn’t want that in his life. Couldn’t cope with it. Wanting her would take over his life. And he knew Tara could turn on him in a heartbeat. Even knowing she’d suffered without him, missed him, didn’t change the deeper truth—she disapproved of him, his choices, his life. Sooner or later, it would come up again. She would leave him in the emotional dust. He did not want to yearn again for an impossible love.

Love didn’t have to be crazy and all-consuming. In fact, it couldn’t be if you wanted it to last a lifetime.

He was still reeling from realizing that Candee had been right—he had kept Tara in his heart, burning candles to her memory, like a fool.

Candee had paid the price for his refusal to see the truth. He’d fought for their marriage. He’d watched his parents tear theirs up like so much paper. But he’d sabotaged his without knowing. He’d been in total denial.

He was ashamed, angry at himself.

He realized he could go right back to how he’d been with Tara.

For all they’d matured, too much remained the same. Tara was still mercurial and complicated. He still felt the need to protect her, to rescue her, whether she needed it or not.

That’s what helping her “investigate her case” was all about, for God’s sake. He was done managing people. He’d managed his father for ten years. It was enough. The complications with the Wharton contract were giving him fits, delaying his release from the company and his father.

Dylan had no time to relive old loves. That imprint thing made sense. He needed to get past that, and quick, if he ever expected to make a life with a woman—a solid, steady life, not the crazy, white-water raft trip he’d have with Tara. And he intended to do that. It was all part of his plan.

He carried the dishes in from the patio, pausing to stare at the sky. It was a good night for stargazing. He remembered trading places at the eyepiece—fingers tangling, faces inches apart, her hair falling against his face, the smell of her...

Not worth it. Not even close.

He cleaned up and headed to bed. Duster leaped up like a dog half his age. “She made you feel young again, didn’t she?” he said. She’d done the same to him and that wasn’t good for either of them. Like the huge orange moon overhead, he didn’t need a telescope to see that.

* * *

“IT’S A HOSPITAL ROOM, not a beauty parlor,” Judith groused, bracing the vase of flowers against the canvas bag on the passenger-seat floor. Tara had filled the bag with cosmetics, nail polish, hair gear and a portable iPod player.

“It can’t hurt and it could help wake her up.”

“I think you’re crazy, but it’ll probably cheer up your mother. She likes things to look good. I’ll bring her out when she wakes up.”

“Good.”

“Take it easy on the face goop. Faye wasn’t much for makeup.”

“I promise.” She drove off, pleased when she glanced in the rearview mirror and saw Judith give a small wave.

Once in Faye’s room, Tara brightened the lights, set the flowers on the counter near the mirror and got the nineties playlist she’d put together going on the iPod with speakers.

Happy with how much more cheerful the room felt, she leaned in to kiss Faye’s forehead. “I’m thinking Stormy Skies eye shadow to go with your eyes. You agree?” She studied her sister’s face. “Blink once for no.”

Tara held her breath, hoping against hope for any sign of life. Nothing. “Stormy Skies it is.” Tara sighed. “Are you slipping away or fighting your way back, Faye?” she whispered.

Forcing herself to cheer up, she put the Sunset Crater photo into the silver frame, set it where Faye could see it, then misted Faye’s sheets and pillow with the peppermint and citrus spray the store clerk said would be energizing. After that, she plugged in the flatiron and set out the cosmetics and nail polish on Faye’s tray. “Makeover time,” she said, and got to work, singing along with MC Hammer’s “U Can’t Touch This.” Rita was right. Some of that nineties music was pretty bad.

When she finished with Faye’s face, Tara studied the effect. “Much better. You can’t even see the shadow of the bruises.” It was Wednesday, nine days since the accident, eight days since Tara had arrived, and the bruises had faded substantially.