Waiting On You (Blue Heron #3)(88)

“Then why did you get a divorce?” she whispered.

He looked at the floor, then up at her. “Because I didn’t love her enough,” he said.

She kissed him then, of course she did, because those words, they broke her heart, sliced it in a sweet, hot cut. The kiss was soft and tender and almost shy, as if she was kissing him for the first time again. His heart had been broken, too, she realized, if not by her, then by that sad, helpless loss. And Lucas had lost so much in life.

Her hands slid through his hair, that gorgeous, thick, waving hair, and her mouth opened. He dragged her across his lap to hold her, one hand cupping her face. His arms were safe and strong, pulling her against his solid chest, and the kissing changed now, harder and less sweet and more wonderful, because it had always been like this between them, that raw heat that practically lifted her off the ground with its force. All she wanted was this, and she wondered how she’d lasted so long without him, without the hot, red force that made her heart shudder. The scrape of his cheek, the heat of his hands, the way they fit together, made her shake.

Slow down, slow down, slow down, her brain chanted.

She pulled back, her breath shaking out of her. His eyes were heavy-lidded, his breath coming hard, and he looked at her the way no other man had ever looked at her.

Mine.

“Not bad, Spaniard,” she said, and he laughed, that low, smoky sound. She always could make him smile.

“Oh, mía, what am I going to do with you?” he whispered, pushing a strand of hair behind her ear.

“Again with the mía. I’m not yours. I’m a rental.”

“Doesn’t feel like it.”

The words caused a sunburst in her chest. “I’m definitely writing your name in my notebook.”

He smiled, but his eyes held a note of worry. “I’ll be going back to Chicago soon,” he said.

That dampened the moment a bit. “Right. I know.”

“But I can’t seem to stay away from you, either.”

“No.”

There was a pause; her heart counted out the beats.

“Should I leave you alone, Colleen?” he asked.

He was giving her a chance to back out, or at least, to stall. And yes, she felt as na**d and vulnerable as a newborn kitten. She should ask him about the future. She should go slowly, make sure this time, not jump—

But last time, she’d had the whole future mapped out. The house, the kids, the plan. Maybe this time, she could just...be.

His black eyes were half-closed, and he looked more like a Spanish pirate than ever, about to claim his woman.

“No. Don’t leave me alone,” she said, and his mouth was on hers again, his hands sliding under her dress to her hips, pulling her closer, his tongue sliding against hers, and this was it. He was the one, and she knew it, no matter how scary it was, how big and deep and easy to get lost in, she was simply, undeniably his.

The door banged open, and there was Connor. “Coll, where have you— Oh, for the love of God.”

Colleen hurtled off Lucas’s lap and straightened her skirt.

“Great! This is just great,” he said, turning his back. “Paulie and Bryce are missing, and you two are up here, making out.” He gave them a second, then turned back with a disapproving look. “The Chicken King wants you to help find his little princess, Coll. Mind getting your ass in gear?”

* * *

THERE WAS LOGIC, Lucas thought as he followed the O’Rourke twins downstairs, and there was...this.

It didn’t make sense to get involved with Colleen. She wasn’t a quick, sweet summer romance. She was forever. And he’d be leaving in too short a time, back to his life in Chicago, where he’d worked so hard to build something. A life. Friends. A career in which he was respected. He had family there, Steph and the girls, Frank and Grace.

And Ellen was, arguably, his best friend.

Colleen was Manningsport. She was the heart of the town, and she wouldn’t leave, and he wouldn’t stay.

He didn’t want to hurt Colleen again; he hadn’t wanted to hurt her ever.

But they were adults now. They could talk about things better. They could make something work.

Until Lucas had met Colleen, everything had always been...tainted, somehow. Complicated. His father had been a good man, and yet he’d dealt drugs. Ask the mother of a meth addict how good a man Dan Campbell was. Lucas’s memories of his mother were that she was too sick, too fragile, and he always had to be careful and quiet. Steph...of course he loved Steph, but until the past five or six years, she’d been something of a screwup. Bryce was the good-hearted idiot, and Joe was the uncle who couldn’t quite stand up to Didi. Ellen was the woman he’d made a life with because of their circumstances, and try as he might, he hadn’t made that work.

But Colleen had been perfect. Pure in the sense that...well, hell, he didn’t know exactly, but that’s what it felt like.

You didn’t just turn your back on that.

“Where is my daughter?” Ronnie Petrosinsky asked. He looked furious, as if Paulie were a fifteen-year-old who’d just slipped off with a college senior. “Is she with that idiot friend of yours?”

“I’m not sure, Mr. Petrosinsky,” Colleen said. “But they’re both adults.”

“They’re not adults!” the man yelped. “That Bryce is a complete loser, and my daughter is a very innocent and protected person, Colleen! I am not a happy man! If Bryce is compromising her, he’s in for a world of hurt. You think the Chicken King becomes king without a lot of bloodshed?”