Waiting On You (Blue Heron #3)(96)

And yet here he was, staring at her. He pushed her hair back from her face. She groaned a little and swatted his hand, then rolled over, presenting him with her shoulders and more matted hair.

She smelled like lemons, despite her foray into arson this night. He leaned his forehead against her neck and just breathed her in. Kissed her shoulder once. Then again. Then a third time.

This got a little sigh.

Her dog’s tail started thumping on the floor.

He put his arm around her. Her breast fit into his hand perfectly, soft and plump and—

“Hey, creepy man, stop fondling me.”

“No can do, mía. You were meant to be fondled.”

She rolled over and before she even opened her eyes, she was kissing him, wrapping herself around him, pulling him against her, his generous, beautiful, smiling Colleen, and he didn’t waste time, just pushed her on her back made her laughter turn into a gasp, and then a sigh, and then his name on her lips.

And when she was once again smiling at him, her cheeks flushed and her skin glowing, he said, “Get dressed, hotshot. I’m starving.”

With Rufus draped over the entire backseat of the truck, they headed to the nearest Chicken King, which was open until 2:00 a.m., and ordered a bucket of Texas Cowboy Big ’n’ Hearty Extra Spicy (“made with real lard!”) from the beleaguered teen behind the counter. Colleen directed him to a spot way up on top of a hill, in a field where tree frogs sang from the nearby woods and an impossible number of fireflies winked and flitted.

He grabbed one of the drop clothes he kept in the back of the truck, as well as the blanket he’d grabbed from her apartment, and set up a picnic, shooing Rufus away from the food.

They ate and watched the fireflies, the sliver moon giving just enough light. From somewhere not too far away, an owl called and was answered. There was a sweet smell to the air, and the chicken was fantastic, if taking years off their lives.

It was one of those perfect moments in life, like the time before his mother got sick, when the family had gone to the lake and he’d swum underwater for the first time, surfacing to hear Stephanie cheering and his parents clapping. The time he’d hit a grand slam his freshman year of high school off the opposing team’s best pitcher, one of the few games his father had been able to make. The first time he kissed Colleen, and known what he’d been trying not to know—that she was The One.

The One smiled at him now, and took another bite of the life-threatening chicken, then wiped her hands on one of the many wipes supplied by the Chicken King. Lucas lay down with his head in her lap, her hand idly stroking his hair, and it was like it had been back then, when she was the only thing he had that was real and unconditional and his.

She’d have to come back with him to Chicago. She just would. She could be happy there. She’d have to be.

“You know anything about constellations, Spaniard?” she asked, looking up into the sky.

“No.”

“Me, neither.” She smiled, then lay down next to him. The dog cantered over and flopped down next to her, putting his head on her hip. “So about...this. Us.”

“Yes. About that.”

She took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. “Let’s not overthink it this time.”

“What does that mean?”

“I don’t want to read too much into this.”

“Colleen—”

“Let’s just have now. Because this is pretty damn perfect, and I don’t want to ruin things by making plans.”

He propped himself up on an elbow to see her face. She looked serious, but not unhappy.

She reached up and touched his lips, traced them, and a little smile came to her own. “It’s not that I don’t love you, Spaniard,” she said. “It’s just that I’m smarter now.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, seize the day. Or the woman. Live for today. Look both ways crossing the street. Don’t use your teeth as tools.” Her hand went to his hair, tugging a strand. “I don’t want to ruin whatever we have together by looking too far down the road. I know why you’re here, and I know you’re not going to stay, and I don’t want to think about that right now.” She looked away and scratched her dog’s head.

“Colleen, you could always—”

“Shh. Don’t you know I’m the queen of flings? Enjoy me.”

His smile dropped. “This is not a fling,” he growled.

Her eyes filled with tears. “Be careful what you say to me, Lucas,” she whispered.

“This is not a fling,” he repeated.

“You don’t have to—”

“Colleen. This. Is not. A fling.”

“Fine. You’re a bully, you know.”

He kissed her then, softly, and tasted her, and she opened her mouth to him, her hands fisting in his hair.

“If you break my heart, I will sic this vicious dog on you,” she said against his mouth. “And then I’ll sic Connor on what’s left of you, and then I’ll bring your remains to the Chicken King, and he’ll—”

“Do you ever stop talking?” he asked, and gave her mouth something better to do, and they kissed, and kissed, and kissed more, tongues and teeth, lips and whispers, and yes, a smile or two as well, and he slid his hand under her shirt, feeling the soft skin of her breast, relishing the quick intake of breath.