Waiting On You (Blue Heron #3)(97)

“I haven’t stayed out all night with a girl for a long time,” he said.

“How about with a boy?”

He laughed. “Not with a boy, either.”

“You remember the time we went out on my father’s boat and fell asleep and woke up in Urbana?”

“I remember your black bra,” he said. “The one with the little pink flower in the front.” He undid the button of her jeans.

“And the time in Chicago, when we watched the fireworks. We stayed out all night then, too.”

“I don’t remember the fireworks. I do remember you doing something you’d never done before that night.”

She blushed. “Do you? I have no recollection of that event.”

“I’d be happy to help you remember. It involved you, me, your mouth—”

“Fine, fine, I remember. And I might be tempted to relive it if you’re a good boy.”

“I’m very good. I thought I proved that. Twice.”

“Oh, man. The ego on you is— Oh. Okay.” She finally stopped talking as he slid his hand into her jeans.

Lucas turned his head and looked at the dog. “Go away,” he said, and Rufus gave him a wounded look and heaved himself up.

“You hurt his feelings,” Colleen whispered.

“He’ll live,” he said. “But if I can’t get you naked, right now, I might not.”

She tugged his shirt off over his head. “Then shut up and put up, Spaniard.” She grinned. “And stop laughing or someone’s gonna hear us. This is public property, you know. We could get arrested for lewd acts.”

“Let’s give it our best shot,” he said, pulling off her jeans.

A good while later, after he’d worshipped her sufficiently, when she was trembling and weak and her eyes were closed, Lucas felt her breathing slow, felt her grow heavier against him and covered her with the blanket. The stars burned and blazed overhead, the night was soft and dark, and at this moment, he couldn’t think of a single thing he wanted that he didn’t have right here.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

WHEN COLLEEN GOT into her car later that week, she was humming. Because yes, life was good. Life was actually kind of perfect, in fact. Rufus seemed to agree; he put his cement-block head on her shoulder to better see where they were heading.

Happiness. Bliss, maybe. She’d forgotten what it was like to be with a man who really...knew her. In the years she and Lucas had been apart, her dealings with men had been frivolous, by and large. It wasn’t that she hadn’t wanted to meet someone; she had. It was just that she could tell within about ten seconds if there was real potential.

There never had been, and she’d made sure that on those rare occasions when flirting progressed to actual physical contact, it wasn’t with someone who was going to get hurt. She’d left the hometown crowd alone, in other words. God forbid she’d had a thing with Levi, for example; she saw him almost every day, and now the guy was married to her best friend. Tom Barlow had been extremely appealing, but within seconds, she could see that he was (a) in need of a friendly bartender buddy, and (b) not really emotionally available...unless your name was Honor Holland, which Colleen’s was not.

And so, Greg the waiter from Hugo’s last summer and his type. A fling. And flings, Colleen now admitted, hadn’t been worth the effort, really. Because there was sex, and then there was Lucas.

Lucas, who took his time. Whose smile alone could weaken her knees and get the special places purring. Whose hands were strong, whose body was warm and solid and—

“Sphincter!” she yelped, jerking the wheel of her car. “Sorry, Rufie.”

The street was mobbed with cars. Was there a funeral or something? A wedding? Bar mitzvah? How did she not know, she who knew everything?

Oh, man. Her mother’s driveway was full, and Lucas’s truck was boxed in. Rufus gave a joyful bark—Grandma, always good for some bacon—and cantered into the backyard.

Sure enough, Team Menopause was in full force in the backyard, and indeed, their number had multiplied. Mom, Mrs. Johnson, Carol Robinson, Laura Boothby, Cathy and Louise. Guess those two being lesbians didn’t mean they didn’t appreciate some good-looking men. Faith was here, as well.

“Shouldn’t you be ogling your hot husband?” Colleen asked.

“He’s on his way over. Traffic control,” Faith answered. “I’m supposedly picking up Mrs. Johnson so we can all have dinner, but she’s not going anywhere, she says.”

“Not till I have to,” Mrs. J. said, jerking her drink away from Rufus’s enormous and thieving tongue.

Bryce Campbell was pouring a day-glow lime-green liquid from a pitcher. Shirtless. Louise was tipping him. “Hey, Coll!” he said cheerfully.

“Has Chippendales relocated?” Colleen asked.

“Oh, don’t be such a prude,” her mom said. “It’s Lucas’s last day.” Mom gestured with her plastic cup to the roof.

There he was, in full blue-collar glory. And though he’d made her quite happy—multiply happy—just last night, Colleen felt her entire female anatomy squeeze and swell and blossom and bark.

“Hey,” he said.

“Oh, my God, that voice,” Carol said. “Lucas, say my name. Say, ‘Carol, you’re still a fine-looking woman.’ Do it.”