Into the Storm (Signal Bend #3)(34)

“Supper, huh?” She stood up, and this time he didn’t stop her. Standing over him as he sat where he was, she considered him for several seconds, then said, “Okay. We can try that. You should go now, though.

I have things to do before the nightcap.”

Relieved and disappointed all at once, he stood. When she started to step away and make some room between them, he caught her hand. “Fair enough. I’ll see you tomorrow, then.” Then he pulled her close and put his free hand on her face, running his thumb over her cheek. Her skin was so damn soft. She didn’t fight him; instead, she softened and leaned in a little, and he bent down and kissed her. Gently, letting his mouth learn hers, savoring the silken glide of her lips on his, the warmth of her tongue against his. His blood humming, his cock hard and straining, he groaned and dropped her hand so he could frame her face.

She backed off, her cheeks flushed. “Show?”

“Yeah, hon?”

“Say my name.”

He got it—that flinch every time he’d spoken her name. Now he understood. With a grin, he murmured, “Shannon.”

“Oh, shit.” She came up high on her tiptoes, hooking her arms tight around his neck, and kissed him.

CHAPTER TEN



The Hollywood contingent was turning out to be one of Shannon’s greater challenges in her career. In her high-end Tulsa hotel, nothing they’d requested (or demanded; Austin Montroy, the photographer and ass-fondler, was turning out to be a diva) would have caused her even to blink. What was reasonable in Tulsa, however, was often downright exotic in Signal Bend. Isaac had sent Omen over from the clubhouse to be, in Isaac’s word, Shannon’s “bitch” until further notice, and she’d made good use of him, sending him as far as St. Louis on hunting-gathering errands. So far, though, she’d managed everything.

She’d even gotten Beth to make vegan sushi. That conversation would stay with Shannon for the rest of her days.

As it turned out, a week had been an extremely conservative estimate, and now, the writers feeling particularly inspired by their surroundings, they were planning to stay put for two weeks longer. Shannon had had to do some fancy rescheduling, because the weekends in that span had already been booked, but she’d managed it, offering a free night to couples who would reschedule. Now, the inn was booked weekends right up to Christmas. The new year was looking quiet, but Shannon hadn’t started to fret about that yet; they’d had a very good run, considerably better than projected, so they could have some downtime in the bleak midwinter and not feel it much. She was looking forward to the break, honestly.

Just more than a week had passed since Show had asked her to “hang around a spell,” and she’d seen him almost daily. He always met her eyes now, always had a smile for her, but he’d only come twice specifically to see her. She’d decided that he would have to come to her, while she was “hanging around”— she would not be seeking him out. She’d done enough of that already, and she’d ended up naked and alone because of it.

She was having some trouble letting that go.

But he was different with her now, and she could feel him, well, wanting her. It felt good. The first time he’d come by—the very next day after their talk—it had been late afternoon and warm, and they’d sat on the porch for a couple of hours, in the rocking chairs. They’d simply chatted. Show had talked about Signal Bend, the way it had been when he was young, how it had changed, the suffering the people here had been through over the course of decades. It was a somber story, but Show had told it with a wry kind of humor that had surprised her. He could be funny. She wouldn’t have believed it.

When she’d said she needed to get back to work, he’d stood, held out his huge hand, and helped her out of the rocking chair, pulling her close. Then he’d kissed her, a long, slow, deep kiss that made her knees feel buzzy. Then he’d kissed her hand and left.

Being close to Show, kissing him, feeling those big, rough hands on her, that beard, the brick wall that was his chest—it did things to Shannon that she hadn’t fully come to terms with yet. Like an electrical charge in her blood. It was a new feeling.

He’d come yesterday morning, too, and had joined her in the kitchen for breakfast. Beth’s eyebrow had gone up when Show followed Shannon in, but she’d pulled down a plate and laid out his breakfast on it, saying not a word. The Hollywood guests would get buckwheat pancakes with apple compote (which sounded pretty delicious to Shannon), but the people who “ate normal,” in Beth’s view, got her locally-renowned thick-slab French toast, with sausage links on the side. Show hadn’t stayed long after breakfast, because he had work of his own, but they’d had a companionable meal and an easy conversation, and then he’d kissed her again, on the porch again, before he’d left.

Still feeling the sting of the morning after Badger’s party, she didn’t want to rush. She had some trust to build up again. But those kisses were killing her a little, working her into a lather. She spent a lot of time thinking about them. A lot of time.

She was thinking about them right now, in fact, squatting behind the front desk, restocking and organizing the backstock of area maps and sightseeing brochures, singing quietly to herself. On this midweek day, David Gordon and Harrie Beck, the writers, had taken over the dining room, with its lovely view of the front grounds, for their interviews. They’d started out interviewing people in their homes and businesses, but something must not have been working with that plan, because this week, they were asking people to come to them. Austin Montroy had gone out, with Omen as his guide, to take pictures of the town and surrounding areas. It was late, though, past dark, and Shannon figured they’d be wrapping up for the day soon.