Chapter 26: Ruth

I've never felt so nervous at the thought of being with someone. I'm not afraid to admit it. I want him in my life. These last few days have shown me sides of Jack I didn't see before. He's a good guy, with a good heart. I find myself drawn to him, wanting him. But the fantasy of him is one thing; reality is another. I thought I was making good choices in the past, and I was wrong.

I glance toward the rear exit—my escape—and then at the door leading upstairs. "Fine," I say with a heavy sigh. "I'll stay."

He laughs. "Try not to sound so enthusiastic. You'll give me a big head." And then he chuckles at his own double entendre.

I smile brightly and speak in a simpering, fake voice. "Yes, Jack, I'd love to spend the night with you. Nothing would make me happier."

"Hey, I get it," he says as he pulls me toward the door that leads upstairs. "You've been let down before and you're afraid it will happen again, but I'm telling you it won't. The first time we slept together wasn't a one-time thing, Ruth. Well, it was twice, but let's not get too technical. I'm here for the long haul. I came back to Bryce for you. Yes, the scenery here is pretty spectacular, the hiking is great, but the town itself is definitely lacking in amenities. I had to drive all the way to Estes Park just to find a laundromat."

I realize I'm smiling. This man always makes me smile. If he's willing to take a chance on me, I need to have the courage to return the favor. On impulse, I lean in and give him a peck on the lips. "Let's go upstairs."

He lets me into the apartment, and when I walk in, I'm taken aback. My barebones, utilitarian apartment actually has some character now. There are throw pillows and a blanket on the sofa. There are books on the coffee table, along with a laptop. The table's set with matching placemats, plates, and silverware. That's all new. He's making this apartment his home.

"I hope you don't mind," he says.

"No, it looks great."

"I stocked the fridge and pantry, too." He opens the fridge door to reveal a fully-stocked interior. "How about nachos? I make good nachos. There aren't a lot of meals I make well, but that's one of them. I'm also killer with a grill—burgers, steak, chicken. How about it? I even have some Corona to go along with dinner. I thought maybe we could eat and talk. Or, if you prefer, we could watch something together." He points to a TV sitting on a console across from the sofa.

"That's new," I say.

"It's only temporary, you know. I'll get my own place eventually and take it all with me."

"No, it's fine. The place looks great. It finally looks like someone lives here." I chuckle, feeling stupid. "I guess I assumed you asked me up here to have sex. Not for dinner and a show."

"Well, I thought, since we're starting over, this is technically our first date, and I'll have you know I don't have sex on the first date."

He says that last line with such a straight face, I burst into laughter.

"I thought, for tonight," he says, "we could eat and talk, you know? Get to know each other better. I was thinking we could have a sleepover—platonic, of course—and in the morning, we could drive to Estes Park for brunch. I found a great little breakfast café in town that makes killer pancakes, and their coffee is amazing. We could be back in Bryce in time to open the bar. How about it? A legitimate date."

"You've obviously put a lot of thought into this plan of yours."

He nods. "I didn't want you to think I was after you just for sex."

"If it was just sex, you could have your pick of probably any single girl in town, many of them much younger than me. Even half my age." I walk up to him and kiss him lightly on the lips. "I love your plan."

The smile he gives me makes my heart race.

He ushers me to one of the barstools at the kitchen counter. "Have a seat while I make you dinner."

He grabs a bottle of Corona from the fridge. "Want one?"

"Sure."

He opens it and hands it to me.

I sit on a barstool at the kitchen counter and watch as Jack makes nachos. I'm impressed that he actually knows what he's doing, browning ground beef and seasoning it with an impressive array of Mexican spices. He heats up refried beans, and layers both the beef and beans over a bed of restaurant style tortilla chips placed on a wide platter. He covers it all with a mix of shredded Mexican cheeses and sliced jalapeno peppers. He places the platter on the dining table, along with a bowl of sour cream and some fresh salsa.

And for a finishing touch, he lights a single candle in the center of the table.

I take a bite and groan in appreciation. "This is delicious."

"You sound surprised."

"I guess I am. I personally don't know a lot of men who can cook. Killian can, and Owen can, but that's about it. My brother would starve without take-out and microwaveable meals."

"I'm not just another pretty face, you know," he says. "I do know how to treat a woman. And just wait until brunch tomorrow. Those pancakes are—" He makes a chef's kiss.

As we eat, I finally have a chance to ask him something I've been wondering about. "So, tell me about your family."

"There's not much to tell, really," he says as he picks up a chip. "My parents are retired high school history teachers living in St. Augustine, Florida. I have one sibling, a sister, Carrie. She and her husband, Mark, live near our parents. They've got two young kids, a girl and a boy."

"What do they do? Your sister and her husband?"

"She's an obstetrician, and he's a pediatrician."

I laugh. "That's convenient. Do you see them often?"

He frowns as he shakes his head. "I'm ashamed to say no. When I was working in my last job, I didn't feel it was appropriate to be around them. I couldn't exactly tell them what I did for a living, could I?"

"Maybe now that you're in a new line of work, it would be a good time for you to pay them a visit."

He takes a swig of his beer. "Maybe you're right. I haven't even seen the newest baby yet. I'd say we're overdue for a family reunion. What about your family?"

I shrug. "You've already met my brother."

"Yeah, but what about your parents? And who's Hank?"

I smile. "Hank is—was—my paternal grandfather. He built the bar back in the ‘60s."

"And your parents?" he asks.

"Our parents met in college—they were both architecture students at University of Colorado Denver. It was love at first sight, and they were married within a year. Our mom had me pretty quickly, and Micah was born when I was twelve. I think he might have been a surprise." I reach for a chip and chew for a minute. The next part still hurts to talk about.

"Our mom died in a car accident shortly after Micah was born. A distracted driver crossed the center line and hit her car head on. Dad was devastated. I don't think he ever fully recovered after losing her. We were living in Denver at the time. After Mom died, our dad moved us here to Bryce, to be close to his parents. We ended up living with them because our father traveled so frequently on business, and our grandparents pretty much raised us."

"You were close to your dad's parents."

"Very close. When Grandma died, I took over raising Micah, while Grandpa ran the tavern. When he passed, he left me the tavern and the cabin, and he left Micah money, which he used to open his car repair shop and buy a used helicopter." I take a swig of my beer.

"And your dad?"

"He lives in Vancouver, working as an architect."

"Did he ever remarry?"

"No. I don't think he ever will. Now, that's enough about me. Here." I pick up a loaded chip off the platter and offer it to him. His gaze darkens as he opens his mouth wide, and I slide it in.

After we eat, he shoos me to the sofa to sit and relax while he cleans up the kitchen and washes our few dishes. I offer to help, but he tells me no. He says he has professional dishwashing experience, which makes me laugh.

I can't remember the last time someone made me laugh so much.

When Jack's done in the kitchen, he dries his hands and joins me on the sofa.

It's two a.m., and I'm starting to run out of steam.

"I was going to suggest we watch a movie," he says, "but it's too late for that. Especially if we want to get up and go out for brunch in the morning." He stands and offers me his hand. "Let's go to bed."

"I thought we weren't having sex tonight."

"We aren't. But that doesn't mean we can't get comfortable in bed and cuddle. There's something I want to talk to you about, and it's probably best done under the cover of darkness."

"Okay, now you've got me worried."

He pulls me to my feet and steers me toward the bedroom.

* * *

I walk into the bathroom to find men's products everywhere—shaving cream, deodorant, men's shampoo in the shower and a bar of men's soap. I am deep into men's territory now.

After we wash up and brush our teeth, we change into pajamas. For Jack, that means a pair of black boxer briefs. He gives me one of his oversized US Navy T-shirts to wear to bed. We turn off the lights and climb into bed.

He lies on his back and pulls me close so that my head is resting on his shoulder. Automatically, he starts rubbing my back.

"So, what did you want to talk about?" I ask, hoping to get this over with quickly.

He's quiet for a while, just rubbing my back. Sometimes he slips his hand up underneath my braid and grips my neck, squeezing gently and sending tingles down my spine. I'm realizing how much he loves simple touches.

He sighs heavily. "All right. Here goes. I want you to tell me about your marriage."

I flinch at the question. "My marriage? Why in the world do you want to hear about that?" I start to pull away, but he tugs me back.

"I'll tell you why," he says as he resumes rubbing my back. "Because it didn't work out, and I want to know why so I won't make the same mistake he did. What was his name?"

I blow out a long breath. "I don't even know where to start." I find myself drawing circles on his bare chest with the tip of my index finger as I contemplate whether—and even how—I can explain my failed marriage. I draw light circles around his nipples.

He lightly taps my ass. "Stop trying to distract me, Ruth. This is important."

"Fine, but there's not much to tell. It started out fine." I continue drawing shapes and figures on his chest, figure eights, curlicues. "We got along really well."

"What's his name?"

"Andy Brewer."

"Ok, and then what?"

"About a year into the marriage, he started making off-handed comments about me working. He said he wanted me to stay home and be a housewife. I said no. I told him I loved my job. Hell, it's my bar. I wanted to run it. I enjoyed running it. We'd already talked about having kids—we were both in agreement on that. And he said that was even more reason why I should stop working. He said I should let Tom manage the bar for me. He even suggested I sell the bar. We fought over it, argued, so many times. This topic never came up when we were dating, or before we got married. Then all of a sudden, it took center stage in our life. It affected everything."

"He lied to you," Jack says. He slips his warm hand up underneath my T-shirt and skims it up and down my bare back, giving me goosebumps. "He knew if he told you upfront how he felt about you working that you wouldn't marry him. So, he waited until after you'd said your vows to bring it up. He hoped that, by then, it would be too late for you to back out."

"This went on for nearly two years," I continued. "We went to marriage counseling, but it soon became clear to me he wasn't going to let up on this. And neither was I. I wasn't going to give up the bar. I sure as hell wasn't going to sell it. We were at an impasse, so I filed for divorce."

"I'm sorry." He leans over and presses a kiss to my forehead. "But I'm also grateful because it means I get a chance."

"How do you feel about kids?" I ask him, finally having the courage to broach the subject. If we're going to talk about big issues, then having kids is definitely one of the biggest.

"Do I want them? Yes." He's quiet a moment, and then he finally says, "I'd consider myself incredibly fortunate to become a father at my advanced age, after the life I've lived."

I laugh. "You're forty, Jack, not a doddering old man. Besides, men don't have biological clocks. Not the same way women do."

He tightens his arms around me. "My sister had her first baby at forty and another at forty-two, so it's possible. Do you want kids?"

"I do. I wish I'd started sooner, but yeah, I do. But then, I hadn't met the right guy yet, so I guess that's irrelevant."

He tightens his hold on me. "I'd love to make a baby with you. A little dark-haired, dark-eyed baby. I don't care what we have or how many. I just want to share my life with you."

"Don't you think we're jumping the gun here by talking about babies? Technically, this is our first date. You said so yourself."

He leans over to kiss me. "Tomorrow's brunch will count as our second date. Will that be soon enough?"

I smile against his lips. "Maybe we should wait a few months before we have this conversation."

"Fine." He gazes at me, so intently, all his attention focused on me. "Do you believe in love at first sight? That you can meet someone and just know they're the one? When you look at them, your heart stops. Time stands still. I suppose you think that's sappy."

I chuckle. "It is a bit melodramatic, but yes, I actually do. My parents fell in love the moment they met in class. He said he walked into the room, saw her sitting in her seat, and he took the chair next to hers. He asked her to have coffee with him after class. He proposed a month later. They were very happy together for fifteen years."

Jack rolls us so that he's lying on top of me. He slides one of his legs between mine. "Time stood still for me the first moment I laid eyes on you. You were wearing blue jeans and a red-and-white flannel shirt. And when you took my first drink order, I was smitten." He slips his hand beneath the front of my T-shirt and cups one of my breasts, gently kneading it.

I stifle a groan. "I thought we weren't having sex tonight."

"That was the plan."

I chuckle. "But things have changed?"

"I don't know," he says, his voice rough. "You tell me." He tugs my shirt up, exposing my breasts, and draws one of my nipples into his mouth and gently sucks.

Pleasure streaks through my body, all the way down to the heated spot between my legs. That part of me is suddenly aching.

I grab his hand and move it down my body, to between my legs, where I know he will feel my heat and arousal. "The plan has definitely changed, Jack."

That's all the invitation he needs. He rolls off me and tugs my T-shirt off. Then he proceeds to kiss his way down my body, starting with my forehead. He peppers kisses down my cheeks, my throat, until he reaches my breasts, which he pays especially close attention to.

When he skims his lips down my torso, my belly starts quivering. He keeps going, jacking up my arousal in the process. Finally, he moves down the bed and settles between my thighs, making himself right at home.

He peers up at me. "I've been thinking about this ever since I got back, wanting my mouth on you."

All I can do is grasp his thick hair and tug when his tongue and fingers turn me into a hot mess. He's relentless and determined, reducing me to sharp cries as my orgasm hits me with little warning.

While I'm struggling to catch my breath, he shucks off his boxers and reaches into the nightstand drawer for a condom. Kneeling between my shaking thighs, he sheaths himself quickly, then leans over me as he guides himself to my opening.

Slowly, an inch at a time, he pushes inside me until he's fully seated. His gaze locks on mine, his eyes communicating everything he's feeling as my body softens for him. He moves slowly at first, pulling nearly all the way out before sliding in deep.

I slide my hands up his torso, dragging my nails over his taut skin. He's so tense, his rock-hard biceps bulging as he supports his weight. I slip my fingers into his hair and pull his mouth down to mine. Our lips cling, our tongues stroke and tease.

He's thrusting hard now, powering into me. My thighs are still shaking from my earlier climax. He thrusts one last time, deep, and holds himself there as his body shudders wildly. I can feel him throbbing inside me as he comes hard, his chest heaving as he tries to catch his breath.

Finally, he rolls us onto our sides, still joined, and brushes my hair back from my damp face. Then he cups my face and leans in to kiss me, his lips gentle, so reverent he makes my chest ache.

"All I ask," he says, "is that you give me a chance. Let me prove myself to you."

I flash back to the exact moment when this man stood between me and a madman with a gun and refused to budge. He risked his life for me. And he's still here, wanting more, wanting a life with me. I'm afraid to trust this, but I think he is the one.

My eyes tear up, and my throat is so tight all I can do is nod.