13. Porch Swing

PORCH SWING

W e spend the afternoon at the clinic where Uncle Pete introduces me to the staff. He fatigues as the afternoon wears on and I soon take him home, concerned by his lack of stamina.

He doesn't talk any more about the trust, or my inheritance, except to say he scheduled a meeting with his lawyer. He brings Abigale McPhearson's leather journal out, presenting it to me with reverence, then excuses himself for the night.

Over a hundred years old, the journal's weathered the decades with amazing grace. The pages are yellowed with age but remain supple, not cracking as I would expect.

He says the contents are meant for McPhearson women's eyes only, but I wonder if he ever stole a peek through the years. Knowing my uncle's character, he probably never considered it, respecting the family tradition.

I settle in Aunt Martha's recliner, excited to read my namesake's words. The first pages include a family tree and the passing of the journal through the first-born daughters. Aunt Martha's name is the last entry with a penned line for the first-born daughter she never had.

I rub my finger over that empty space. My name goes there, but how to annotate it correctly? Then it hits me. I'm the last female in the McPhearson line. Before I finish tracing Martha's lineage back through the decades, a knock sounds at the front door.

"Coming," I call out.

Opening the door, my breath catches. Drake stands, hand raised, ready to knock on the door again.

"Drake?" The quickening of my pulse catches me off guard. There's just so much of him to take in. From the devastation of his dark eyes to the jagged scar on his cheek, he quickens my breath and brings heat to my face.

Incredibly handsome, Drake stands with purpose, his feet spread on a wide base, completely unaware of how his overwhelming presence makes my heart flutter.

A storm brews in his eyes, not of anger, but of a more pressing need. Cotton strains over the broad expanse of his chest, every ripple of muscle outlined underneath. With his height, my attention focuses firmly on the cut definition of his chest and the bulge of his biceps. I catch myself staring and drag my attention up to take in the rugged features of his face.

He crooks up a dark eyebrow, fully aware I'm checking him out. Heat builds in my cheeks, and the curve of his lips bows into a grin.

"City girl," he says with a mischievous smirk. "Bert told me I could find you at Doc Bateman's house. I've never been stood up by a girl before, must be something you city folk do all the time. You owe me a dinner date."

"I'm sorry. Something came up."

The breeze blowing in through the doorway is warm. The unseasonably cold weather seems to be on its way out.

"I was just …"

"You were just getting ready to tell me how you're going to make it up to me." He palms the door jamb and dares me to deny his demand.

Speechless, my ribs expand with a sharp inhale while I stare at him like a fool.

A devilish grin takes control of his face, softening the jagged line of his scar. The stubble across his hard jaw makes me itch to run my fingers across the coarse whiskers and steal another taste of him. We regard each other for a minute until he leans in to whisper in my ear.

"I'm reading your mind, and while I'd love to take another kiss, let me take you on a proper date first."

My breath rushes out as the whisper-light press of his lips against the side of my neck makes my muscles tense and my heart race. My fingernails bite into my palms with the struggle to not lose all control.

He lets out a strained laugh, his lips hovering over my ear again. "An odd thing we've got going, isn't it?"

"Yes." My voice wavers with my response. "What is it?"

"The air crackles between us. Tell me you're interested in exploring this further."

Interested?

That word doesn't begin to describe the need burning within me, but I didn't leave a bad relationship to jump blindly into another. And I'm certainly not ready to land in any man's bed after knowing him for only one night, even if he saved my life.

I step back, breaking the electrical connection supercharging the air. I need a breath without his overwhelming Drake-ness muddling my thoughts.

"Um, give me a second." I bite down on my cheek.

The polite thing would be to invite him in, but I have a feeling things will rapidly escalate if we're in a room alone together. When Drake doesn't budge, I make a big deal of closing the door. If he wants to play the city-country angle, then he can wait on the porch like a proper country gentleman.

As soon as I shut the door, I bring my hands to my mouth to suppress a girly squeal, then I press my shoulders back, and try to gain some semblance of control. He tracked me down the same way I planned on finding him.

I run to my room and rummage through my suitcases until I find a black skirt. The fabric doesn't need ironing and is perfect for an emergency outfit change. Shimmying out of my pants, I pull on the skirt, hoping Drake will appreciate the tight fit.

Since it is still cool outside, I opt for a dark sweater and layer a dressy tank top underneath. I have no idea what he intends—there are few bars in Peace Springs—but if they're anything like the ones in Redlands, a sweater will be too hot if there's a crowd heating up the inside.

I grab my purse and drape the coat Bert lent me over my arm. I want Drake to get the full impact of my outfit and will endure the discomfort of the chilly night air.

A quick peek at the mirror beside the front door, and I take in a deep breath. My uncle's in bed, and while I don't want to leave without letting him know I'm going out, I don't want to disturb him either. Instead, I scratch out a note and leave it on the door of the fridge.

Whatever happens with Drake tonight, I'll approach it with an open mind. One-night stands aren't my thing, but maybe it will do some good to put my ex firmly in the past.

When I step out onto the porch, Drake sits on the porch swing. His long legs rock him forward and back. He stills, and his eyes latch on to me. I shut the door quietly, taking care not to wake my uncle.

"Holy hell," Drake says.

"What's wrong?"

Between one breath and the next, he closes the distance and presses me against the door.

There is no preamble. No slow exhale as our lips wait to meet. Aggressive and powerful, he leans against me, the weight of his body blanketing me with his commanding presence. He wraps an arm around my waist, claiming me with his strength as his powerful lips take my mouth prisoner.

I wrap my hands around his neck and surrender to the kiss. My rational mind tells me to think this through. It's too fast. Too soon. I need to get settled before attaching myself to a man, or worse, sleeping with a stranger.

What will the town think of their new doctor? But my heart refuses to listen and chases those thoughts aside. For now, I'm willing to live on the edge and deal with the consequences later.

He flattens his palm against the small of my back, and the kiss softens with the kneading of his fingertips against my spine.

A lick.

A nip.

A final press of his lips and he breaks off the kiss.

With his forehead pressed against mine, we share an intimate moment. His breath spills out and swirls into my lungs. His scent, a mixture of wood smoke, earth, and musk, makes my eyes close and my head tip back against the door. He follows me, pressing his forehead to mine, keeping our connection intact.

"What the hell," he says with a weighted sigh. "Please tell me something really important came up and that's why I didn't see you at Shelly's."

My eyes drift shut. The press of his lips fade from my mouth, but the taste of him lingers, making me need more. Slowly, I open my eyes. Hardly any distance separates us, and while I can't focus on his eyes, I don't need to see them to feel the darkness swirling inside.

"Something came up. I'm sorry I didn't call, but I didn't have your number."

"Where is it?"

"Where's, what?"

He thrusts out his hand. "Your phone. Where is it?"

"In my purse."

"Give it to me," he demands.

"Why?"

"Because you need my number."

I undo the clasp of my purse and fish out my phone. Unlocking the screen, I dutifully hand it over. With a few quick taps, he enters his number and hands the phone back.

"There, now no more excuses for not calling."

The bossiness of his tone takes me back. Scott was nearly as pushy. It started with one demand, followed by another. When I made a mistake, his disappointment flared. Within a month of moving in together, he hit me the first time.

Drake only asks for my phone, but it makes me cautious.

I duck out from beneath him, surprising myself nearly as much as him. The sizzling energy which charges the air fizzles and dies.

"Um, maybe we should slow down a bit?"

His eyes pinch. "Did I do something wrong?"

Yes and no, but how to explain that without exposing the details of an abusive past?

"No." It isn't a complete lie, but neither is it the truth. "It's just, being new, I don't want people to get the wrong idea…"

"Meaning you don't want me to get the wrong idea." He brushes aside the fringe of his dark bangs and straightens to his full height.

I place my palm against his chest. Warmth pulses from him to my fingertips, our connection strong enough to travel up my arm and swirl around my heart. Hesitant not to ruin the evening before it even begins, I bite at my lower lip.

"That kiss was …"

"Hot," he says with a smirk.

I place my hands on his shoulders and balance on tiptoe until I can brush my lips against his. "It was amazing, but faster than I'm used to."

Socially reserved, it generally takes me forever to warm up to anyone. It took five dates before I let Scott kiss me the first time, and I didn't sleep with him for months after we started dating.

If Henry hadn't arrived with his tow truck and interrupted what was happening in that barn, I'm certain Drake would've followed through on his promise.

And the strangest thing?

I want to know how it feels to be led by nothing other than the flames of passion because I never allow myself the freedom to find out.

His finger lifts my chin and forces me to look him in the eyes. "I swear, city girl, sometimes I can see your mind churning its gears." He grips my hand and gives it a squeeze. "Now, how about we see to dinner? Maybe hit a bar? Monday nights, there's not much happening around here, but we can find a bar with a jukebox, and I bet I can clear the floor and take you for a twirl."

Dancing?

Oh no! Anything but that.

"How about dinner and a couple of drinks? We can leave the dancing to the kids."

He wraps his hands around my waist, picks me up, and twirls me in the air. "Fuck that, you're dancing with me."

I squeal as he spins me around. When he stops, a banked heat smolders in his eyes. At first, I stare down at him, and then he lowers me slowly.

Our eyes meet.

He presses his lips against mine, this time giving a slow, gentle caress. Then he lowers me still until I have to crane my neck.

A breath in, and his dark, heady musk fills my nasal passages. My feet have yet to reach the ground, but I don't care. I never care if I ever walk again.

Laying my cheek against the expanse of his chest, I breathe out a sigh, feeling content for the first time in years.

"No dancing," I say.

"You let me decide." He places a kiss on my forehead. "I won't steer you wrong."