boots under her bed—yet—but it still smacked being reminded of the fact.
Emphatically.
Leaning back in the hospital chair, he fished his book from his pocket, the weight of her eyes on him a heavy reminder of all their unfinished business.
He resisted the urge to look back up, which would only instigate a conversation he sure as hell didn't want. Strategy. Too much was at stake here with only fourteen days to persuade her to give things another try. Again. He'd soothed her temper in less than that often enough before. Problem was, the determined glint returning to her eyes made it totally clear.
He wouldn't be able to get naked with Rena to win her over this time.
Chapter 4
T wo weeks alone with J.T.? Gulp. Surely, given all that was at stake now, she could hold strong against the temptation to ditch her clothes every time those long legs of his lumbered into the room.
Still, the upcoming fourteen days of intimacy scrolled through Rena's mind as endlessly as the winding roads through her tree-packed subdivision on her way home from the hospital. Brick and wooden tract houses whipped past her passenger window, a much safer view than staring at her hot husband driving.
Even peripheral glimpses of him rocked her thoughts like hanging ferns at the mercy of a Charleston tropical storm.
Nope. She wasn't looking at him. Just staring at his reflection in the passenger window.
J.T.'s window open, gusts puffed inside to flap his unbuttoned, loose Hawaiian shirt over a white T-shirt.
Unlike Chris's baggy style, J.T. kept his T-shirt tucked into his khaki shorts, neatly leaving his trim waist and flat abs right there for her to admire even in profile reflection.
She pulled her gaze away, down, found no relief there, either. Thickly muscled legs worked the clutch, brake, gas—shorts putting plenty of tanned skin on display. Her fingers curled at the memory of exploring the bulging cut of tendons, the masculine texture of bristly hair.
Rounding a corner slowly, careful as he cruised past an overgrown magnolia, J.T. draped his wrist over the old Ford's steering wheel, a truck he'd rebuilt himself as he'd done with their fixer-upper home. This talented man could repair anything through sheer determination, ingenuity and sweat equity.
If only relationships were as easy to maintain.
Their two-story white wood house eased into view. Vehicles packed their driveway—her sedan, Julia Dawson's minivan, Bo's Jeep, Nikki's compact car. Welcome buffers against the tension so she would spend less time alone with J.T.
Good, right?
And how could she not be touched by Nikki's visit? Her eldest had come home to check on her. So sweet, her easygoing daughter with an oversize heart. The breakup had hurt her most, even though she showed it least. "Nikki's here?"
J.T. eased off the gas pedal, cruising to a stop on the narrow street. "She drove in this morning for the day. She's heading out after supper for an all-night study session. I didn't have a chance to tell you with all the out-processing at the hospital. You ready to go in?"
She nodded, conversation time apparently over for her husband. Looking back, she wondered now if they'd been doomed from the start to a life of miscommunication followed by quiet distance—Tag's family full of stoicism and silence, hers reverberating with chatter but so much of it lies and anger. Even if she knew better now, with her newfound counselor perspective she could see what a shaky foundation they'd built from the start.
For this baby, for her other two children, she would hold strong. She would model healthy relationships in hopes of helping them build ones of their own.
J.T. ambled around the hood of the truck to her side, opened the door, filled her eyes. He extended his arms, Hawaiian shirt flapping in the breeze, crisp white cotton, stretching across an endless chest she could lose herself against.
He couldn't really expect to carry her? He waited, arms out. Unmoving.
She knew he could do
Emphatically.
Leaning back in the hospital chair, he fished his book from his pocket, the weight of her eyes on him a heavy reminder of all their unfinished business.
He resisted the urge to look back up, which would only instigate a conversation he sure as hell didn't want. Strategy. Too much was at stake here with only fourteen days to persuade her to give things another try. Again. He'd soothed her temper in less than that often enough before. Problem was, the determined glint returning to her eyes made it totally clear.
He wouldn't be able to get naked with Rena to win her over this time.
Chapter 4
T wo weeks alone with J.T.? Gulp. Surely, given all that was at stake now, she could hold strong against the temptation to ditch her clothes every time those long legs of his lumbered into the room.
Still, the upcoming fourteen days of intimacy scrolled through Rena's mind as endlessly as the winding roads through her tree-packed subdivision on her way home from the hospital. Brick and wooden tract houses whipped past her passenger window, a much safer view than staring at her hot husband driving.
Even peripheral glimpses of him rocked her thoughts like hanging ferns at the mercy of a Charleston tropical storm.
Nope. She wasn't looking at him. Just staring at his reflection in the passenger window.
J.T.'s window open, gusts puffed inside to flap his unbuttoned, loose Hawaiian shirt over a white T-shirt.
Unlike Chris's baggy style, J.T. kept his T-shirt tucked into his khaki shorts, neatly leaving his trim waist and flat abs right there for her to admire even in profile reflection.
She pulled her gaze away, down, found no relief there, either. Thickly muscled legs worked the clutch, brake, gas—shorts putting plenty of tanned skin on display. Her fingers curled at the memory of exploring the bulging cut of tendons, the masculine texture of bristly hair.
Rounding a corner slowly, careful as he cruised past an overgrown magnolia, J.T. draped his wrist over the old Ford's steering wheel, a truck he'd rebuilt himself as he'd done with their fixer-upper home. This talented man could repair anything through sheer determination, ingenuity and sweat equity.
If only relationships were as easy to maintain.
Their two-story white wood house eased into view. Vehicles packed their driveway—her sedan, Julia Dawson's minivan, Bo's Jeep, Nikki's compact car. Welcome buffers against the tension so she would spend less time alone with J.T.
Good, right?
And how could she not be touched by Nikki's visit? Her eldest had come home to check on her. So sweet, her easygoing daughter with an oversize heart. The breakup had hurt her most, even though she showed it least. "Nikki's here?"
J.T. eased off the gas pedal, cruising to a stop on the narrow street. "She drove in this morning for the day. She's heading out after supper for an all-night study session. I didn't have a chance to tell you with all the out-processing at the hospital. You ready to go in?"
She nodded, conversation time apparently over for her husband. Looking back, she wondered now if they'd been doomed from the start to a life of miscommunication followed by quiet distance—Tag's family full of stoicism and silence, hers reverberating with chatter but so much of it lies and anger. Even if she knew better now, with her newfound counselor perspective she could see what a shaky foundation they'd built from the start.
For this baby, for her other two children, she would hold strong. She would model healthy relationships in hopes of helping them build ones of their own.
J.T. ambled around the hood of the truck to her side, opened the door, filled her eyes. He extended his arms, Hawaiian shirt flapping in the breeze, crisp white cotton, stretching across an endless chest she could lose herself against.
He couldn't really expect to carry her? He waited, arms out. Unmoving.
She knew he could do
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