“Girl stuff.” The softest smile touched her lips. It was subtle, but tenderness rounded her cheeks and gentled her eyes.
“You like her.” The fact surprised him. His much younger sister had always seemed a nuisance to the few women he’d dated.
Clementine, however, looked at him like he’d sprouted a third eye. “Your sister is super cool, and she cracks me up. Great sense of humor. You should hear her impression of you.”
Okay. Not cool. Chloe wasn’t as loose-lipped as Tami and other Whichway gossip junkies, but she knew his worst moments. One in particular, thanks to the miniaturized size of this town. But Clementine’s obvious affection for his sister hit him square in his chest.
Chloe’s moods had been more down than up in recent months. She’d been happy today, though, because she’d had a woman to hang out with. Clementine seemed more at ease, too. She may be hiding things from her past, but it didn’t feel deceitful and personal like it had with Ava. Not when the rest—Clementine’s happiness with him and his family—was undeniably genuine.
Clementine finished picking through his things and sat on the edge of his bed. “I like your room.”
She lay back and clasped her hands over her belly. He sat beside her, close enough that the bed dipped, pushing their thighs together. The minimal contact thickened his blood, but she’d been cagey with him from day one. If he moved too fast, she could run again. He forced himself to stay still. Wait.
She spider-walked her fingers up his thigh until she’d threaded her fingers through his. A small tug later, he was lying on his back, too, their feet planted on the floor.
He ached to roll toward her and kiss her thoroughly. He also wanted to thank her for making his sister smile, even though they should never discuss boys or crushes. He wanted to understand this woman who watched I Love Lucy and found his reptiles beautiful. “How did your father die?”
She stiffened, and the soft puffs of her breaths ceased. Had he pushed her too far? “Suicide,” she finally said. “I found him in our garage, in his car, with the exhaust running.”
Jesus. Was there no end to the trauma she’d suffered? He held her hand tighter. “When you were nine?”
She tensed even more. “How’d you know that?”
“At the bar—you said you went into foster care at ten, a year after your dad died.” Her breathing evened out. She inched closer and laid her head on his shoulder. Jack liked that a whole lot. “Do you know why he did it? Did he leave a note?”
“No, and I was so young at the time. He did it on my birthday, which was pretty fucking awful. I didn’t understand mental health issues or even know they existed, but he was fired the year before and could have been upset he couldn’t buy me something. He’d spent most of his last days in front of the TV, and my mother was hard on him, I think. If I try to piece through it now, I see signs of depression: he lost weight, didn’t sleep well, would get angry at stupid stuff. Near the end, the only times he was his old self was when we worked on his car together. He’s why I love the classics and learned how to rebuild engines. The Prius I rented hurts my eyes.”
“The car doesn’t suit you.”
Clementine lifted to her elbow and looked down at him. Something he couldn’t pinpoint arrested her expression. “What does suit me?”
“Fast and dangerous.” He didn’t have to consider his reply. Clementine’s clothing was as conflicting as her car. This afternoon, grimy in her T-shirt and jeans, she’d looked at home, but her usual prim skirts and pastel colors didn’t fit with the woman who’d greased up her hands under the hood of his Jaguar, who carried herself with a bold, athletic stride and sassed him with her sarcastic humor. Her outfits often seemed as rented as her Prius. A personality to emulate, the way his sister moved through fashion styles—hippy, goth, emo, rocker—trying on different personalities, hoping one stuck.
Clementine was dressed in his mother’s clothes again, waiting for hers from the dryer. Just thin linen pants over strong legs. Their thighs pressed more heavily together, so much heat concentrated along his quad.
He lifted his torso and leaned toward her until she lay back down. He traced a line from her clavicle, over her shoulder, to the hard knot of her wrist bone. “I’m sorry about your father.”
“I’m sorry about yours.”
Mutual understanding. No false platitudes. She moved to reach for him, but he held her down. “I’d like a moment with your body.”
She bit her lip, but didn’t say yes. She didn’t say no, either. They were three-quarters on his bed, both their legs hanging over the side, feet still tethered to the floor. To security. He wanted her vulnerable and unleashed. He also knew himself. If he got her naked, he’d be more demanding, and she wasn’t ready for that.
He moved his hand to the drawstring at her waist, splayed his palm over her abdomen, and eased two fingers under her T-shirt. Air hissed through her teeth, but her stomach stayed flat. Like she couldn’t inhale. She was either nervous about messing around with him, or men in general.
He could stand, not push things further, but he wanted her to know she could trust him. “No matter what I do or how I act, if you ask me to stop, I will.”
He might desire control in the bedroom, but those lines never blurred. He glided his hand up an inch. She trembled, but didn’t protest. Her lips parted in longing, and when she mouthed more, his willpower snapped. He bent forward, kissed her fiercely, coaxing her lips open with his tongue as he pressed his hand against her hipbone, reveling in the softness of her skin. Fire shot to his groin, the intense throb tensing his thighs.
She tipped up her chin, opening her mouth more fully. He kissed her deeper, swallowed her moans as he curled his fingers around her ribs, ready to lift her toward the center of his bed, somewhere he could have better access.
His fingers met hard, puckered skin.
She froze.
Head hazy with lust, he lifted her shirt and brushed his thumb over the angry scar on her abdomen. “What happened?”
Her belly rose and fell faster. More color flushed her face. She looked at the ceiling, then at his chest, then down at her stiffening body. “Just an accident. A coffee table that—” She winced and went to curl away from him, then she grabbed his hand and held it right there, over her scar. “That’s a lie.” Pleading eyes met his, but he had no clue what she was asking. “That was going to be a lie.”
Unease slowly cooled his desire. “Do you want to tell me the truth?”
“I was stabbed.”
A flash of a blade filled his mind, pressing against her sensitive skin, pushing in. Jack wasn’t the fighting sort. He’d never punched a man or brawled in a bar. He wanted to punish someone now. “Who hurt you?”
She held his hand in place but kept her mouth closed. She wasn’t ready to trust him. Could he fault her? She’d found her father dead and had been shuffled through the foster system. She blamed herself for her mother’s overdose. Then, somewhere along the line, she’d been stabbed. Those experiences didn’t nurture faith in others. When she looked at Jack, she probably only saw a past filled with chandeliers and libraries and bathrooms large enough to live in. Idyllic perfection.