by Bella Andre
Just like Sam had felt about Dianna, Connor couldn't get Ginger out of his head.
Every single second she was with him.
The wind changed directions and he barely caught the boom in time before it slammed into his head. The sheet bit into his hand, but he barely felt it. He couldn't tell if his hands were growing numb simply from the cold or if it was his usual nerve bullshit. But then he realized it wasn't just his hands going numb, it was his whole arm. All the way up to his shoulder.
In the split second that he lost his concentration, the wind yanked the boat over. He hiked out as far as he could, his body parallel to the water, his abs hard, his quads flexed as they hooked to the underside of the deck. He tried to right the boat, but once the centerboard was no longer in the water all traction was lost. The sail was already dragging into the water, going under, flipping the boat completely upside down. He lost his grip on the side of the deck as he went under and had to swim hard to keep the wind from moving the boat out of his reach.
Jesus, the water was cold out in the middle of the lake and he didn't have enough body fat to withstand it for long. Again and again he crawled onto the turtled hull reaching for the centerboard, but it was too damn slippery, too damn slick for his hands to gain any traction.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
THE CABIN was empty when Ginger arrived home a short while later. Looking out at the beach, she noted that the sailboat was gone from the buoy. Thinking of Connor out there in winds like this had her instantly worried.
No, she told herself. He'd grown up on this lake. He knew when it was safe to go out and when it wasn't.
She needed to stop thinking about him every second. After changing into a paint-spattered sweatshirt and jeans, Ginger brought her easel in from the windy porch and stood in front of her it. This moment was a test. A test she desperately needed to ace.
The acclaimed Blue Mountain Lake Art Show was coming up in two weeks and this was the start of her week off to get ready. The good news was that she'd just sold another one of her paintings off the wall of the diner this morning during breakfast, but it did mean that she had one less painting to put on display.
All week she'd need to paint like a whirling dervish to get everything done on time. Especially since she'd given up so many hours this past week for the pleasure of being in Connor's arms. At the same time, though, she was thankful for the way her time with him had fueled her. A few sweet days in his arms, loving him, had provided her work with a much deeper emotional sensibility.
It was only if her creativity had become intrinsically tied to him that she was completely screwed.
Taking a deep breath, as she lifted a brush she decided she couldn't let Connor take this from her too. He already had her heart.
She deserved to keep something for herself.
It wasn't an easy start, but thank God, she finally started disappearing inside her paints. She didn't know how long she'd been working--time simply fell away when she hit her groove--when she looked up from her easel and saw that the wind had turned into a full-on hail and rain storm.
And that's when she realized Connor was still out there.
In the kind of storm that could destroy a small sailboat.
She ran out of the cabin, down the beach to the dock. The cover was still on the power boat and she ripped at it, tearing a couple of fingernails in her panic. The storm had sent a thick fog in addition to the rain and wind. With the boat uncovered just enough for her to be able to sit behind the wheel and steer, she quickly untied the ropes holding it to the dock and turned the key in the ignition. She wanted to go fast, shoot out onto the lake to find Connor, but she could barely see five feet in front of her and had to creep along.
Where was he?
She prayed then, harder than she ever had before, and then she saw it--a quick flash of something that looked like the white of the upside-down hull--and drove toward it.
She had to get within twenty feet before she could clearly see the boat. She didn't see Connor at first. She lost her grip on the steering wheel as the shock of losing him almost took her down, but then, a second later she saw his head, his shoulders, bobbing up and down in the water as he tried to climb onto the upside-down hull.
Connor was trained for saving people. Not Ginger. But now that their positions were reversed, she knew she needed to not only draw from her own strength, but his too.
Steadily, she drew the boat up alongside him, needing to get as close as she could without hitting him. With the wind and huge swells knocking them both around in the lake, it was difficult, but she refused to back down, to give in to the fear trying to break her.
He saw her then, coming for him. She cut the engine and leaned as far as she could out of the boat without falling into the water. He was just out of reach, just beyond her fingers, but she knew she couldn't jump into the water, couldn't let the power boat get away from them. She reached again for him and this time, her fingers were able to catch his.
Pulling from a strength she hadn't known was in her, she wrapped her cold hands around his near-frozen flesh and pulled him away from the sailboat. He could barely close his fingers, and she knew that the combination of the cold and wet with his nerve damage must be making even the slightest movements nearly impossible.
But then, he was the one pulling her toward him and as the two boats slammed together, he leaped into the power boat.
She should have known better than to doubt his strength, even in conditions like this. She forced herself to hold focus until she had the boat safely tied up to the dock. They'd worry about recovering the sailboat later.
Only then did she let herself look at him, put her arms around him. Oh God, his skin had lost its color. He was so cold, he was shaking. Somehow she needed to get him inside, get him warm, make sure he was okay.
But he had more strength than anyone else would have; when she got out of the boat and reached in to help him out, he was quickly on the dock, moving with her through the hail into the cabin.
The minute they were inside she stripped him down, then pulled a thick blanket off a nearby chair and wrapped it around him. Somehow, she got all caught up in the blanket, her body pressed hard against his, but when she tried to pull away to go make some tea to warm him, she realized his arms were holding her fast.
"You scared me," she whispered into his chest. She was trembling, more from the fear of almost having lost him than from the cold.
"You saved me."
His skin was still so cold, his hard muscles like blocks of ice against her, his hands and arms stiff as she tried to massage life into them with her fingers.
"You need to get warm."
Fortunately, the mud room in the back of the house had a shower, so they didn't need to go all the way upstairs. Seconds later, they were standing together under the spray, holding each other, Connor naked, Ginger fully clothed.
Quickly warming, she'd never been more glad to feel his lips on her than she did as he bent his head down to kiss her.
Her nipples beaded against his chest and when he started pulling off her clothes, the only thing she could think was that it must mean he had feeling in his hands.
And then she was naked too and he was sinking down onto the tiled shower floor and she was going with him.
One last time, was all she could think as she felt the thick head of his cock press into her, as he slowly filled her with his heat. She worked to memorize every last thing about him, the passion in his blue eyes, the emotion etched into his face.
One day she'd find another man to marry. She'd have children. And she'd work like hell to be happy.
But there would never be anyone like Connor.
After what had just happened, she deserved these last few final stolen moments in his arms.
And then she'd be strong.
She gasped with pleasure as he wrapped his hands around her hips and pulled her down hard, all the way onto him. She never wanted
to let go, never wanted to give him up as he told her how much he wanted her, needed her, had to have her. Her muscles started to contract around him and his roar of pleasure vibrated all the way through to the center of her.
One last time.
Thank God she was back in his arms. It was right where she belonged, the only way he could feel any peace at all.
Connor couldn't believe how stupid he'd been to go out in the sailboat in the middle of a storm like that, without a life vest.
The worst part of it was that he hadn't just put his own life at risk, he'd risked Ginger's too. She shouldn't have come out in that storm to save him, but she had.
He felt her shift in his arms and, selfishly, he almost didn't let her move. But her arms were strong as she pushed away from him and stood up.
He watched her step out of the shower and wrap a towel around herself, then he turned off the water and did did the same, his heart thumping hard.
"Connor. We need to talk."
Oh fuck. He could feel what was coming--what had to come after the way he'd behaved last night and this morning.
Wanting desperately to stop her from leaving him, he said, "You were right. When you said I've been lying to everyone. Knowing I can't go back to my job, to my crew--" He stopped, tried to put the loss into words. "It's worse than the way I felt when I woke up in the hospital. I knew my skin would grow back. But I'll never get to be out on the mountain again, never get to feel that rush of facing down the flames."
He ran a hand through his wet hair, forced himself to say, "I was embarrassed by how much it hurt. That's why I didn't want to talk about it."
There was no going back now. Time to lay it all out on the line.
"If it's not too late, if you think you can ever forgive me for being a complete asshole, I don't want to lose you."
She stared at him. Every other time he'd been able to read what she was feeling on her face. Not this time.
"For how long?"
He shook his head, didn't get her question, especially after his difficult confession.
"How long?"
"How long do you want to keep me?"
Oh shit. This time he got it, but that didn't mean he had an answer for her. "This is more than just a summer fling. You know that."
"Okay then, throw fall in too. Then what?"
Ginger was well aware of the fact that he didn't exactly have the future mapped out right now, that he was moving day to day without any sort of plan.
"I don't know."
She turned and left the bathroom. He wanted to pull her back into him, rewind five minutes, start this conversation over. Better yet, forget the conversation altogether and just lose himself in her again.
"When we started this," she said when they were both out in the living room, "I thought I could do it. That a summer fling could work for me, that if I was really lucky it might bleed into fall. Winter even. I know we had an agreement. I'm the one who told you not to be such a hero. I'm the one who practically begged you to make love to me. I realize I'm suddenly changing all the rules. But I can't keep going on like this. I can't pretend that two or three seasons are good enough."
Not reaching for her as she spoke was the hardest thing he'd ever had to do.
"I want it all. Passion. Devotion. Kids. Love." Her gaze didn't waver. "I want a husband and a partner. I want a man who wants to figure out our plans and future together." She pulled the towel tighter around herself. "I want to be with a man who loves me as much as I love him."
Connor would have given anything to make the words come. To be able to tell her everything she needed to hear. Because she was right, she deserved all of those things and more. Isabel's words rang in his ears: "Ginger is a wonderful person, Connor. She deserves so much more than she asks for."
Damn it, he didn't want to think of her in some other man's arms, looking back on her summer with him with a distant smile of remembrance.
It should be so easy. Three little words. That was all he needed to say and she'd be his.
But he couldn't get them out.
Fuck. What was wrong with him? An incredible woman was giving him the chance to be with her, to spend the next seventy years loving and being loved by her.
He looked at her then, her curls damp and dripping on her bare shoulders, her skin rosy from the heat of the shower and their lovemaking, and even though her green eyes were glassy with unshed tears, the determination to hold out for the kind of love she deserved shined through.
Suddenly, he realized the truth. He'd been in love with Ginger from their first kiss, from the first night at Poplar Cove when she'd held his hand after his nightmare and refused to let go.
Everything he'd been trying to hide from slammed like a fist into his gut, took the air out of his lungs with it. Because now that he knew he loved her, it was impossible to deny the rest of it.
He loved her too much to pretend there wasn't a better man out there for her.
She needed to be with a man who already had the future figured out. She deserved a man who wasn't working like hell just to make it from one minute to the next. She belonged with a man who wouldn't keep taking and taking from her until she ran out of anything to give.
"You're right," he forced himself to say, his throat as raw and inflamed as if he'd swallowed fire. "You deserve all those things, Ginger. And I need to step aside so you can get them."
She flinched as if his words had been a physical blow. He'd never felt worse, never felt so low. Especially after the way she'd risked her life to save him.
"You're an incredible woman, Ginger. I've never met anyone as strong as you. As beautiful."
The selfish part of him fought like hell to get him to say how much he loved her. To beg her to keep giving herself to him, even if he didn't have a damn thing to give her back.
"If I could love anyone," he finally let himself say, "it would be you."
She sucked in a shaky breath. "If I could stop loving anyone," she said softly, "it would be you."
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
THE TENSION--the misery--that pervaded every inch of Poplar Cove was so heavy Andrew was almost choking on it. It didn't take a genius to see that things between Connor and Ginger had gone from bad to worse. No more accidental brushes against each other. No more knowing glances. No more kisses good-bye.
Four days turned into five as they each worked in their corners. Connor cutting out the old rotted logs from the wall, Andrew sanding down the new logs, Ginger painting fast and furious.
Connor barely said two words. Ginger brought out sandwiches, but didn't join them as they ate. Andrew wished like hell he could wave a magic wand and get these kids back where it was so obvious that they needed to be, but he knew it wasn't that easy. He kept hoping they'd work it out, that the next morning he'd return and everything would be fine.
Just when he didn't think he could take it anymore, was actually considering locking them into the coat closet together and not letting them out until they'd worked it out, they both left the cabin, each going in opposite directions on the beach. It was such a relief to have the place to himself, he almost felt guilty. But as much as Andrew cared about his son, Connor wasn't the only one with problems.
Here he was, finally near Isabel again, and he couldn't think of a single plausible reason to go see her. Not when she'd made it perfectly clear that he needed to stay the hell away. He felt the clock ticking down, and even though a handful of days added to thirty years shouldn't matter, they did.
Seeing her again, holding her in his arms, had brought him right back around to the nineteen-year-old boy who had been so in love with her.
He was rechinking a couple of fresh logs when the phone rang in the kitchen and without thinking anything of it--it had been his house once, after all--he answered it.
"Josh never showed."
It was Isabel and she sounded harried. Irritated. Panicked. He recognized the name Josh immediately.
>
"Your son? Is anything wrong?"
"Andrew. Why the hell are you picking up Ginger's phone? And how the hell do you know my son's name?"
He'd been unable to stop himself from keeping tabs on her all those years while he was in California. But this wasn't the best time to tell her that.
"Never mind," she continued before he could reply, "I don't have time for this right now. I need to talk to Ginger. ASAP."
"She's gone. So's Connor. What do you need?"
"I can't believe this is happening," came first, then "Josh was supposed to be my dishwasher. We're about to be buried under dirty dishes. If I don't get someone on it soon we're done for the day."
"I'll be right there."
He hung up before she could argue with him, broke the speed limit the entire way into town.
"You couldn't drive any faster?" she shot at him before jerking her thumb toward the back sink when he walked in the back door. "I'll show you how to work the Hobart."
After her demonstration of the big silver machine that spray washed and dried the plates, glasses and silverware, she asked, "Any questions?"
"None," he said, quickly getting to work on the enormous stacks of dirty plates and glasses, so many that they'd overflowed the stainless steel counter to the floor. Side by side they worked in silence, their rhythm as good as if they hadn't spent thirty years apart, until the situation was partially in hand.
And even though he'd never thought the day would come when he'd enjoy doing something like washing dishes, the truth was he hadn't felt this good in years. Simply because he got to be close to Isabel.
Hours later when the last of the customers had gone and he was running the floor mats through the machine, he was surprised to hear her say, "Thanks for your help. I hate to say it, but you completely saved the day. And you don't totally suck at washing dishes either."
"You know what, I actually enjoyed myself." He shrugged and said, "I've forgotten how much pleasure there can be in a job well done. Any job, as it turns out."
Clearing her throat, she said, "I'll just go grab some money out of the till to pay you."
His laughter rang through the kitchen. "I don't want any of your money, Isabel. I just wanted to lend you a hand."
Her back stiffened. "I know you've probably got a fancy job--"