"Let go," she whispered against his forehead. "Just let go."
And then she was wrapping her legs tighter around his waist to ride him just as hard as he rode her, taking him in deeper than she ever had before. But as he roared his release, it was the beating of her heart against his chest that he felt most.
"I'll move out tonight."
Her legs were still wrapped around his waist, her arms around his neck, sweat dripping between their half-naked bodies. And he was an asshole who had just done something he never thought he could be capable of. He'd hurt her, had heard her cry out in pain as he shoved her against the wall. And he still hadn't stopped. Couldn't have stopped.
Abruptly, she untangled herself from him. Pushed him away. And that was when he saw the bruises on her wrists, clear even in the dim lights of the porch.
Bruises. From his hands.
"I hear everything you say," she said. "Even the things you don't say. Especially those. But you haven't heard a goddamned thing I've said, have you?"
She was the only reason he'd been able to hold the pieces together at all, and in return he'd stolen from her sweetness.
In return he'd hurt her.
"I forced you, Ginger. I made you fuck me. Here. Like that."
He felt lost without her pressed against him, a man on a island with nothing left to hold on to. He looked at her ruined dress on the floor, pulled up his jeans with shaking hands.
"I was an animal."
A sound of rage erupted from her throat. "Yes, you wanted to make it fucking. You wanted to take what's between us and make it ugly and worthless, but you couldn't do it. Don't you see that, Connor? You couldn't do it."
"I made you come. I put my hands on you and controlled you."
She grabbed his hands, stuck one hard to her breasts, shoved the other between her legs.
"You think you can make me come just by putting your hands on me? Just by rubbing yourself against me? Am I coming now? No!"
She shoved his hands off, whirled away, her skin flushed with anger.
"If you'd been hurting me, if you had really been trying to control me, I wouldn't have come apart like that. I'm in love with you, Connor, but that doesn't mean I'm some puppet you're holding the strings to."
"Your wrists. I did that to your wrists."
She stopped abruptly and looked at her arms. "I've always bruised easily," she said dismissively, before glaring back at him. "Are you hearing a word of what I'm saying? I love you. Just the way you are. All I want is for you to talk to me. To let me in."
He was trying to take her words in, was trying to process the force of her emotion, everything she was offering him, but as soon as he'd heard the word love again, it hit him, a sucker punch in the center of his gut: there was only one thing worse than losing the use of his hands, only one thing worse than losing his entire identity as a firefighter.
Letting himself love Ginger ... and losing her too.
Because now that everything he'd been absolutely sure of for thirty years had gone up in smoke, all he knew for certain was that everything good eventually slipped from his hands.
It was the only truth he knew. The only thing he could be certain of anymore.
Her frustration echoed out from the porch, out to the beach, the water lapping at the shore.
"I've never thought you were a coward, Connor. Never. But if you leave tonight, I'll know that you are. You might have proved yourself to be a hero a hundred times in a wildfire. Well, this is your chance to prove it to me."
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
IT WAS a rough night.
Andrew had never needed much sleep--as a litigator, he was often up late into the night poring over briefs, only to wake at dawn to defend his client--but he'd woken up disoriented and confused in the Inn's small cottage bedroom. Making a cup of coffee in the automatic coffee-maker on the kitchen counter, he stood by the window and stared out at the water.
The night before he'd spent hours sitting in the dark on the porch of his cottage on the shores of Blue Mountain Lake. After running his credit card and handing him a large, old-fashioned key, Rebecca, the pretty innkeeper, had said, "I'm afraid our restaurant here is booked up for the night already, but if you're hungry, I can highly recommend the Blue Mountain Diner. Isabel does a fantastic job with the food there."
Although he was starved, he didn't think Isabel would appreciate seeing him show up at her restaurant tonight. Or any other night.
Noting the fruit and cookies on the sideboard in the sitting room, he said, "Thanks, but I'll make do just fine with this spread."
Looking unconvinced, she'd said, "You know what, how about I pop my head into the kitchen and see if the cook can whip up something simple for you and send it down to the cottage in about an hour?"
It was the nicest anyone had been to Andrew all day, apart from Ginger. But he wasn't under any misapprehensions as to why she was being so wonderful. It wasn't because he was a great guy. It wasn't because he deserved her kindness.
Rebecca simply didn't know him.
And being nice was her job.
He'd sat in an Adirondack chair, staring out at the lake, watching the sailboats and speedboats and kayaks go by, but not really seeing any of them.
All night long, the only thing he could see was the hatred on his son's face, on Isabel's face as each of them listed off all the ways he'd hurt them, all the ways he'd failed.
But he couldn't hide out in the cottage forever. And strangely, for all the discord of the previous day, for the first time in years, he felt like he was home.
Thirty years he'd gone without seeing this place. Thirty years he'd stayed away from his mistakes. Or thought he had, anyway. But Blue Mountain Lake was a part of his soul that couldn't simply be thrown away or forgotten.
He'd been a summer baby, born at the small hospital forty-five minutes away. He wondered if his old crib was still in the Poplar Cove attic, or if his parents had gotten rid of it as soon as Connor had outgrown it? Every summer as a kid they'd come to the lake, an extended family that included his grandparents as well. He'd grown up playing on the beach, swimming in the sometimes chilly waters, sailing on whitecaps, roasting marshmallows on sticks. He'd been so certain about the way his life would unfold.
He'd planned to build boats. Handmade sailboats. To sail around the world with a beautiful woman at his side.
He moved away from the cottage window, pouring himself a cup of coffee. It was too late. He'd wasted too much goddamned time being a martyr, spent the best years of his life trying to impress the wrong people.
But even as he thought it, he hoped to hell he was wrong. Otherwise there was no point in sticking around, no point in trying to grow a pair of balls and try again with his son.
But first, he would start his day at Blue Mountain Lake the way he always had as a kid. With a dip in the lake. Quickly putting on his bathing suit, he jogged to the empty beach, down the Inn's dock, and splashed into the water. He was grateful for the rush of adrenaline that shot through him when he submerged beneath the cool waters.
Making his way out of the water, he looked up and saw Rebecca standing on the Inn's porch watching him. Clearly embarrassed to have been caught, she smiled and waved, then disappeared back inside the building.
The funny thing about discontent, Andrew had discovered over the years, was that he tended to notice it in other people, particularly people who were trying to hide it. Something in the innkeeper's eyes, the set of her mouth, told him that she wasn't happy. Not, of course, that it was any of his business. Still, he knew what it was to search for happiness and come up empty.
After a quick shower and shave, he got dressed and headed into town on foot. The Inn was at the end of Main Street. Isabel's diner was on the opposite end of the two-block center of town. He'd promised he wouldn't bother her, but that didn't mean he couldn't stand across the street, see what she'd done to the place.
His heart was poundi
ng and his palms were sweating as he passed the small tourist shops, the ice-cream store window, the cafe/bookstore, the knitting shop, the public dock that ran the historic boat tours of the lake, and a handful of business offices.
Arriving at the diner, he was amazed by its transformation. When he and Isabel were kids, the place had been a run-down teenage hangout. From where he was standing it almost looked like she'd rebuilt the whole damn place from the ground up. Why was he surprised? Even as a girl, she'd been remarkable. Smart and funny and talented. Not to mention so beautiful it almost hurt to look at her.
She still was.
And it still did.
A crowd of people was gathering outside and when he caught snippets of conversation about how the diner was never closed at this time, Andrew wondered if something was the matter. A hand-printed sign on the door said, TEMPORARILY CLOSED--WILL OPEN SHORTLY.
And then he heard it, Isabel's voice, frustrated, a few random curses thrown in for good measure.
Before he could think better of it, he was crossing the street and going behind the building. Isabel was kneeling beside an open pipe that was pouring water out all over the parking lot, a wrench in her hands.
"Where are the mains?"
Looking up, her face twisted with surprise--and then annoyance. "Two feet from where you're standing. I couldn't get it to turn. Here."
She threw the heavy wrench at him, and he grabbed it a split second before it hit him between the eyes. Another time, he'd be happy to let her get some much due satisfaction from taking her anger out on him with a hand tool, but right now he needed to get her water shut off before her well emptied out completely.
Someone had painted the valve closed and he had to bear down hard to get it to twist. Thankful that he was religious about going to the gym--otherwise he would have looked like the biggest loser in the world in front of the one woman he most wanted to impress--he cranked down on the valve until not even trickles were leaking out of the tap.
"Thanks."
The word may have been grudging, but he knew he deserved that.
"You're welcome." He tried to hold her gaze, tried to make her see how much he wanted her forgiveness, but she refused to look at him. "I'd be happy to head over to the hardware store for a new pipe, if you'd like."
"This has happened before. I had the plumber leave me some replacements."
"I'll do it for you."
She didn't bother stopping as she walked through the back door. "No thanks. I saw how he did it last time. I can take care of it myself."
But he couldn't let her go so easily. Not when he refused to believe that last night had been it for them.
"There's a line out on the sidewalk in front of the diner. You need to feed those people. I'll get your water up and running quickly. I know how to do this, I promise."
At the word "promise" her eyes narrowed. Damn it, maybe that hadn't been the best word to use.
"Please, Izzy, let me help."
"Isabel." The door slammed.
Why couldn't he, just once, say the right thing?
But then the door opened again and Isabel dumped a plastic bag at his feet. "Don't screw it up."
As the door slammed behind her again, Andrew smiled. Letting him fix her pipe wasn't a big deal, but it was something. A step in the right direction. And a hell of a lot better than being thrown off the property.
He'd take what he could get and he'd work from there.
A car pulled up in the parking lot and Ginger stepped out. After the way she'd found him yesterday at Isabel's house, pride made him want to walk away before she saw him. But that was what he would have done before.
What he'd done before hadn't worked. It was time to stop repeating the same screwed-up patterns and learn some new ones.
When Ginger was within hearing distance, he said "Good morning."
She jumped. "You startled me."
"Sorry. I'm just helping Isabel with some broken pipes."
She frowned in obvious confusion. "Oh. That's nice of you."
He took in the dark smudges beneath her eyes, her puffy eyelids. It would be easiest just to pretend he hadn't noticed. But then he remembered the way she had reached out to him at Isabel's.
"Everything okay?"
She wasn't a large woman, but up until now she'd struck him as steady. Solid. This morning, however, she seemed shrunken, looked like someone who'd just thrown in the towel.
She swallowed. Shook her head. "No. But I'll be fine." She nodded toward the diner. "I'd better get in there."
Why was she letting him help her, Isabel wondered? She could have fixed the pipes herself. And yet, her feet had carried her back inside, her hands had grabbed the pipes and given them to him.
She hadn't been lying to him yesterday. She wasn't going to forgive him.
Even if he redid the diner's entire plumbing system.
Her fry cook came in from the restaurant where he'd been guzzling his first Coke of the day. "People are about to riot out there. Can I let them in?"
Isabel nodded and moments later, a sea of grateful faces rushed in to take their usual a.m. seats. And although she knew that everyone inside the diner would surely be happier if she had water to make their breakfasts and coffee, nonetheless, a part of her hoped that Andrew wasn't able to fix the pipes. He'd always been handy, even as a teen. With cars, pipes, hammers. Just once, she wanted to see him fail at something.
But a few minutes later, when she momentarily forgot that the water was off and turned on the faucet, it ran beautifully.
Andrew had, once again, succeeded. He'd arrived unannounced like a knight on his shiny white horse to save the damsel in distress.
Damn him.
The orders poured in and soon every burner was covered and she was in the zone where the only thing she should be thinking about was the next order. And yet, every second she was on guard, waiting for him to come through the back door, triumphant. Expecting her thanks. Thinking they could forget everything that had been said.
But breakfast turned into lunch, and still he didn't come. Midway through the rush, the phone rang in her office. Scott picked it up and handed it to her, even though she was in no mood to be friendly to whomever was on the line.
"Blue Mountain Lake Diner. This is Isabel."
"Oh great. I'm so glad I've caught you. My name's Dianna Kelley and I'm hoping you'll be able to help me. The caterer for my wedding just backed out and after asking around, I've heard you're an amazing chef."
"I don't normally do weddings," Isabel said, more curt than normal. "What's the date?"
"July thirty-first."
That was the same date Andrew's oldest son was getting married. Sitting down heavily in her office chair, she asked, "Do you have family at the lake?"
"No, but my fiance spent summers there as a child. You might know their cabin? Poplar Cove. I know this is short notice, and I completely understand if you can't accommodate us, but Sam and I would really appreciate it if you'll at least consider it."
The woman had just given Isabel a clear out. Sorry, I'm too busy. I'm afraid it's just not possible. So then, why wasn't she saying no and hanging up the phone?
The answer hit her clear between the eyes: because she wasn't a coward. So she wasn't going to run. Instead, she was going to face her fears head-on. And she was going to triumph, goddamn it.
A few minutes later they'd worked out the initial details. Isabel was going to cater Andrew's son's wedding.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
ALL HIS life, people had told Connor how brave he was. And he'd believed them. He'd done things no one else could, faced impossible risks and walked out grinning on the other side. He'd skimmed off the surface of life's high moments. Moved from one victory to another.
No question, the fire in Desolation had rocked his world. It was his first-ever brush with his mortality. The first time it had ever occurred to him that he wasn't Superman. And still,
he'd thought--no, he'd known--that once he got back out there things would be just as they had been before. That he'd be afraid of nothing. That he'd still be invincible, and when push came to shove he'd still know how to make all the right decisions, every single time.
The Forest Service phone call had been the start of his fall. But it was hearing Ginger say "I love you" that had sent him all the way over the edge.
Because the truth was that he'd never wanted anything, never needed anyone as much as he needed Ginger. He'd never been completely ruled by something that he couldn't control. Even fire had rules. Sure it stunned you every now and again, but for the most part you only paid the price when you'd pushed the boundaries.
But what he felt for Ginger had no boundaries.
Which was why he'd tried to fuck away his feelings for her. It was why he'd tried to make her run. And when she hadn't, he'd done the very thing he'd been afraid of all along, the very thing he'd seen coming.
He'd hurt her.
"Why haven't you come upstairs?" she'd asked him that morning when she'd come down to the living room.
He sat up on the couch in the living room, stunned to see Ginger standing at the foot of the stairs as faint light from the rising sun came in the windows.
God, she was beautiful.
So damn beautiful.
"I can't trust myself with you."
Not after last night. And still, she'd told him she loved him. When he'd deserved it the least.
He stood up, told her, "I can't take the chance that I'd hurt you again. You're the last person on the planet that I'd ever want to hurt."
She came at him as if she didn't hear him, didn't understand that he was trying to protect her from the deep, dark rage that he'd couldn't push down. He hadn't known how bad it was until last night.
The bruises on her wrists had showed him the truth.
She stopped just inches from him, so close that all he could think about was pulling her against him, begging her forgiveness with his mouth, his hands, worshipping her the way he should have last night.
"I've been waiting for you to come to bed, Connor. All night. To come upstairs and talk to me. To talk with me. I didn't want to have to do this. To come down here and force you."