Screwdrivered
Page 57

I heard the first sprinkle of raindrops on the roof, and by the time I made it into the living room, the windows were a sheet of rain. I flipped on the light but the bulb just buzzed and flickered out.
I focused on the fireplace, on the wonderful heat emanating from the blaze, my toes curling toward the flames. They were temporarily happy, but the rest of my whole body was sad.
It was so fired up for this manic coupling to go down, in perfect symmetry with the landscape, that now I internalized the rain, the damp, the chill. I looked left and saw the turntable I’d brought down from the attic. I looked right and saw Mathis, waiting for me. Why not embrace my inner sad sack: put on some old music, pour myself a Scotch, and let myself go full-on crash. But just one Scotch—no repeat of last night.
Shit, if I wanted to go full-on crash I could really think about last night. Was I ready for that?
I shuffled to the records and made my selection. The grand passionate romance that had bloomed in my imagination for months was imaginary. I was three thousand miles away from my family, who loved and cared for me whatever I did and whatever mistakes I’d made. And here I was, perched on the edge of a cliff in the rain. Alone. And all the adrenaline that had built up, making ready to celebrate with the cowboy, had crashed into bone-crushing loneliness. What had Clark said? Everyone gets lonely sometimes?
I winced. Shit, I wasn’t ready to think about Clark yet.
I slid the vinyl from its sleeve, set it on the turntable, and dropped the needle.
As soon as I heard the first notes of the piano, I realized that Aunt Maude was right. You kept Johnny Mathis close by at all times. I walked over to the liquor cabinet, poured a highball rather high, and went to stand before the fire. Humming the familiar tune of “Chances Are,” I clutched my Scotch to my chest and laid my head on the mantel, feeling the cool marble kiss my skin.
I was pathetic.
I was pitiful.
I was . . .
Footsteps
. . . no longer alone?
The footsteps behind me were slow and strong on the wooden floor. But I wasn’t scared, because I knew exactly who it was.
The librarian.
Chapter sixteen
I took a deep breath and slowly turned. And I mean slowly. Because as I turned, something happened. Something magical and intense, and not at all what I was expecting.
The lighting that seconds ago was dreary became enchanting. The chill in the air went from damp to bracing. The firelight turned to dancing flames of gold and bronze, painting sensual shadows across the walls. The music was no longer sad, it was timeless, full and swelling as it spoke of love and tenderness. And the rain was cozy and romantic, a perfect backdrop for the breathtaking image before me.
Clark. Brown chinos. White button-down. Tweed jacket. Elbow patches. Dusty glasses.
He was beautiful.
I was floored.
It doesn’t always have to be so hard. Sometimes falling in love just means turning around and seeing what’s right in front of you.
My breath left my body in a great whoosh as my eyes opened wide and took in what was now, and had been the entire time, standing right in front of me. My heart skipped a beat, then raced to catch up with the rest of my body, which was suddenly reaching out for this man, this man alone.
I’d been in a romance novel this entire time, but I had the wrong book. This was my book. This was my story. This was my man. Who wants a Superman when you can have a Clark?
And I wanted a Clark.
I wanted this Clark. It’s amazing how much you can learn by just turning around.
“I came by because of the rain. I wanted to make sure the tarp had stayed down in these high winds. I knocked, but I guess you didn’t hear me with the music on,” he started, pushing his glasses up higher on his nose.
And in that moment, that exact moment, I fell 100 percent completely and totally in love with Clark Barrow.
Cue tummy fluttering.
He wasn’t meeting my eyes, though, and I needed him to see me. My body was vibrating with the need to tell him . . . something. Anything.
“Thank you,” I managed, and the way my voice shook caused him to finally look up. “For checking on me.”
We stood across from each other, the tension in the air palpable.
He took me in, his gaze traveling over my body, frowning slightly. Then his eyes narrowed.
“What in the world are you wearing, Vivian?” he asked, his voice low and gravelly.
I looked down, pigeon-toed in my tube socks and white T-shirt. “Jammies,” I answered primly.
He let out a groan.
I’d heard that groan before. Nighttime Clark.
Emboldened, I shifted my weight to one hip. The effect on him was instant.
“Are you aware that, standing in front of the fire like you are, I can see everything you’re wearing underneath?” His eyes flashed back up to mine. “Or what you’re not wearing?”
I blushed, my hand fluttering to my collarbone, remembering that I was without a bra. I cocked my head to the side and looked at him from underneath my lashes. “I’m aware. I am so aware.”
He took a step toward me, hesitating. So I took a step, without pause. Then another, and then one more.
Standing in front of him, I reached up almost on tiptoe because he was so very tall, and brushed back a lock of hair that had fallen across his forehead. “Clark,” I whispered, and he closed his eyes. But not before the sweetest smile I’d ever seen crossed his face.
“Vivian,” he breathed, leaning into my touch. His hands slowly came up to my face. His eyes still closed, his strong hands approached my skin, every nerve in my body reaching out to wherever his touch would land first. His hands were so big they touched everything at once. Cradling my face, he closed the distance, breathing me in. And he looked down at me with the deepest and warmest dark chocolate eyes I’d ever seen, swirling with molten caramel and flashes of firelight.
Now he would carry me up to my bed, lay me down across the quilt, take me into his arms, and make love to me on a cloud of angel songs.
But then his expression changed. He looked slightly confused; one hand moved into my hair, pushing through the curls toward the back of my head, and bringing forth . . . a piece of hay.
He looked at it curiously, and then his gaze was drawn suddenly to the picture window behind me. And I heard the rumbling of Hank’s truck roaring out of the driveway.
I saw Clark put the pieces together and come up with a roll in the hay. And the fury and agony in his face brought tears to my eyes.
He backed away from me, his face shuttered and his body absolutely rigid. “So stupid,” he muttered, and the look on his face crushed me.