I watched from the bed as Joe finished undressing and climbed into bed beside me. God, he was a good-looking boy. Then I went into his arms.
“I have something else for you, Lindsay,” Joe said. What he had was quite apparent. I laughed into the crook of his neck.
“Not just that,” Joe told me. “This.”
I opened my eyes and saw that he was pointing to small letters clumsily written on his chest with a ballpoint pen. He’d written my name over his heart.
Lindsay.
“You’re funny,” I said with a smile.
“No, I’m romantic,” said Joe.
Chapter 33
IT WASN’T JUST ABOUT sex with Joe. He was too real and too good a person for me to think of him as simply a hunk and a real good time. But I paid a terrible price for feeling more. At times like this, when our jobs permitted, we had an indescribable intimacy. Then morning came and Joe jetted back to Washington, and I didn’t know when I’d see him—or if it would ever feel this good—again.
It’s been said that love finds you when you’re ready.
Was I ready?
The last time I had loved a man so much, he’d died a terrible death.
And what about Joe?
He’d been scalded by a divorce. Could he ever really trust again?
Right now, as I was lying in his arms, my heart was divided between taking down all of the walls and protecting myself against the wrenching pain of our imminent separation.
“Where are you, Linds?”
“Right here. I’m here.”
I held Joe tightly, forcing myself back into the moment. We kissed and touched until being apart was unbearable and we joined together again, a perfect fit. I moaned and told Joe how good he felt—how good he was.
“I love you, Linds,” he murmured.
I was saying his name and telling him that I loved him when waves of pleasure overtook me and I allowed all of my scared, undermining thoughts to go away.
We held each other for a long time afterward, just catching our breath, getting a grip on our spinning world, when the doorbell rang.
“Shit,” I said. “Pretend it’s not happening.”
“Gotta get the door,” said Joe softly. “It could be for me.”
Chapter 34
I CLIMBED OVER JOE’S body, threw his shirt on over my cutoffs, and went to the door. An attractive fifty-ish woman was standing on the front porch with an expectant smile on her face. She was too hip in her tennis dress and Lilly Pulitzer sweater to be a Jehovah’s Witness, and she looked too sunny to be a federal agent.
She introduced herself as Carolee Brown.
“I live down on Cabrillo Highway, about a mile north of here. That blue Victorian with a lot of chain-link fencing.”
“Sure. I know the place. A school, isn’t it?”
“Yes, that’s the one.”
I didn’t mean to be snappish, but I felt awkward standing there with my beard-roughened face and love-smushed hair.