Screwdrivered (Cocktail 3)

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.

“No, Clark—it’s not what you think. Nothing—”

“Save it, Viv. I don’t need this one spelled out for me,” he spat.

I gasped, my hand flying to my mouth at the sound of my name. “No,” I whispered, horrified.

“You’ve got that right.” He spun so quickly I barely saw him go. I heard his angry, hollow footsteps as he hurried through the house and out the back door.

I crumpled onto the antique rug. All I could feel was emptiness, a hollow at the pit of my stomach that I’d hurt Clark so deeply. It didn’t matter that nothing happened with Hank. That he thought it had, that my actions could cause such pain to such a dear, sweet, wonderful man, was sickening.

Tears ran down my face, which his beautiful hands had just held.

The hands that I was lucky to have felt. The hands that any woman would be proud to hold, to feel, to writhe beneath, and to clasp tightly. And I wanted those hands.

What would a heroine do in this situation? Cry and wail and scream?

Maybe. But not crumpled into a ball on the floor. She’d do it while going toe-to-toe with her hero, making him hear, and making him see.

Fighting for her man.

I was on my feet in a flash, flying through the house, grabbing blindly for the back door and stumbling out into the rain. I made it down three steps before I saw him.

Standing by his car. Not getting in. Just standing.

In the rain, the thunder and the lightning, the tumult and the wind. Up to his loafers in the mud. Not getting in.

Holding his keys in a tightly clenched fist. One hand on the top of the car. Letting the rain pour down on him. Soaked. Angry. Not getting in.

“Clark!” I yelled. He turned. I ran across the yard. Soaked. Angry.

“Go back inside,” he warned, his voice raised over the raucous rain.

“No,” I said, and his fist shot out to pound on the roof of his car. “Not until you hear what I have to say.”