Watching the evening news made him long for another assignment, one that would allow him to make a difference in people’s lives. One that would enable him to ride off in the sunset and leave Thunder Canyon in the dust.
A Gunsmoke rerun triggered thoughts of Old Town and of Juliet’s love of the Wild West.
Bowling For Dollars reminded him of her silly urge to visit Buckhorn Lanes and watch the Gutter Busters do their thing. Or—God forbid—join the league his parents belonged to.
Trading Spaces merely made him think about how badly Juliet’s apartment needed a remodel.
Dammit. He turned off the TV and stood. There wasn’t anything worth watching, anything that didn’t remind him of Juliet in one way or another.
He didn’t like fighting with her. Didn’t like stomping off and leaving things unresolved—a defense mechanism that had always worked well for him in the past.
And he damn sure didn’t like thinking that their relationship—or whatever the hell it was—had been irrevocably damaged.
He probably ought to go to her place and tell her he was sorry. Not about being stubborn and refusing to socialize with his parents, but about snapping at her.
She’d only meant to be helpful.
But apologies didn’t come easy for Mark.
He strode into the small bathroom and turned on the spigot, setting the shower in motion. Then he stripped off his clothes and climbed under the steaming spray.
The steady pulse of water helped some, but not enough. As he toweled himself dry, his thoughts remained on the argument they’d had, on the way Juliet’s eyes had flashed in anger. And on the pain he’d spotted in her gaze when he’d taken her home. That last, sorrow-filled glance that had nearly torn him apart.
He blew out a ragged sigh. Damn. He didn’t want her angry. Or her feelings to be hurt.
Against his principles, he threw on a pair of jeans and a shirt, then brushed his teeth and ran a comb through his hair. He didn’t see any need to shave.
Five minutes later, he stood at Juliet’s door, feeling like a kid who’d hit a baseball through his neighbor’s window, asking for the ball and promising to replace the glass with a hard-earned allowance.
He knocked, and several moments later, she answered, wearing a pair of black slacks and a pink blouse, its buttons pulled taut by her breasts.
A shy but pretty smile made him momentarily forget why he’d come, so he just stood there. Their gazes locked. Caught up in something he couldn’t explain.
The scent of peach blossoms and spice taunted his senses, making him take a second whiff.
And a third.
She ran her tongue across her bottom lip, and sexual awareness slammed into his chest, taking his breath away, along with the words he’d intended to speak.
She swung open the door, allowing him inside.
A part of him wanted to rewind, to start over. To head back to the Wander-On Inn and pretend he hadn’t come to talk to her.
But he had. And he realized how much he’d missed their easy banter, their camaraderie. How much he’d missed her.
“I…uh…came to…” Oh, for cripes sake. Why couldn’t he just spit it out? Why this awkward, adolescent reaction to the sight of her?
Her hair was loose and hung like a veil of silk past her shoulders, the glossy strands begging to be touched.
She didn’t speak and merely stared at him in the same way he looked at her. Why wasn’t she making this easier on him?
“I’m sorry,” he finally said, his voice coming out soft and hoarse at the same time. “I didn’t mean to be so hard on you.”
“I’m sorry, too. My brother used to get mad at me when I didn’t mind my own business. It’s tough to keep quiet, though, when I care about someone and want to help.”
He raked a hand through his hair, realizing now wasn’t the time to tell her he didn’t need anyone’s help. He was ready to put this argument behind them. For good.
“Go ahead and invite my folks to dinner,” he said. “That is, if you want to.”
“And you’ll come, too?” Hope glistened in a bright-eyed smile that dimpled her cheeks.
“Yes,” he said. “I’ll come, too, just as long as it’s on my last night in town.”
She didn’t respond to the stipulation he considered a hell of a compromise. Still, he stepped over the threshold and closed the door behind him.
Once inside, the warm, fresh aroma of chilies and spice waylaid him, and his stomach growled in response.
Had she expected him? Had she made enough for two? Would she ask him to stay?
His stomach growled again, this time too loud for her to have missed.
“Dinner will be ready in a minute or two. Will you join me?”
Maybe she was just trying to be polite, but right now, he didn’t care. The meal smelled incredibly good, and he was too hungry to be sensitive. “Yeah, I would like to eat with you. Thanks.”
He watched in silence as she set the table. Then, taking a seat across from her, he relished one of the best chicken dishes he’d ever had. The sauce was on the mild side, but it was tasty just the same.
Throughout dinner, they seemed to tap dance around the sticky subject of his parents and the rift they’d had, which was a big relief. Mark preferred to glance up from his plate and see her smile, rather than frown.
After they ate, she stood and began to clear the table.
He reached for her arm and stopped her. “Let me help.”
“All right.”
They carried plates, silverware and glasses to the kitchen, and when they got to the sink, they reached for the faucet at the same time, fingers brushing, gazes locking, hearts pounding. Awareness flaring.
Time seemed to stand still, and a megadose of adrenaline blasted his libido, sending it into overdrive.
Mark didn’t know why he did it. Didn’t know why he couldn’t keep his hands to himself. But he wanted to kiss her in the worst way.
And in the best way.
He cupped her jaw, his thumbs caressing the silky skin of her cheeks. Her lips parted, but she didn’t speak. Didn’t step away.
So he drew her mouth to his.
Chapter Eleven
Juliet knew better than to kiss Mark again, but her knees turned to mush when he cupped her jaw with gentle hands and placed his lips on hers.
And even though she knew it was foolish to encourage a relationship destined to end before it started, she couldn’t fight the attraction or the desire.
The light bristle of his beard scratched against her skin in a pleasurable way. And she threaded her fingers through his hair, still damp from the shower, and drew his face closer still.
His hands stroked her back, her hips, and his tongue swept the inside of her mouth.
The musky scent of his mountain-crisp cologne drove her wild. She couldn’t seem to get enough of him, of his taste, of his caress.
A whimper escaped from somewhere deep in her heart, which only seemed to enflame him, to urge him on. And his growing desire only heightened hers.
Their