“Yes,” he said, “I can.”
“How can you be so sure?”
Outside, the wind was a steady gale, howling as it blasted against the house. The rain was hammering against the walls and roof; the old inn creaked under the incessant pressure.
Paul set aside his glass of wine. Staring at Adrienne, he knew he’d never seen anyone more beautiful.
“Because,” he said, “you’re the only reason I’d bother to come back at all.”
“Paul… don’t…”
She closed her eyes, and for a moment, Paul believed he was losing her. The realization scared him more than he’d imagined possible, and he felt the last of his resistance give way. He looked up at the ceiling, then down to the floor, then focused on Adrienne again. Leaving his chair, he moved to her side. With a finger, he turned her face toward him, knowing that he was in love with her, with everything about her.
“Adrienne…,” he whispered, and when Adrienne finally met his gaze, she recognized the emotion in his eyes.
He couldn’t say the words, but in a rush of intuitive feeling, she imagined she could hear them, and that was enough.
Because it was then, as he held her in his unwavering gaze, that she knew she was in love with him as well.
For a long moment, neither one of them seemed to know what to do, until Paul reached for her hand. With a sigh, Adrienne let him take it, leaning back in her chair as his thumb began to trace her skin.
He smiled, waiting for a response, but Adrienne seemed content to remain quiet. He couldn’t read her expression, yet it seemed to hint at everything he was feeling: hope and fear, confusion and acceptance, passion and reserve. But thinking she might need space, he let go of her hand and stood.
“Let me put another log on the fire,” he said. “It’s getting low.”
She nodded, watching him through half-closed eyes as he squatted before the fire, the jeans stretching tight around his thighs.
This couldn’t be happening, she told herself. She was forty-five years old, for goodness’ sake, not a teenager. She was mature enough to know that something like this couldn’t be real. This was the product of the storm, the wine, the fact that they were alone. It was any combination of a thousand things, she told herself, but it wasn’t love.
And yet, as she watched Paul add another log and stare quietly into the fireplace, she knew with certainty that it was. The unmistakable look in his eyes, the tremor in his voice as he’d whispered her name… she knew his feelings were real. And so, she thought, were hers.
But what did that mean? For him or her? Knowing that he loved her, as wonderful as it was, wasn’t the only thing going on here. His look had spoken of desire as well, and that had frightened her, even more than knowing he loved her. Making love, she’d always believed, was more than simply a pleasurable act between two people. It encompassed all that a couple was supposed to share: trust and commitment, hopes and dreams, a promise to make it through whatever the future might bring. She’d never understood one-night stands or people who drifted from one bed to the next every couple of months. It relegated the act to something almost meaningless, no more special than a good-night kiss on the front steps.
Even though they loved each other, she knew everything would change if she allowed herself to give in to her feelings. She would cross a boundary she’d erected in her mind, and there was no coming back from something like that. Making love to Paul would mean that they would share a bond for the rest of their lives, and she wasn’t sure she was ready for that.
Nor was she sure she would know what to do. Jack was not only the only man she’d ever been with; for eighteen years, he was the only man she’d wanted to be with. The possibility of sharing herself with another left her feeling anxious. Making love was a gentle dance of give-and-take, and the thought she might disappoint him was almost enough to keep her from letting this go any further.
But she couldn’t stop herself. Not anymore. Not with the way he’d looked at her, not with the way she felt about him.
Her throat was dry and her legs felt shaky as she stood from her chair. Paul was still crouching in front of the fire. Moving close, she rested her hands in the soft area between his neck and shoulders. His muscles tightened for an instant, but as she heard him exhale, they relaxed. He turned, looking up at her, and it was then that she felt herself finally give in.
It all felt right to her, he felt right, and as she stood behind him, she knew she would allow herself to go to the place she was meant to be.
Lightning cut the sky outside. Wind and rain were joined as one, pounding against the walls. The room grew hotter as the flames began to leap up again.
Paul stood and faced her. His expression was tender as he reached for her hand. She expected him to kiss her, but he didn’t. Instead, he raised her hand and held it against his cheek, closing his eyes, as if wanting to remember her touch against him forever.
Paul kissed the back of her hand before releasing it. Then, opening his eyes and tilting his head, he drew closer until she felt his lips brush against the side of her face in a series of butterfly-light kisses before finally meeting her lips.
She leaned into him then as he wrapped his arms around her; she could feel her breasts pressed against his chest; she could feel the slight stubble on his face when he kissed her the second time.
He ran his hands over her back, her arms, and she parted her lips, feeling the moisture of his tongue. He kissed her neck, her cheek, and as his hand moved around to her belly, his touch was electric. When he moved his hand to her breasts, her breath caught in her throat, and they kissed again and again, the world around them dissolving into something distant and unreal.