Until the inevitable time came when they wanted all of their parts to be nudely touching.
They hurried back to his house to break in the bed he’d bought at Home Depot.
And not only broke it in, but nearly broke it.
CHAPTER15
“John Tennessee McCord, are you living in sin with Britt?”
Britt froze over the sink, a dish in one hand, the scrubber in the other, letting the water profligately run. She realized she was holding her breath.
She was washing up the dinner dishes and J. T. was over on Mrs.Morrison’s porch, sharing a drink and a chat, which he did pretty much nightly now. And Britt could hear every word.
J. T. didn’t answer right away. She heard him take a stalling sip. The ice cubes tinkled.
It was a good question, though, Britt had to admit. Whatwerethey doing? They talked a lot about nearly everything, they laughed more than she’d laughed in ages, they swam, they watched television with J. T.’s arm slung around her, they read, they hiked, they had lots and lots of sex. There didn’t seem to be any point in stopping or discussing the fact that their date of about three weeks ago had never really ended, in the way there really isn’t any point in thinking too hard about what your lungs were doing at any given moment. It had just happened. It was that easy.
They didn’t go back to Maison Vert, though. By some tacit agreement they’d decided not to let J. T.’s reality intrude.
“Well?” Mrs.Morrison pressed him.
“Well, I’m just thinking my answer over, in light of your shotgun sitting right there.”
“I’m old, and I don’t have time for equivocating. Seems to me like a yes or a no would get the question answered.”
Good God, to be quite that bold and fearless, Britt thought. When the sands in your proverbial hourglass were running out before your eyes, maybe it was easier to cut to the chase.
She almost hoped he didn’t answer.
All she knew was that life with J. T. here made her previous life, by contrast, feel like that chair out there on the porch with the frayed cane back. Like something that was functional and homely and a little broken but could potentially be a work of art. The whole world had paradoxically gotten roomier and brighter by virtue of the addition of a large man crammed into her little house. A large man who, she’d learned, sometimes liked to eat peanut butter straight from the jar with a spoon.
A large man who had never cohabited with Rebecca Corday.
“I think we’re just thoroughly enjoying each other’s company at the moment in all the ways available to men and women,” J. T. finally said.
Wow.Nice save, J. T., she thought dryly.
Mrs.Morrison chuckled and gave her knee a slap. “John Tennessee McCord, you should have been a politician.”
“Don’t rule it out. In my next career, maybe. If the acting thing goes kaput.”
Britt carefully dried the dish and inserted it in the rack so she could hear the next thing they said.
“That was a clever answer, and I like you, John Tennessee McCord, but don’t you hurt Britt Langley, J. T.”
Britt froze.
How in God’s name would a man respond tothat? By running in the opposite direction, and Britt would hardly blame him if he did. In dreams, the moment you noticed you were dreaming was the moment you woke up, usually.
“You should worry more about me!” J. T. said, after what was likely a nonplussed silence. “See this here bruise on my neck? She’s enthusiastic, our Britt.”
Britt’s jaw dropped.
“John Tennessee McCord!” Mrs.Morrison was thoroughly, delightedly scandalized.
She heard something that sounded like a smack—that would be Mrs.Morrison giving him the swat he deserved. J. T. was laughing wickedly.
Britt was scandalized, too, and she realized she was blushing.