Page 12 of Hearts Don't Lie
“Gone, as usual. Off with the Barlows somewhere.”
He drove ten miles per hour over the speed limit, barely slowing down when moving from the passing lane back to the right. Hardin drove his Jeep like he captained the team—calmly and confidently. She stayed quiet, feeling safe. Playing finger games with him when he wasn’t shifting. What she wanted was to run her hands over the lean muscles of his thighs, feel the coiled power in them. But that action had taken them abruptly off the road last week, so she kept her hands to herself and tugged her jean skirt a little farther down over her bare thighs.
He noticed. “Let it ride, Mac. I’ve seen more than your beautiful thighs.”
Hardin hadn’t only seen. He had touched, and she’d willingly urged him to explore more. So much more. She ached to be his, in every way a woman could be a man’s, but they had decided they would wait a little longer.
Delicious fluttering flooded her body, causing her to squirm in the seat. “Are you sure?”
“You have to ask? YouknowI am. I’m focused,” he said, merging onto the toll road.
Hardin lived twenty minutes from her. They always traveled the back roads. Rarely did they go to friends’ homes, and never to hers or his. They preferred to spend their time in remote places, away from everyone else, where they could just be together and talk and kiss and explore. This was new. Her hands grew damp as soon as he exited the toll road and entered Thurston—Illinois’s wealthiest town and where Hardin lived. She sensed they were close and discreetly ran her palms down her skirt to dry them and to hide her nervous reaction from him.
Hardin’s hand trailed over her thigh. “We’re here,” he said, downshifting before swinging into the drive, which was all but hidden from the street by a thick hedge. He picked up his speed and continued down a long winding driveway, slowing slightly when a wrought iron gate wedged into the brick perimeter wall came into view.
Mac swallowed audibly as the gate opened like magic, and again as she turned and watched it close behind them.
He wove his fingers through hers and lifted her hand, kissing her knuckles. “Don’t let my parents’ place intimidate you. It’s just a house.”
“It’shuge,Hardin,” she whispered hoarsely, pulling her hand back into her lap, gripping her hands together so tightly they hurt. She’d never seen money like this.
He shrugged his shoulders, then downshifted as the driveway morphed to paved stones. “Yeah.” He drove to the side of the French-revival-style mansion and parked by the six-car garage, then turned to her. “I’m not my parents. This house doesn’t represent me. Okay?” he asked, searching her eyes.
“Okay.” She returned his look, smiling as soon as he did, feeling lighter and surer of herself.
Hardin helped Mac out of the Jeep and held her hand as they strolled up the stone walk before stepping onto the expansive limestone porch and entering through the massive front door under an equally impressive second-floor veranda. Ornate runners covered the double staircase leading upstairs from the black-and-white marble entry and joining halls into beautifully appointed rooms. A large round entry table of glass and wood topped with a large crystal vase of blood-red roses was the centerpiece of the foyer. The cavernous entry felt austere and chilly.
An uncomfortable sickness filled Mac. Shame. For the first time, it hit home just how very different and far apart her and Hardin’s worlds were.
She had a single mother for a parent and had no siblings. He had a mother and father and three brothers. Her home was a listing, rusting trailer that jiggled during a light rain. His family home was a mansion. No, scratch that. It was an estate, which probably employed people who earned more money than her mother.
“I shouldn’t be here, Hardin. Can you take me home? Please? I… I don’t belong here.”
He slid his arm around her shoulders. “You do belong here, Mac. With me. I want you here.” He glanced around the entry as if seeing it with fresh eyes and nodded. “Itisfucking intimidating. Ugly. Cold. No wonder my friends never want to come here. Even I prefer to come through the back when I have to be here.” Hardin winked at Mac and grinned cockily as his hand slid down her arm and he interlaced their fingers, then kissed her deeply. “It’s just us. The staff is retired for the evening. Come on.”
She left her gym shoes by the front door, noticing Hardin continued to wear his, then placed her purse on the center table before walking next to him on the wide staircase, her feet sinking into the dense floral design of maroon, navy, gray, and ivory. The upstairs was carpeted in more of the same luxurious pattern that covered the stairs, hushing their footsteps.
“I’ll show you around.” Hardin led her past the master bedroom in the front of the house to his room.
She peeked in. Unlike the downstairs, the bedroom was dated—a bland room of beige, browns, and creams that struck Mac as tired and surrendered to time. Somehow, that made her feel better.
Striped wallpaper in blues and browns covered the walls of the next two bedrooms. Navy curtains hugged the windows.
“Sam’s and Bryson’s. Mine is this way.” He walked through a connecting hall. “The guest rooms are down the other wing. With Noah’s. My parents keep my brothers’ rooms exactly as they were the day they moved out. The housekeeper keeps them clean since my parents hope they’ll show up with their families, but they seem to prefer spending time with their in-laws,” he said with sarcasm.
“Do you miss them?”
He shook his head. “No. I don’t know them that well. Maybe that’ll change in the future. There were so many years between us. I was the oops baby.”
Mac smiled sardonically. “Yeah, I totally get that.”
“I know.” He pulled her into his arms and kissed her forehead. “What an incredibly wonderful oops you are. I really like you, Mac Oops.”
She smacked him playfully, laughed, then grew serious. Her hands reached up and framed his face, and she gazed adoringly into his amazing blue eyes. “And I really like you, Hardin Oops,” she whispered, following it up with a kiss, which he returned with even more heat. Mac pulled back and glanced around. “Not here.”
“Right.” He led her into his room and grabbed his wallet, which was on the corner of the desk, easing it into his back hip pocket.
Hardin’s bedroom was more recently decorated, but in a similar unappetizing palette. He had a large bed, bigger than hers and her mother’s combined. He also had his very own bathroom. Again, Mac reflected on the differences in how they lived. Her bed was a thin, lumpy cushion on a built-in bench that tripled as storage and a place to sit and eat. She had to curl up to sleep on it and had never allowed herself to think of the things that infested and might grow inside the cushion. She slept on more layers than she wrapped up in.
