Unfinished Business

finished room. Vanessa stepped off subflooring onto ceramic.
    He’d chosen cool pastels with an occasional vivid slash of navy. The huge tub was encircled by a tiled ledge that sat flush against another trio of windows. Vanessa imagined soaking there with a view of the screening woods.
    “You’ve pulled out all the stops,” she commented.
    “When I decided to move back, I decided to do it right.” They continued down the hall, between the studded walls. “There are two more bedrooms on this floor, and another bath. I’m going to use glass brick in that one. The deck will run all around, then drop down to the second level on the west side for sunset.” He took her up another flight of splattered steps into the gable. “I’m thinking about putting my office up here.”
    It was like a fairy tale, Vanessa thought, circular in shape, with more arching windows. Everywhere you stood there was a lofty view of the woods and the mountains beyond.
    “I could live right here,” she said, “and feel like Rapunzel.”
    “Your hair’s the wrong color.” He lifted a handful. “I’m glad you never cut it. I used to dream about this hair.” His gaze shifted to hers. “About you. For years after you left, I used to dream about you. I could never figure it out.”
    She turned away quickly and walked to one of the windows. “When do you think you’ll have it finished?”
    “We’re shooting for September.” He frowned at her back. He hadn’t thought of her when he’d designed the house, when he’d chosen the wood, the tiles, the colors. Why was it that now that she was here it was as if the house had been waiting for her? As if he’d been waiting for her? “Van?”
    “Yes,” she answered, keeping her back to him. Her stomach was in knots, her fingers were twisted. When he said nothing else, she forced herself to turn, made her lips curve. “It’s a fabulous place, Brady. I’m glad you showed it to me. I hope I get the chance to see it when it’s done.”
    He wasn’t going to ask her if she was going to stay. He didn’t want to know. He couldn’t let it matter. But he knew that there was unfinished business between them, and he had to settle it, at least in his own mind.
    He crossed to her slowly. He saw the awareness come into her eyes with his first step. She would have backed away if there had been anywhere to go.
    “Don’t,” she said when he took her arms.
    “This is going to hurt me as much as it does you.”
    He touched his lips to hers, testing. And felt her shudder. Her taste, just that brief taste, made him burn. Again he kissed her, lingering over it only seconds longer. This time he heard her moan. His hands slid up her arms to cup her face. When his mouth took hers again, the testing was over.
    It did hurt. She felt the ache through every bone and muscle. And damn him, she felt the pleasure. A pleasure she had lived without for too long. Greedy for it, she pulled him closer and let the war rage frantically inside her.

    She was no longer kissing a boy, however clever and passionate that boy had been. She wasn’t kissing a memory, no matter how rich and clear that memory had been. It was a man she held now. A strong, hungry man who knew her much too well.
    When her lips parted for his, she knew what he would taste like. As her hands dug into his shoulders, she knew the feel of those muscles. With the scent of sawdust around them, and the light gentle through the glass, she felt herself rocked back and forth between the past and present.
    She was all he remembered, and more. He had always been generous, always passionate, but there seemed to be more innocence now than there had been before. It was there, sweet, beneath the simmer of desire. Her body trembled even as it strained against his.
    The dreams he thought he had forgotten flooded back. And with them the needs, the frustrations, the hopes, of his youth.
    It was her. It had always been her. And yet it had never been.
    Shaken, he pulled back and held her at arm’s length. The color had risen over her cheekbones. Her eyes had darkened, clouded, in that way that had always made him churn. Her lips were parted, soft, unpainted. His hands were lost, as they had been countless times before, in her hair.
    And the feeling was the same. He could have murdered her for it. Twelve years hadn’t diluted the emotion she could pull out of him with a look.
    “I was afraid of that,” he murmured. He needed to keep sane, he told himself. He