Not Quite Enough (Not Quite #3)(23)
Author: Catherine Bybee

“Yeah.” They said their good-byes and Trent tried to relax.

It didn’t last long.

He took a last look at the empty chair next to him and jumped to his feet. “Come on, Ginger. Let’s take a drive.”

Chapter Nine

A child laughed, and the happy sound caught Monica by surprise. There had been so little laughter in her life in the past few days. She glanced up and noticed Ginger licking the hand of a small girl sitting beside her mother’s bed.

Trent?

He stood in the doorway, his attention directed at her, his eyes hidden behind his sunglasses.

Why is he here?

He walked toward her, leaving Ginger to entertain the child and another teenager who slid off his chair to pet the dog.

As Trent drew closer, Monica looked around to see if anyone else noticed his direct stance. The thin line of his lips. She couldn’t tell if he was pissed or happy. She shifted in her chair as he approached.

“Hey?” she managed when he was close enough to hear her.

“Can I talk to you for a minute?”

She sighed, not trusting herself. “Uhm.”

“Just for a minute.”

Monica swallowed and stood. She dropped the chart on the table and wrapped her stethoscope around her neck.

Trent turned toward his dog. “Stay!”

Ginger sat on her haunches and watched them as Monica led him out the back door.

The light outside was growing dim. Before they cleared the door, Monica tried to put distance between them. “I thought I said you didn’t need to come back.”

The door closed behind him and Monica turned around. He removed his sunglasses, hung them on his shirt. “I had to come back,” he said.

He stood over her, looming with a hint of a smile playing on his lips.

“Why?”

He moved forward, and before she could step back, his arm was around her waist and he was pulling her close. Monica couldn’t breathe and Trent didn’t give her time to think.

His lips took hers so swiftly and so completely, Monica’s world exploded. She’d thought of him all day. About his body close to hers, the soft touch of his fingers on her arm, and how much she wished she’d at least sampled his kiss, and here he was folding her into his arms. There was no hesitation on his part. He acted as if he’d kissed her a hundred times and had a right to do so whenever, wherever he pleased. Trent’s confident possession of her lips, his tongue mating with hers, wasn’t sloppy or poorly executed.

It was heaven.

Monica closed her eyes, reached up, and touched his shoulders, his neck, before she fanned her fingers in his hair. She was alive, whole, and completely aware of every cell in her body reaching for the man in her arms.

His sunglasses bit into her chest. Before she could protest about their barrier, Trent slid a hand between the two of them and tossed the glasses to his feet.

She giggled under his kiss and attempted to get closer.

He kissed her breathless, until her br**sts felt heavy with need and her body softened. Until he hardened.

It was Trent who started this madness and Trent who eased his lips from hers minutes later.

She sighed as he kissed her softly then moved his lips to her temples.

They stood there, holding each other and catching their breath.

“I couldn’t let you leave without tasting you,” he whispered in her ear.

She heard the pain in his voice. “I’m not leaving yet.”

He didn’t offer a comment about that. Instead, he asked, “What’s your last name?”

His hand was rubbing up and down her back. “Mann. Monica Mann.”

“When are they sending you back home?”

“I don’t know yet.”

He leaned back, placed one hand on each side of her face, and kissed her again, briefly. “Can you get away?”

She shook her head. “No.” There was too much to do and only one other nurse there.

His eyes searched hers. “Don’t leave without telling me.”

“One kiss and you’re telling me what to do?” she asked with a smile on her face.

“Please.”

Her skin broke out in gooseflesh, despite the warm temperature.

His thumb traced her lips and slid from her face, down her neck, and off her shoulder. He stepped away as if it was painful for him to do. Trent opened the back door and whistled. Ginger bounded to her feet and followed him to his car.

All Monica could do was watch him go.

She lifted her fingers to her lips and felt the sting of his kiss linger long after he sped away.

Trent winced at the taste of the coffee in the pilots’ lounge the next morning.

“That bad?” The pilot who asked the question was off a private jet that had landed thirty minutes earlier. His hand hovered over the carafe filled with coffee.

“It needs CPR,” Trent told him.

The pilot let his hand drop.

“You wouldn’t happen to know who flies the chopper, would you?” the pilot asked.

Trent pushed his coffee away. “You’re looking at him.”

“My boss needs to get around the island. We’re told the roads are passable but slow.”

Trent eyed the jet on the runway. “Do you have coffee on board?”

The pilot laughed. “Yeah. We have everything.”

Trent stood, put out his hand. “I’m Trent.”

“Roy. C’mon, I’ll introduce you to my boss.”

Trent followed Roy across the tarmac and up the steps into the luxury jet. He knew money when he saw it, and this Gulfstream was dripping in money. Leather seats, a couch, a door leading to what Trent assumed was a bedroom. Nice!

At a table sat a man close in age to Trent and wearing a cowboy hat and jeans.

“Jack?” Roy called as they stepped inside. “I found your pilot.”

Jack stood and offered a hand to Trent. “Jack Morrison.”

“Trent Fairchild.”

Jack’s handshake was firm, confident. You could tell a lot from a man’s handshake. “I’m not sure what Roy told you.”

Trent rocked back on his heels. “All I heard was coffee.”

Jack’s Texan accent laced his words. “That we can do.” He slid behind the bar, found a cup, and poured what smelled like nirvana. “How do you take it?”

“Black or maybe intravenously at this point.”

Jack laughed. “You sound like someone I know.”

“Coffee is worth more than gold here these days.”

Roy stepped around his boss and poured his own cup. Obviously, the employee/boss relationship wasn’t set with unnecessary pretense.